Should he go out shooting this very
morning?
Warner - World's Best Literature - v20 - Phi to Qui
From this hour my fate
I trustfully to thee commit;
Before thee burning tears I weep,
And for thy safeguard thee entreat.
Bethink thee, here I stand alone,
And no one here doth comprehend.
My judgment weakens, reason reels,
And I must perish dumb, unheard.
I wait for thee; I pray thee, quicken
With but a look of hope my heart,
Or break at least the numbing dream
With well-deserved reproof - alas!
I'm done! 'Tis terrible to read-
I faint with terror and with shame -
Your honor is my only pledge;
To it I boldly thus confide.
For a brief space they stood in silence;
And then Onyegin, drawing near,
Spake thus:-
"A while agone you wrote me:
Deny it not, I pray. I read
That sweet outpour of innocent love,
Confession of confiding soul.
To me your frankness is most precious,
And it has roused within my heart
Feelings which long have sleeping lain:
But not for that will I extol you;
And yet for this I will requite
With a confession, artless too.
Accept, I pray, this my confession,
And sit in judgment over me.
## p. 11921 (#555) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
"Had I desired my life to limit
Within the bounds of hearth and home;
Had kindly Fate to me dictated
Husband and father e'er to be;
Had family bliss, as a fair vision,
One moment e'er my sense beguiled:
Assuredly I should have chosen
No other bride than you, I vow.
Without a shade of flattery
I say, you'd be my only choice.
In you I'd find my sweet ideal
As partner of my gloomy life,
A pledge of all that is most fair;
And then be happy-if I could!
"But I for bliss was not created;
To that my soul is foreign still:
In vain, in vain are your perfections;
Of them I count myself unworthy.
Believe (I pledge my word upon it),
Marriage for us would torture be.
However much at first I loved you,
At once, with custom, I should hate;
Straightway you'd weep-but could not touch,
With all your tears, my hardened heart,
Which would but more inflame my hate.
Judge for yourself what kind of roses
Hymen would thus for us prepare,-
And, it might chance, for many a day!
-
"What can be worse in all creation
Than household where the wretched wife
Her thankless spouse doth mourn and grieve,
Sitting alone by day and night;
While weary husband, her worth knowing
(Yet cursing his untoward fate),
Is always taciturn and gloomy,
Enraged, yet coldly jealous still!
And such am I. Is't this thou soughtest
In the love-flame of thy pure soul,
When with such simple innocence
Thou wrot'st so cleverly to me?
And can it be that such a lot
Hath been assigned to thee by fate?
11921
xx-746
## p. 11922 (#556) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
11922
"Our dreams, our years we cannot call back;
My soul I never can renew; —
I love you with a love fraternal-
And tenderer yet, perchance: who knows?
Then listen to me without anger:
Often, I think, in young maids' minds,
Slight dreams succeed to dreams as slight,
As a young tree bears leaves in spring;
And this, it seems, is heaven's will.
Again you'll give your love - and yet
You'll learn of self-control the art.
Not every man will understand you;
And innocence oft leads to woe. "
Oh, who could not, in that swift flash,
Have read the tale of her dumb pain?
Who, in the princess, could not see
Our Tanya of those former days?
In frantic grief of his compassion,
Onyegin fell low at her feet.
She trembled, but was silent still,
And fixed her eyes upon Onyegin
Without surprise, yet without wrath.
To her his dim and tortured gaze,
Beseeching mien and dumb reproach,
Made all things clear. The simple girl,
With dreams and heart of former days,
Had waked once more within her breast.
She did not raise him to his feet,
But with her eyes still fixed on him,
She lets her senseless fingers lie
Beneath his thirsting, burning lips.
What is it that she dreams of now?
A long, long silence follows then;
And at the last, she softly says:-
"Enough - arise: it is my part
To speak to you quite frankly now.
Onyegin - you recall the hour
When, in our garden in the walk,
Fate made us meet, how meekly I
Gave ear to all your lessons stern?
To-day it is my turn to speak.
-
## p. 11923 (#557) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
11923
«<
Onyegin, I was younger then;
I think that I was better, too;
I loved you truly. What of that?
What was't I found within your heart,
What answer? Sternness; naught but that.
'Tis true, is't not? 'Twas nothing new
To you, this love of maiden's heart?
How my blood curdles,- O my God!
When I recall the chilling glance,
And that stern sermon which you gave.
But I blame not: in that dread hour
You acted nobly, for my good,
And honorably towards me then:
For that, receive my heartfelt thanks.
"In that far solitude, 'tis true,
Far from the noise of idle tongues,
I did not please you. Why then now
Do you thus persecute me here?
Why do you deign to heed at all?
Is't not because, at present, I
In loftiest circles must appear?
That I am rich and famous now;
That for the wounds my husband bore
In battle, we are loved at court?
Is't not because this my disgrace
Would now by all be known and seen,
And might, in social circles here,
Lend flattering honor to your name?
"I weep.
If you have not forgot
Your Tanya till this present hour,
Then know, the sharpness of your chiding,
The coldness of your stern upbraiding,
Did but the choice lie in my power,
I would prefer to sullying passion,
And to your letters and your tears.
"But list, Onyegin: all this splendor,
Illusion of a stupid life,
My triumphs in the social whirlpool,
My fashionable house and guests,-
What is there in them? I would gladly
Renounce this foolish masquerade,
## p. 11924 (#558) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
11924
This tumult all, incense and splendor,
For the wild park, a shelf of books,
And life in our poor, humble manse;
For the old spots, in short, Onyegin,
Where the first time I met with thee;
Yes, for the quiet, peaceful church-yard,
Where now a cross and shady bough
Bend o'er the grave of my poor nurse.
"And happiness was so near to us,
So possible! But my sad fate
Was shaped already. Indiscreet,
Mayhap, was my behavior then:
My mother, bathed in tears, adjured me;
Poor Tanya felt all fates were one.
And so I married. 'Tis your duty
To leave me now. I beg you will;
I know you - that your heart containeth
Firm pride and strenuous honor still.
I love you, (why should I conceal it? )
But I am now another's bride,
And I will ne'er betray his trust. "
## p. 11925 (#559) ##########################################
11925
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
(1838-)
HE writer known in French literature under the pen-name of
Jules Glouvet is a noble individuality, in addition to being
•
a well-marked one, in contemporary French fiction. He was
born at Saumur, July 2d, 1838; began his career as a magistrate in
1862; was a soldier in active service during the war of 1870; and in
1883 (after filling various important provincial positions, also a posi-
tion as magistrate) he became the Prosecutor-General at Paris. Since
then he has been a marked and honored man in his real profession.
He has won peculiar distinction in connection with the efforts to re-
press the Anarchistic movement, and to punish the Anarchist crimi-
nals, in his country. He was a most important factor in the trial of
General Boulanger; and was bravery itself in the check of that feeble,
rash, and yet dangerous intrigue, which concluded in a tragedy. He
has done his duty as a magistrate and lawyer at the risk of his life.
M. Quesnay de Beaurepaire has been called the Father of his Coun-
try, as was Cicero proud to be styled when he had shattered the
conspiracy of Catiline; and there is a likeness in the two careers.
From such labors at the bar, severe and even personally dan-
gerous, M. de Beaurepaire has turned to writing stories that express
peasant-life in certain districts of France, and certain types of French
rural character, as no French novelist has done before him. In these
stories it was evidently the intention of the writer to show that a
novel of humble life could be produced without the grossness of so
many of the French authors. The books were auxiliaries in the new
campaign against "naturalism. " His scenes of the true rural world
of France, his feeling for the relation of human nature and its nat-
ural environment, have been exhibited with great fidelity and interest
in his books 'Le Forestier' (published in English under the title of
'The Woodman'), and 'Le Berger' (The Shepherd). In each instance,
he shows us that he is not only a finished painter of real life, lived
in simple conditions, but the possessor of that sort of literary sense
which grasps, in part as an artist and in part as a realist, every
essential detail of the temperament, course of existence, and scenery
to be more or less minutely portrayed.
There is something of the quality of Thomas Hardy in the books
of M. Quesnay de Beaurepaire; there is something of George Sand;
## p. 11926 (#560) ##########################################
11926
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
there is something of many novelists whose dramas of every-day
out-of-door life are played in books full of a dramatic impressive-
ness, enhanced by a perfect scenic artist's skill. But there is likewise
an inner moral quality and moral suggestiveness in M. Quesnay de
Beaurepaire's books distinctly their own. He exhibits with singular
beauty and naturalness the countryman in touch with his milieu;
the finer elements in imperfect rustic character; the promptings of
the heart that beats passionately and warmly in the breast of a
humble shepherd, or an uneducated and not too honest woodlander.
The author of The Woodman' and 'The Shepherd' does not carry
his realism as far as Zola, even when verging on the same terri-
tory; and yet he is in much a truer realist. The pathos of the books
impresses us, the simple course of their dramas enlists all our atten-
tion; and at the same time a sermon is suggested while none is
directly preached- a sermon found, not in the stones and trees and
running brooks which so exquisitely serve as background for the
author's handful of peasant characters, but in their aspirations, their
weaknesses, and all that is to them life and feeling and purpose day
by day.
THE FOREST
From The Woodman. Copyright 1892, by Harper & Brothers
TH
HERE is no country more severe and striking in its aspect
than the forest range uniting the Department of Maine
to that of La Beauce, and extending from Montmirail to
Authon. It is an immense extent of wood, intersected by nar-
row grassy paths, untouched by the hand of man, which have
given to the whole region the picturesque name of Chemins-
Verts (The Green-Road Country). Absolute solitude reigns; the
villages are far off, scattered on the ridges of the hills; the prin-
cipal hamlet is called Grez-sur-Roc (Stone-on-Rock). This name
alone suffices to indicate the wild, rugged scenery of this remote
district. In the foreground, on the slopes rising one above an-
other, are a few detached cottages crouching amid the golden
broom and furze; the paths between them wind upward toward
the forest in sinuous lines that look like serpents springing from
the hand of a sorcerer.
The dense forest begins half-way up, and widens as it reaches
the valley on the other side; then climbs the opposite height,
and stretches itself at its ease over the vast plateau of La Beauce
## p. 11927 (#561) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11927
toward Chapelle Guillaume, where, reduced to brushwood, it fol-
lows the vast undulations of the plain, and is finally reflected in
the stagnant waters of the surrounding marshes.
A stream, rising in the hills, falls into the ravine, and winds.
at its own sweet will among the trees; some of which, thrown
across from one bank to the other, under hanging festoons of
bryony and traveler's-joy, serve as bridges to the dwellers in the
forest.
These are a robust, shy, and taciturn race. At the close of
day some return to their homes on the distant plain, while others
seek their cabins built among the brushwood. Charcoal-burners
encamp near their work, the light of the smoldering fires playing
over their dark faces; the makers of wooden sabots lie among
the shavings in front of their workshops; the wood-cutters, bent
with fatigue, hang up their wallets on the branches, trample the
wild flowers with their sabots, and settle themselves comfortably
on the sloping ground;-all these people live and work together
without noise or outward expression. The wind sobbing in the
high branches, the sun piercing at rare intervals the leafy roof
and shedding a pale ray on the grass beneath, are the only
tokens of life and light in the gloom of this vast crypt.
Singing is not in fashion among the foresters; none but the
birds ever raise their voices in this solemn silence, and it is
remarkable that even their song is sad.
The forest is unique in its aspect; but it may be compared
with the sea in its grandeur, its infinitude, its rolling waves, its
deep murmurs, and its wild tempests. Look at those venerable
oaks: the tallest peasant is less than an ant at their feet. If
a water-spout discharges on the Chemins-Verts, its progress is
marked by a frightful disruption of these enormous trees, over-
thrown as easily as a bundle of twigs. Thus, in its calm and in
its wrath, the forest lords it over man, and man in this imposing
wilderness is driven to silence and contemplation. The inhabit-
ants live exactly as their ancestors lived before them. It is not
poverty, but contempt of comfort: their maxim is that the for-
est ought to provide all they want. Theft is considered lawful;
the feeling of mine-and-thine does not exist: they do not steal,
they take.
These strange notions of ownership, due to ancient tradition,
seem justified by the astonishing fertility of these leafy regions.
## p. 11928 (#562) ##########################################
11928
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
The father carries on his back a sack filled with wild plums to
make his drink, or loads his barrow with acorns for the pig,-
the great resource in winter; the son brings home a block of ash-
wood, out of which in the long winter evenings he carves cups.
and basins for the family; the mother returns with a load of
fagots. Do they want an extra bed? she takes her sickle and
cuts withes from the willows near the brook. That tall, bare-
legged girl gathers mushrooms, with which her little sister fills.
the basket made over-night. The little boys are employed, after
their dinner of nuts, in cleaning moss; and the old grandfather,
with tottering step, hobbles towards the copse to cut a stick for
his crutch.
The Chemins-Verts is so vast that all these people have elbow-
room without disturbing its solitude. From time to time a faint
tinkling of bells in the distance announces the arrival of a band
of small horses belonging to the charcoal-burners, ambling along
with bent knees and backs worn by the loads they carry.
The
noise of their shoes is muffled by the leafy carpet.
sound is heard. As for the busy gatherers of the spoils of the
forest, they are nowhere to be seen.
The inhabitants are in love with their forest an unconscious
but incurable passion. They can breathe freely only under the
shade of their woods. It is true the men are willing to spend a
few weeks every year during the harvest in La Beauce, to enable
them to lay by a little sum sufficient for their frugal needs,-
enough to buy a new blouse, and tobacco to last till the next
summer. The forester's work in the plains is scarcely finished
before he hastens to hide his money in a corner of his handker-
chief, suspend his whetstone from his waistband, throw his scythe
merrily over his shoulder, and return in all haste to his forest.
As soon as he catches a glimpse of the tall trees he pauses; he
is happy, he knows not why.
"Ha! here's the boy as has finished his August," says his old
neighbor as soon as he sees him.
"Yes, I have done with La Beauce," he replies, looking slowly
round him. "Here I am no less. "
"No less" is the regular expletive used as a superlative on
all occasions.
This intense love for the forest is hereditary; it is instinctive
in the child, grows with his growth, and never leaves him when
## p. 11929 (#563) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11929
he becomes a man; when away from his woods it becomes a per-
fect nostalgia. It found its expression in mythology, which after
all is only nature-nature symbolized and personified under the
names of faun and hamadryad.
The woodman has perpetuated these myths; the Chemins-Verts
have their own legends, of which Renaud the Poacher was the
hero and type.
A MADWOMAN
From The Woodman. Copyright 1892, by Harper & Brothers
[Jean Renaud, the central figure in the story, has been unjustly imprisoned
for poaching; and an old woman, Mère Chauvin, of whom he had taken care,
has also been incarcerated for supposed complicity in Renaud's work. His
sentence served, Renaud returns to her lonely cottage, only to find the old
woman crazy, and their forest life together broken up by tragedy. ]
HⓇ
E WAS soon obliged to set to work again; for his money
was exhausted. He presented himself at the saw-pit. His
skill was well known to the heads of the trade, and they
engaged him. It mattered little to them that he had been
in prison. Marcel himself advised them to take him back, as it
would be easier to keep an eye upon him when he was close at
hand.
At first he was the butt of his companions, who invariably
called him Renaud the Poacher. They did not always treat him
as a pariah, however, for he knew how to make himself feared;
and besides he was an object of admiration to some,—for the
woodmen have all more or less a drop of poacher's blood in their
veins. Others treated his crime as of little importance. "As
long," they said, "as one is neither a murderer nor a thief, there's
not much harm. "
Determined to bear everything, he pretended not to hear,
and by degrees he reconquered his position. The first to arrive,
the last to leave, sad, taciturn, he lived apart. No fault could be
found with him, and he was soon let alone.
The regularity of his life enabled him partly to recover. He
rambled over the forest, found once more his favorite paths, and
felt again the friendly branches meet over his head. He still
was sad, but his apathy was gone. On Sundays the men who
## p. 11930 (#564) ##########################################
11930
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
came to pick up wood saw him at a distance, and said to one
another:-
-
"There's Renaud the Poacher: he's finished his term. "
When he had shaken off his torpor he became sensitive; his
blood boiled with anger.
"Ah, they are all against me! They call me 'Poacher. '
Well, I'll make my name good, and nothing shall prevent me
poaching. "
This thought awakened another: he stood still, quivering.
His gun! had it been found? His grandfather's
His grandfather's curse and his
old friend's madness had absorbed him. But this fear, once pre-
sented to his mind, took entire possession of it. Intense curios-
ity was mingled with acute, overpowering terror. He longed
for night that he might begin his search, and counted the trees
meanwhile to distract his thoughts. After each number a loud
voice sounded in his ear, repeating, "Has some one carried off
your gun? "
At nightfall he stole out, took a circuitous route, and when
nearer to the spot laid one ear to the ground to listen,— the
frost had hardened the soil and made it sonorous: there was no
one about. Then he crept into the bushes on his hands and
knees.
When he reached the break in the ground caused by the ditch
he felt among the brushwood. No gun was there! He broke
into a sweat; he went back into the wood to where the stag had
stood. Here was the holly behind which Jean was posted. He
felt the trees, one after the other, to the path. What a pity
that the night was so dark! He had made a miscalculation of
several feet.
The next time he hit upon the place. The frosty leaves
cracked; the earth crumbled; something harder opposed itself to
his touch. It was the gun!
"My blessed old gun! I've got you at last! How they must
have hunted for you! But you were so little hidden that I don't
wonder they didn't find you. "
This speech exactly describes the simple cunning of the peas-
ant mind.
The gun, full of mold and more rusty than when it served as
a pipe, could not have attracted the attention of the most suspi-
cious keeper. Proud and joyful, he carried it away in his arms.
## p. 11931 (#565) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11931
He spent three nights in taking it to pieces, oiling and fur-
bishing it. A fresh hole in the left barrel necessitated a new
patch. When he had set it to rights, the climber became
thoughtful. He was afraid of everything now. If they came
to search his hut? Marcel was too cunning,—the gun must be
hidden. He took up a plank in the cellar, slipped the gun into
its place as if into a case, with all the powder and ball he had
left, hid the opening with a bit of wood covered with dust, cast
a threatening glance in the direction of Le Plantis, and returned
to put away his oil in the kitchen. He had an inward struggle.
Should he go out shooting this very morning? The temptation
was strong. But he reflected that it was better to go to see his
old friend Mother Chauvin.
For some days the crazy woman had not spoken to him. A
sort of shudder passed over her when she saw him, showing that
she had a vague perception of his presence. But the recollec-
tion vanished before it became clear. She looked at him with
astonished curiosity, touched his blouse, smiled as she followed
him with her eyes round the room, because he brought food
with him: this was the only reason. She often spoke of him
just as she spoke of Marcel and the officials, believing him to
be absent. Her incoherent, voluble utterances all related to the
damaged fruit-trees, the prison, and her Chauvin's broken skull.
Now and then she broke out into a fury; Jean was not always
able to master her. Every night and morning he came to look
after her, and brought food. Mélanie came at noon to make the
soup.
When he entered her room this Wednesday morning she was
madder than ever. She was pacing the room on tiptoe, uttering
threatening sounds. In her hand was a burning log, which she
threw upon the bed; it exhaled a sour smell of scorching rags,
and a volume of black smoke rose up.
"Wretched woman! " exclaimed Renaud, rushing to the pal-
"do you want to set he place on fire? "
let,
"Let be, Cinet," she cried, clapping her hands: "the house of
the accursed must burn! >>
Filled with horror, the youth threw the log into the fireplace,
and pulled out the blankets already streaked with red. She
rushed at him and bit his arm.
Jean put out the fire, hid the matches, did his best to make
her sit down, set a basin of milk on her lap, and shut her in.
## p. 11932 (#566) ##########################################
11932
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
"She will get
When he was out of the house he listened.
hungry," he thought: "that will quiet her fancies. "
He heard the basin crash upon the ground, and the sounds
of her crutch showed that the widow was again wandering about
the room. Jean was at his wits' end. It was impossible to leave
this poor creature to herself. On the other hand, the sun was
already high in the heavens, and Besnardeau was expecting him
to fell a beech. It was not safe to be unpunctual with Marcel or
Besnardeau.
-
"I have it, I'll go and fetch Mélanie, and come back
soon as my work is done. "
He ran to call her.
as
"Mother Chauvin's head is quite turned this morning: most
likely it's the new moon, but perhaps she is gone quite mad for
good. Could you look after her till midday? "
"Why not? Give me time to feed my chickens, and I'll
climb the hill. "
The girl made haste, put her knitting in her pocket and set
out, the Little Parisian following her. The child got upon a
stone, opened the latch, and passed first through the door.
widow had heard them, for they were talking as they approached.
She was standing just behind the door, resting on her crutch.
The white hairs on her chin stood on end; her eyes were staring
wildly. She was drawing deep breaths at regular intervals, like
a mother hushing an infant.
The moment the Little Parisian entered she seized him by
the arm. The child, pale with fear and pain, gave a piercing
cry.
"Here you are then, my little Marcel," she said in a coaxing
voice. "Your apple-trees must be in blossom by this time? "
She struck the cupboard with her crutch, and continued:
"Well, then, you won't show my mitten to the law officers-
you'll give it back to me. "
The Little Parisian, frightened almost out of his wits, strug-
gled to get away from her horrible grasp. The madwoman
screamed with anger.
"Won't you give it back to me? "
Mélanie got hold of the child's clothes at the back, and tried
to draw him towards her. But the madwoman's claw-like fingers
held him as tightly as if she had been a bird of prey.
The boy uttered despairing cries: "My 'Lanie! my 'Lanie! "
## p. 11933 (#567) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11933
The strong girl darted forward, and stood suddenly in front
of her adopted child. She threw her arms round the old woman,
and cried, "Let him alone, or it'll be the worse for you! "
On seeing Mélanie's face so close to her own, the lunatic
forgot the child. She was so surprised that no recollection was
awakened. "I don't know you at all! Why won't you let Marcel
give me back my mitten?
You ought
"Mother Chauvin, listen to me. I am Mélanie.
to go to bed. "
But the old woman shook with rage.
You're a witch,
"Ah, I know: it's you as had me locked up.
and you've bewitched me! Chauvin, my love, make haste, the
nightingale is singing at our wedding. We will dance with the
keeper. "
She paced the room, her arms stretched over her head.
Mélanie was frightened now, and tried to walk backward to the
door, hiding the Little Parisian with her skirts.
As soon as they got out they set off running.
vin caught sight of them and pursued them, shouting:-
"The witch is carrying off Marcel! Beware of the summons! "
«< Come, come, Jacques! " Mélanie repeated, dragging along her
little companion.
But he is overwhelmed by terror; his legs give way. He
tries his utmost, but cannot stir, as if in a bad dream.
Mother Chauvin catches up to them at the end of the yard,
with a triumphant yell. Mélanie again places herself before the
child.
Mother Chau-
"Don't touch my boy, Mother Chauvin! "
"Wicked girl! it's you that drew away the rope from the
falling tree, long ago, to make my husband fall! I have found
you at last.
I insist on your giving me back my mitten. "
"O God! " cried Mélanie: "what will become of us? "
The old woman had lost all trace of humanity. She held her
crutch with her two hands,- the crutch was pointed, made out
of a thorn hardened in the fire,- and waved it to and fro.
"Will you give it me back? "
She burst into hysterical laughter; and while Mélanie, mov-
ing backward, was looking on all sides for help, Mother Chauvin
struck her a violent blow on the chest. She gave a deep sigh
and fell like a shot.
## p. 11934 (#568) ##########################################
11934
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
The madwoman, forgetting the Little Parisian, sat down on
the heath, singing:-
--
"My sweetest friend has begged of me
My breast-knot ribbon white and fair. "
Jean Renaud was kept by Besnardeau at the top of his
tree till after three o'clock. He had left his old friend in a
state which caused him great anxiety. He hastily unbuckled his
cramp-hooks and carried his things into a shelter, as snow was
beginning to fall. Some workmen from another felling-place were
warming themselves on their wa
"Yonder's a dreadful business," said one. "She almost
crushed her with the blow. "
"Though she's old, her arms are strong; and then your mad
folks are stronger than such as we," added another.
The climber, although he did not know what they were talk-
ing about, shuddered. He was not in the habit of gossiping, but
he could not refrain from questioning them.
"Who are you talking about, pray? "
"Don't you know? Mother Chauvin's gone crazy. "
――
"She has as good as killed Mélanie. The gendarmes have
come, the chief one, along with the new one who is pitted
with small-pox: she's going to be shut up in the asylum, they
say. "
"It's a great pity. The girl was a brave one, and not vicious
at all. Nassiquet the widower was thinking of marrying her. "
Renaud had already set out, hoping that there might be some
mistake. He kept on saying to himself, "No, no: it's impos-
sible. " His head was on fire; he could hear his heart beating.
The snow was falling in heaps and blinding him. Against his
habit he turned into the path. He beheld a sad sight in the
road below. Mother Chauvin was seated in an open cart between
two gendarmes, one of whom held her wrists on either side.
Wrapped in the black cloak, with a hood which is called a capot
and worn by all old peasant women, she was rocking backward
and forward with the movement of the vehicle, her mouth con-
tracted by a hideous grimace. A villager in heavy nailed boots
led the pony by the bridle.
Renaud gave a piercing cry on seeing the old friend who
had loved him when first he became an orphan. Oh, the way in
## p. 11935 (#569) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11935
which she looked back at the trees was not like a madwoman,
for she seemed to be bidding adieu to the forest; and the cabin
up there would soon be smothered in briers, never again to be
the home of the poor, good old woman.
I am
"Stop, stop! " he exclaimed: "I want to speak to her.
sure she'll know my voice. I want to ask her to forgive me,
for her misfortunes are partly my fault. Mother Chauvin, my
Mother Chauvin! "
She looked at him with a glassy eye, and without moving a
muscle, she said in a solemn voice:-
-
"It seems that the people are bewitched here! "
Her head fell heavily on her breast; prostration was setting in.
"Go on," cried the gendarme.
The driver pushed Renaud aside with his whip, and the cart
went on softly through the snow.
The climber let himself fall on the bank. Within him all
was dark-all was over. No one in his own home - no grand-
father-no Mother Chauvin. He was alone in the world; no
one would smile on him or call him by his name again. Work
as hard as he would, there was no one to give his earnings to.
In the long evenings he would have no one moving on the
other side of the fire. The owls are happier than he would be,
for they have their nests; and when one hoots in the dark there
is another to answer him. No doubt he still had his dear forest
and its soft breezes, the sweet honeysuckles and green pine-trees;
but a forester who goes home and finds no human creature is
forlorn and pitiable.
Renaud, in despair, thought of his lost friends, and longed to
die. It was getting late.
"To-morrow," he said, "I will let go the rope, like Father
Chauvin. "
At this moment he heard the faint sound of a bell at regular
intervals. A boy in a surplice was ringing it, preceding an old
priest who was hurrying along the path, dressed in full canon-
icals, and carrying, with both hands pressed against his chest,
the holy sacrament, the cup covered by a square fringed cloth.
They wended silently along the lonely path, their forms looking
shadowy as seen through the soft-falling snow, on which no foot-
step was heard.
Now and then they stumbled over a hidden
stone; but the priest continued on his way, squaring his elbows
to protect his charge.
## p. 11936 (#570) ##########################################
11936
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
The acolyte entered the forest. Renaud removed his cap.
"Where are you taking the sacrament? "
The boy rang his bell, and whispered: -
"To Mélanie. "
"Ah," sighed the poacher, "I sent her to her death. Poor
girl! I must at least bid her good-by. "
He followed the priest who was bearing the last consolation
to the dying woman through the dark night.
Numbers of people had found their way into the yard. This
always happens in the forest. At the slightest disturbance, and
on the most deserted spot, a crowd collects. Whence they come
and how the rumor reaches them, it is impossible to say. No
doubt the sonorous echoes in the forest and the sagacity of its
inhabitants are the real causes. They were watching the priest
vanishing through the snow, and talking together.
"Here's a funeral won't be worth much to the parson. "
"She had a brother who's at work somewhere.
her heir? "
-
Will he be
“Ah, she was like me: she had only her bits of furniture, not
worth paying duty on. "
In the cottage the mother, with the ghastly eagerness of her
class, had taken possession of the body to lay it out.
"It's a great loss," said the father with a sigh. "Poor girl! "
The Little Parisian was sobbing.
"Will that boy ever let us have any peace? " said the father.
After a pause he continued:-
"We must decide at once what to do with the bastard. "
"I shall soon have done here. Do you mean to feed him? "
The forester gave them a look of extreme astonishment.
"Feed him? one must be able to. One poor girl brought
him up with her own money: that was her affair. But I am
growing old; my work is too much for me already. It's too
much to be expected to bring up other folks' brats. "
The mother replied in a low but bitter tone:
"Well, then, it's best to decide at once. When you go to
register the death, take this brat to the maire. He'll make his
usher write to Paris. "
"Is it possible that you mean to forsake your girl's adopted
child? " protested Renaud.
"What right have you to meddle? " said the man; and the
old woman grumbled between her teeth, "Prison leavings! "
――――――――――――
## p. 11937 (#571) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11937
The climber drew the Little Parisian out of the cabin.
For a
minute Jean walked on without speaking. The Little Parisian
sank down, stupefied, on a stone. Night had come; there was
nothing to be seen but the snow, covering the ground like a
shroud; a leaden sky overhead. Renaud meditated. This poor
little shivering creature was alone in the world like himself,-
a bastard without shelter, together with a despised poacher!
Mélanie had loved him; now he was to be turned out of the
forest—to be taken before a lot of clerks with their pens behind
their ears. He was
was so pretty-a darling-like Jean's little.
brother! Would he even have anything to eat next day? Poor,
sad, deserted child! you have the same fate as Renaud; the
deserted Renaud is your only friend.
"Isn't your name Jacques? " he asked at length.
I trustfully to thee commit;
Before thee burning tears I weep,
And for thy safeguard thee entreat.
Bethink thee, here I stand alone,
And no one here doth comprehend.
My judgment weakens, reason reels,
And I must perish dumb, unheard.
I wait for thee; I pray thee, quicken
With but a look of hope my heart,
Or break at least the numbing dream
With well-deserved reproof - alas!
I'm done! 'Tis terrible to read-
I faint with terror and with shame -
Your honor is my only pledge;
To it I boldly thus confide.
For a brief space they stood in silence;
And then Onyegin, drawing near,
Spake thus:-
"A while agone you wrote me:
Deny it not, I pray. I read
That sweet outpour of innocent love,
Confession of confiding soul.
To me your frankness is most precious,
And it has roused within my heart
Feelings which long have sleeping lain:
But not for that will I extol you;
And yet for this I will requite
With a confession, artless too.
Accept, I pray, this my confession,
And sit in judgment over me.
## p. 11921 (#555) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
"Had I desired my life to limit
Within the bounds of hearth and home;
Had kindly Fate to me dictated
Husband and father e'er to be;
Had family bliss, as a fair vision,
One moment e'er my sense beguiled:
Assuredly I should have chosen
No other bride than you, I vow.
Without a shade of flattery
I say, you'd be my only choice.
In you I'd find my sweet ideal
As partner of my gloomy life,
A pledge of all that is most fair;
And then be happy-if I could!
"But I for bliss was not created;
To that my soul is foreign still:
In vain, in vain are your perfections;
Of them I count myself unworthy.
Believe (I pledge my word upon it),
Marriage for us would torture be.
However much at first I loved you,
At once, with custom, I should hate;
Straightway you'd weep-but could not touch,
With all your tears, my hardened heart,
Which would but more inflame my hate.
Judge for yourself what kind of roses
Hymen would thus for us prepare,-
And, it might chance, for many a day!
-
"What can be worse in all creation
Than household where the wretched wife
Her thankless spouse doth mourn and grieve,
Sitting alone by day and night;
While weary husband, her worth knowing
(Yet cursing his untoward fate),
Is always taciturn and gloomy,
Enraged, yet coldly jealous still!
And such am I. Is't this thou soughtest
In the love-flame of thy pure soul,
When with such simple innocence
Thou wrot'st so cleverly to me?
And can it be that such a lot
Hath been assigned to thee by fate?
11921
xx-746
## p. 11922 (#556) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
11922
"Our dreams, our years we cannot call back;
My soul I never can renew; —
I love you with a love fraternal-
And tenderer yet, perchance: who knows?
Then listen to me without anger:
Often, I think, in young maids' minds,
Slight dreams succeed to dreams as slight,
As a young tree bears leaves in spring;
And this, it seems, is heaven's will.
Again you'll give your love - and yet
You'll learn of self-control the art.
Not every man will understand you;
And innocence oft leads to woe. "
Oh, who could not, in that swift flash,
Have read the tale of her dumb pain?
Who, in the princess, could not see
Our Tanya of those former days?
In frantic grief of his compassion,
Onyegin fell low at her feet.
She trembled, but was silent still,
And fixed her eyes upon Onyegin
Without surprise, yet without wrath.
To her his dim and tortured gaze,
Beseeching mien and dumb reproach,
Made all things clear. The simple girl,
With dreams and heart of former days,
Had waked once more within her breast.
She did not raise him to his feet,
But with her eyes still fixed on him,
She lets her senseless fingers lie
Beneath his thirsting, burning lips.
What is it that she dreams of now?
A long, long silence follows then;
And at the last, she softly says:-
"Enough - arise: it is my part
To speak to you quite frankly now.
Onyegin - you recall the hour
When, in our garden in the walk,
Fate made us meet, how meekly I
Gave ear to all your lessons stern?
To-day it is my turn to speak.
-
## p. 11923 (#557) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
11923
«<
Onyegin, I was younger then;
I think that I was better, too;
I loved you truly. What of that?
What was't I found within your heart,
What answer? Sternness; naught but that.
'Tis true, is't not? 'Twas nothing new
To you, this love of maiden's heart?
How my blood curdles,- O my God!
When I recall the chilling glance,
And that stern sermon which you gave.
But I blame not: in that dread hour
You acted nobly, for my good,
And honorably towards me then:
For that, receive my heartfelt thanks.
"In that far solitude, 'tis true,
Far from the noise of idle tongues,
I did not please you. Why then now
Do you thus persecute me here?
Why do you deign to heed at all?
Is't not because, at present, I
In loftiest circles must appear?
That I am rich and famous now;
That for the wounds my husband bore
In battle, we are loved at court?
Is't not because this my disgrace
Would now by all be known and seen,
And might, in social circles here,
Lend flattering honor to your name?
"I weep.
If you have not forgot
Your Tanya till this present hour,
Then know, the sharpness of your chiding,
The coldness of your stern upbraiding,
Did but the choice lie in my power,
I would prefer to sullying passion,
And to your letters and your tears.
"But list, Onyegin: all this splendor,
Illusion of a stupid life,
My triumphs in the social whirlpool,
My fashionable house and guests,-
What is there in them? I would gladly
Renounce this foolish masquerade,
## p. 11924 (#558) ##########################################
ALEXANDER SERGYÉEVITCH PUSHKIN
11924
This tumult all, incense and splendor,
For the wild park, a shelf of books,
And life in our poor, humble manse;
For the old spots, in short, Onyegin,
Where the first time I met with thee;
Yes, for the quiet, peaceful church-yard,
Where now a cross and shady bough
Bend o'er the grave of my poor nurse.
"And happiness was so near to us,
So possible! But my sad fate
Was shaped already. Indiscreet,
Mayhap, was my behavior then:
My mother, bathed in tears, adjured me;
Poor Tanya felt all fates were one.
And so I married. 'Tis your duty
To leave me now. I beg you will;
I know you - that your heart containeth
Firm pride and strenuous honor still.
I love you, (why should I conceal it? )
But I am now another's bride,
And I will ne'er betray his trust. "
## p. 11925 (#559) ##########################################
11925
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
(1838-)
HE writer known in French literature under the pen-name of
Jules Glouvet is a noble individuality, in addition to being
•
a well-marked one, in contemporary French fiction. He was
born at Saumur, July 2d, 1838; began his career as a magistrate in
1862; was a soldier in active service during the war of 1870; and in
1883 (after filling various important provincial positions, also a posi-
tion as magistrate) he became the Prosecutor-General at Paris. Since
then he has been a marked and honored man in his real profession.
He has won peculiar distinction in connection with the efforts to re-
press the Anarchistic movement, and to punish the Anarchist crimi-
nals, in his country. He was a most important factor in the trial of
General Boulanger; and was bravery itself in the check of that feeble,
rash, and yet dangerous intrigue, which concluded in a tragedy. He
has done his duty as a magistrate and lawyer at the risk of his life.
M. Quesnay de Beaurepaire has been called the Father of his Coun-
try, as was Cicero proud to be styled when he had shattered the
conspiracy of Catiline; and there is a likeness in the two careers.
From such labors at the bar, severe and even personally dan-
gerous, M. de Beaurepaire has turned to writing stories that express
peasant-life in certain districts of France, and certain types of French
rural character, as no French novelist has done before him. In these
stories it was evidently the intention of the writer to show that a
novel of humble life could be produced without the grossness of so
many of the French authors. The books were auxiliaries in the new
campaign against "naturalism. " His scenes of the true rural world
of France, his feeling for the relation of human nature and its nat-
ural environment, have been exhibited with great fidelity and interest
in his books 'Le Forestier' (published in English under the title of
'The Woodman'), and 'Le Berger' (The Shepherd). In each instance,
he shows us that he is not only a finished painter of real life, lived
in simple conditions, but the possessor of that sort of literary sense
which grasps, in part as an artist and in part as a realist, every
essential detail of the temperament, course of existence, and scenery
to be more or less minutely portrayed.
There is something of the quality of Thomas Hardy in the books
of M. Quesnay de Beaurepaire; there is something of George Sand;
## p. 11926 (#560) ##########################################
11926
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
there is something of many novelists whose dramas of every-day
out-of-door life are played in books full of a dramatic impressive-
ness, enhanced by a perfect scenic artist's skill. But there is likewise
an inner moral quality and moral suggestiveness in M. Quesnay de
Beaurepaire's books distinctly their own. He exhibits with singular
beauty and naturalness the countryman in touch with his milieu;
the finer elements in imperfect rustic character; the promptings of
the heart that beats passionately and warmly in the breast of a
humble shepherd, or an uneducated and not too honest woodlander.
The author of The Woodman' and 'The Shepherd' does not carry
his realism as far as Zola, even when verging on the same terri-
tory; and yet he is in much a truer realist. The pathos of the books
impresses us, the simple course of their dramas enlists all our atten-
tion; and at the same time a sermon is suggested while none is
directly preached- a sermon found, not in the stones and trees and
running brooks which so exquisitely serve as background for the
author's handful of peasant characters, but in their aspirations, their
weaknesses, and all that is to them life and feeling and purpose day
by day.
THE FOREST
From The Woodman. Copyright 1892, by Harper & Brothers
TH
HERE is no country more severe and striking in its aspect
than the forest range uniting the Department of Maine
to that of La Beauce, and extending from Montmirail to
Authon. It is an immense extent of wood, intersected by nar-
row grassy paths, untouched by the hand of man, which have
given to the whole region the picturesque name of Chemins-
Verts (The Green-Road Country). Absolute solitude reigns; the
villages are far off, scattered on the ridges of the hills; the prin-
cipal hamlet is called Grez-sur-Roc (Stone-on-Rock). This name
alone suffices to indicate the wild, rugged scenery of this remote
district. In the foreground, on the slopes rising one above an-
other, are a few detached cottages crouching amid the golden
broom and furze; the paths between them wind upward toward
the forest in sinuous lines that look like serpents springing from
the hand of a sorcerer.
The dense forest begins half-way up, and widens as it reaches
the valley on the other side; then climbs the opposite height,
and stretches itself at its ease over the vast plateau of La Beauce
## p. 11927 (#561) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11927
toward Chapelle Guillaume, where, reduced to brushwood, it fol-
lows the vast undulations of the plain, and is finally reflected in
the stagnant waters of the surrounding marshes.
A stream, rising in the hills, falls into the ravine, and winds.
at its own sweet will among the trees; some of which, thrown
across from one bank to the other, under hanging festoons of
bryony and traveler's-joy, serve as bridges to the dwellers in the
forest.
These are a robust, shy, and taciturn race. At the close of
day some return to their homes on the distant plain, while others
seek their cabins built among the brushwood. Charcoal-burners
encamp near their work, the light of the smoldering fires playing
over their dark faces; the makers of wooden sabots lie among
the shavings in front of their workshops; the wood-cutters, bent
with fatigue, hang up their wallets on the branches, trample the
wild flowers with their sabots, and settle themselves comfortably
on the sloping ground;-all these people live and work together
without noise or outward expression. The wind sobbing in the
high branches, the sun piercing at rare intervals the leafy roof
and shedding a pale ray on the grass beneath, are the only
tokens of life and light in the gloom of this vast crypt.
Singing is not in fashion among the foresters; none but the
birds ever raise their voices in this solemn silence, and it is
remarkable that even their song is sad.
The forest is unique in its aspect; but it may be compared
with the sea in its grandeur, its infinitude, its rolling waves, its
deep murmurs, and its wild tempests. Look at those venerable
oaks: the tallest peasant is less than an ant at their feet. If
a water-spout discharges on the Chemins-Verts, its progress is
marked by a frightful disruption of these enormous trees, over-
thrown as easily as a bundle of twigs. Thus, in its calm and in
its wrath, the forest lords it over man, and man in this imposing
wilderness is driven to silence and contemplation. The inhabit-
ants live exactly as their ancestors lived before them. It is not
poverty, but contempt of comfort: their maxim is that the for-
est ought to provide all they want. Theft is considered lawful;
the feeling of mine-and-thine does not exist: they do not steal,
they take.
These strange notions of ownership, due to ancient tradition,
seem justified by the astonishing fertility of these leafy regions.
## p. 11928 (#562) ##########################################
11928
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
The father carries on his back a sack filled with wild plums to
make his drink, or loads his barrow with acorns for the pig,-
the great resource in winter; the son brings home a block of ash-
wood, out of which in the long winter evenings he carves cups.
and basins for the family; the mother returns with a load of
fagots. Do they want an extra bed? she takes her sickle and
cuts withes from the willows near the brook. That tall, bare-
legged girl gathers mushrooms, with which her little sister fills.
the basket made over-night. The little boys are employed, after
their dinner of nuts, in cleaning moss; and the old grandfather,
with tottering step, hobbles towards the copse to cut a stick for
his crutch.
The Chemins-Verts is so vast that all these people have elbow-
room without disturbing its solitude. From time to time a faint
tinkling of bells in the distance announces the arrival of a band
of small horses belonging to the charcoal-burners, ambling along
with bent knees and backs worn by the loads they carry.
The
noise of their shoes is muffled by the leafy carpet.
sound is heard. As for the busy gatherers of the spoils of the
forest, they are nowhere to be seen.
The inhabitants are in love with their forest an unconscious
but incurable passion. They can breathe freely only under the
shade of their woods. It is true the men are willing to spend a
few weeks every year during the harvest in La Beauce, to enable
them to lay by a little sum sufficient for their frugal needs,-
enough to buy a new blouse, and tobacco to last till the next
summer. The forester's work in the plains is scarcely finished
before he hastens to hide his money in a corner of his handker-
chief, suspend his whetstone from his waistband, throw his scythe
merrily over his shoulder, and return in all haste to his forest.
As soon as he catches a glimpse of the tall trees he pauses; he
is happy, he knows not why.
"Ha! here's the boy as has finished his August," says his old
neighbor as soon as he sees him.
"Yes, I have done with La Beauce," he replies, looking slowly
round him. "Here I am no less. "
"No less" is the regular expletive used as a superlative on
all occasions.
This intense love for the forest is hereditary; it is instinctive
in the child, grows with his growth, and never leaves him when
## p. 11929 (#563) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11929
he becomes a man; when away from his woods it becomes a per-
fect nostalgia. It found its expression in mythology, which after
all is only nature-nature symbolized and personified under the
names of faun and hamadryad.
The woodman has perpetuated these myths; the Chemins-Verts
have their own legends, of which Renaud the Poacher was the
hero and type.
A MADWOMAN
From The Woodman. Copyright 1892, by Harper & Brothers
[Jean Renaud, the central figure in the story, has been unjustly imprisoned
for poaching; and an old woman, Mère Chauvin, of whom he had taken care,
has also been incarcerated for supposed complicity in Renaud's work. His
sentence served, Renaud returns to her lonely cottage, only to find the old
woman crazy, and their forest life together broken up by tragedy. ]
HⓇ
E WAS soon obliged to set to work again; for his money
was exhausted. He presented himself at the saw-pit. His
skill was well known to the heads of the trade, and they
engaged him. It mattered little to them that he had been
in prison. Marcel himself advised them to take him back, as it
would be easier to keep an eye upon him when he was close at
hand.
At first he was the butt of his companions, who invariably
called him Renaud the Poacher. They did not always treat him
as a pariah, however, for he knew how to make himself feared;
and besides he was an object of admiration to some,—for the
woodmen have all more or less a drop of poacher's blood in their
veins. Others treated his crime as of little importance. "As
long," they said, "as one is neither a murderer nor a thief, there's
not much harm. "
Determined to bear everything, he pretended not to hear,
and by degrees he reconquered his position. The first to arrive,
the last to leave, sad, taciturn, he lived apart. No fault could be
found with him, and he was soon let alone.
The regularity of his life enabled him partly to recover. He
rambled over the forest, found once more his favorite paths, and
felt again the friendly branches meet over his head. He still
was sad, but his apathy was gone. On Sundays the men who
## p. 11930 (#564) ##########################################
11930
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
came to pick up wood saw him at a distance, and said to one
another:-
-
"There's Renaud the Poacher: he's finished his term. "
When he had shaken off his torpor he became sensitive; his
blood boiled with anger.
"Ah, they are all against me! They call me 'Poacher. '
Well, I'll make my name good, and nothing shall prevent me
poaching. "
This thought awakened another: he stood still, quivering.
His gun! had it been found? His grandfather's
His grandfather's curse and his
old friend's madness had absorbed him. But this fear, once pre-
sented to his mind, took entire possession of it. Intense curios-
ity was mingled with acute, overpowering terror. He longed
for night that he might begin his search, and counted the trees
meanwhile to distract his thoughts. After each number a loud
voice sounded in his ear, repeating, "Has some one carried off
your gun? "
At nightfall he stole out, took a circuitous route, and when
nearer to the spot laid one ear to the ground to listen,— the
frost had hardened the soil and made it sonorous: there was no
one about. Then he crept into the bushes on his hands and
knees.
When he reached the break in the ground caused by the ditch
he felt among the brushwood. No gun was there! He broke
into a sweat; he went back into the wood to where the stag had
stood. Here was the holly behind which Jean was posted. He
felt the trees, one after the other, to the path. What a pity
that the night was so dark! He had made a miscalculation of
several feet.
The next time he hit upon the place. The frosty leaves
cracked; the earth crumbled; something harder opposed itself to
his touch. It was the gun!
"My blessed old gun! I've got you at last! How they must
have hunted for you! But you were so little hidden that I don't
wonder they didn't find you. "
This speech exactly describes the simple cunning of the peas-
ant mind.
The gun, full of mold and more rusty than when it served as
a pipe, could not have attracted the attention of the most suspi-
cious keeper. Proud and joyful, he carried it away in his arms.
## p. 11931 (#565) ##########################################
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11931
He spent three nights in taking it to pieces, oiling and fur-
bishing it. A fresh hole in the left barrel necessitated a new
patch. When he had set it to rights, the climber became
thoughtful. He was afraid of everything now. If they came
to search his hut? Marcel was too cunning,—the gun must be
hidden. He took up a plank in the cellar, slipped the gun into
its place as if into a case, with all the powder and ball he had
left, hid the opening with a bit of wood covered with dust, cast
a threatening glance in the direction of Le Plantis, and returned
to put away his oil in the kitchen. He had an inward struggle.
Should he go out shooting this very morning? The temptation
was strong. But he reflected that it was better to go to see his
old friend Mother Chauvin.
For some days the crazy woman had not spoken to him. A
sort of shudder passed over her when she saw him, showing that
she had a vague perception of his presence. But the recollec-
tion vanished before it became clear. She looked at him with
astonished curiosity, touched his blouse, smiled as she followed
him with her eyes round the room, because he brought food
with him: this was the only reason. She often spoke of him
just as she spoke of Marcel and the officials, believing him to
be absent. Her incoherent, voluble utterances all related to the
damaged fruit-trees, the prison, and her Chauvin's broken skull.
Now and then she broke out into a fury; Jean was not always
able to master her. Every night and morning he came to look
after her, and brought food. Mélanie came at noon to make the
soup.
When he entered her room this Wednesday morning she was
madder than ever. She was pacing the room on tiptoe, uttering
threatening sounds. In her hand was a burning log, which she
threw upon the bed; it exhaled a sour smell of scorching rags,
and a volume of black smoke rose up.
"Wretched woman! " exclaimed Renaud, rushing to the pal-
"do you want to set he place on fire? "
let,
"Let be, Cinet," she cried, clapping her hands: "the house of
the accursed must burn! >>
Filled with horror, the youth threw the log into the fireplace,
and pulled out the blankets already streaked with red. She
rushed at him and bit his arm.
Jean put out the fire, hid the matches, did his best to make
her sit down, set a basin of milk on her lap, and shut her in.
## p. 11932 (#566) ##########################################
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"She will get
When he was out of the house he listened.
hungry," he thought: "that will quiet her fancies. "
He heard the basin crash upon the ground, and the sounds
of her crutch showed that the widow was again wandering about
the room. Jean was at his wits' end. It was impossible to leave
this poor creature to herself. On the other hand, the sun was
already high in the heavens, and Besnardeau was expecting him
to fell a beech. It was not safe to be unpunctual with Marcel or
Besnardeau.
-
"I have it, I'll go and fetch Mélanie, and come back
soon as my work is done. "
He ran to call her.
as
"Mother Chauvin's head is quite turned this morning: most
likely it's the new moon, but perhaps she is gone quite mad for
good. Could you look after her till midday? "
"Why not? Give me time to feed my chickens, and I'll
climb the hill. "
The girl made haste, put her knitting in her pocket and set
out, the Little Parisian following her. The child got upon a
stone, opened the latch, and passed first through the door.
widow had heard them, for they were talking as they approached.
She was standing just behind the door, resting on her crutch.
The white hairs on her chin stood on end; her eyes were staring
wildly. She was drawing deep breaths at regular intervals, like
a mother hushing an infant.
The moment the Little Parisian entered she seized him by
the arm. The child, pale with fear and pain, gave a piercing
cry.
"Here you are then, my little Marcel," she said in a coaxing
voice. "Your apple-trees must be in blossom by this time? "
She struck the cupboard with her crutch, and continued:
"Well, then, you won't show my mitten to the law officers-
you'll give it back to me. "
The Little Parisian, frightened almost out of his wits, strug-
gled to get away from her horrible grasp. The madwoman
screamed with anger.
"Won't you give it back to me? "
Mélanie got hold of the child's clothes at the back, and tried
to draw him towards her. But the madwoman's claw-like fingers
held him as tightly as if she had been a bird of prey.
The boy uttered despairing cries: "My 'Lanie! my 'Lanie! "
## p. 11933 (#567) ##########################################
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11933
The strong girl darted forward, and stood suddenly in front
of her adopted child. She threw her arms round the old woman,
and cried, "Let him alone, or it'll be the worse for you! "
On seeing Mélanie's face so close to her own, the lunatic
forgot the child. She was so surprised that no recollection was
awakened. "I don't know you at all! Why won't you let Marcel
give me back my mitten?
You ought
"Mother Chauvin, listen to me. I am Mélanie.
to go to bed. "
But the old woman shook with rage.
You're a witch,
"Ah, I know: it's you as had me locked up.
and you've bewitched me! Chauvin, my love, make haste, the
nightingale is singing at our wedding. We will dance with the
keeper. "
She paced the room, her arms stretched over her head.
Mélanie was frightened now, and tried to walk backward to the
door, hiding the Little Parisian with her skirts.
As soon as they got out they set off running.
vin caught sight of them and pursued them, shouting:-
"The witch is carrying off Marcel! Beware of the summons! "
«< Come, come, Jacques! " Mélanie repeated, dragging along her
little companion.
But he is overwhelmed by terror; his legs give way. He
tries his utmost, but cannot stir, as if in a bad dream.
Mother Chauvin catches up to them at the end of the yard,
with a triumphant yell. Mélanie again places herself before the
child.
Mother Chau-
"Don't touch my boy, Mother Chauvin! "
"Wicked girl! it's you that drew away the rope from the
falling tree, long ago, to make my husband fall! I have found
you at last.
I insist on your giving me back my mitten. "
"O God! " cried Mélanie: "what will become of us? "
The old woman had lost all trace of humanity. She held her
crutch with her two hands,- the crutch was pointed, made out
of a thorn hardened in the fire,- and waved it to and fro.
"Will you give it me back? "
She burst into hysterical laughter; and while Mélanie, mov-
ing backward, was looking on all sides for help, Mother Chauvin
struck her a violent blow on the chest. She gave a deep sigh
and fell like a shot.
## p. 11934 (#568) ##########################################
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The madwoman, forgetting the Little Parisian, sat down on
the heath, singing:-
--
"My sweetest friend has begged of me
My breast-knot ribbon white and fair. "
Jean Renaud was kept by Besnardeau at the top of his
tree till after three o'clock. He had left his old friend in a
state which caused him great anxiety. He hastily unbuckled his
cramp-hooks and carried his things into a shelter, as snow was
beginning to fall. Some workmen from another felling-place were
warming themselves on their wa
"Yonder's a dreadful business," said one. "She almost
crushed her with the blow. "
"Though she's old, her arms are strong; and then your mad
folks are stronger than such as we," added another.
The climber, although he did not know what they were talk-
ing about, shuddered. He was not in the habit of gossiping, but
he could not refrain from questioning them.
"Who are you talking about, pray? "
"Don't you know? Mother Chauvin's gone crazy. "
――
"She has as good as killed Mélanie. The gendarmes have
come, the chief one, along with the new one who is pitted
with small-pox: she's going to be shut up in the asylum, they
say. "
"It's a great pity. The girl was a brave one, and not vicious
at all. Nassiquet the widower was thinking of marrying her. "
Renaud had already set out, hoping that there might be some
mistake. He kept on saying to himself, "No, no: it's impos-
sible. " His head was on fire; he could hear his heart beating.
The snow was falling in heaps and blinding him. Against his
habit he turned into the path. He beheld a sad sight in the
road below. Mother Chauvin was seated in an open cart between
two gendarmes, one of whom held her wrists on either side.
Wrapped in the black cloak, with a hood which is called a capot
and worn by all old peasant women, she was rocking backward
and forward with the movement of the vehicle, her mouth con-
tracted by a hideous grimace. A villager in heavy nailed boots
led the pony by the bridle.
Renaud gave a piercing cry on seeing the old friend who
had loved him when first he became an orphan. Oh, the way in
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11935
which she looked back at the trees was not like a madwoman,
for she seemed to be bidding adieu to the forest; and the cabin
up there would soon be smothered in briers, never again to be
the home of the poor, good old woman.
I am
"Stop, stop! " he exclaimed: "I want to speak to her.
sure she'll know my voice. I want to ask her to forgive me,
for her misfortunes are partly my fault. Mother Chauvin, my
Mother Chauvin! "
She looked at him with a glassy eye, and without moving a
muscle, she said in a solemn voice:-
-
"It seems that the people are bewitched here! "
Her head fell heavily on her breast; prostration was setting in.
"Go on," cried the gendarme.
The driver pushed Renaud aside with his whip, and the cart
went on softly through the snow.
The climber let himself fall on the bank. Within him all
was dark-all was over. No one in his own home - no grand-
father-no Mother Chauvin. He was alone in the world; no
one would smile on him or call him by his name again. Work
as hard as he would, there was no one to give his earnings to.
In the long evenings he would have no one moving on the
other side of the fire. The owls are happier than he would be,
for they have their nests; and when one hoots in the dark there
is another to answer him. No doubt he still had his dear forest
and its soft breezes, the sweet honeysuckles and green pine-trees;
but a forester who goes home and finds no human creature is
forlorn and pitiable.
Renaud, in despair, thought of his lost friends, and longed to
die. It was getting late.
"To-morrow," he said, "I will let go the rope, like Father
Chauvin. "
At this moment he heard the faint sound of a bell at regular
intervals. A boy in a surplice was ringing it, preceding an old
priest who was hurrying along the path, dressed in full canon-
icals, and carrying, with both hands pressed against his chest,
the holy sacrament, the cup covered by a square fringed cloth.
They wended silently along the lonely path, their forms looking
shadowy as seen through the soft-falling snow, on which no foot-
step was heard.
Now and then they stumbled over a hidden
stone; but the priest continued on his way, squaring his elbows
to protect his charge.
## p. 11936 (#570) ##########################################
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The acolyte entered the forest. Renaud removed his cap.
"Where are you taking the sacrament? "
The boy rang his bell, and whispered: -
"To Mélanie. "
"Ah," sighed the poacher, "I sent her to her death. Poor
girl! I must at least bid her good-by. "
He followed the priest who was bearing the last consolation
to the dying woman through the dark night.
Numbers of people had found their way into the yard. This
always happens in the forest. At the slightest disturbance, and
on the most deserted spot, a crowd collects. Whence they come
and how the rumor reaches them, it is impossible to say. No
doubt the sonorous echoes in the forest and the sagacity of its
inhabitants are the real causes. They were watching the priest
vanishing through the snow, and talking together.
"Here's a funeral won't be worth much to the parson. "
"She had a brother who's at work somewhere.
her heir? "
-
Will he be
“Ah, she was like me: she had only her bits of furniture, not
worth paying duty on. "
In the cottage the mother, with the ghastly eagerness of her
class, had taken possession of the body to lay it out.
"It's a great loss," said the father with a sigh. "Poor girl! "
The Little Parisian was sobbing.
"Will that boy ever let us have any peace? " said the father.
After a pause he continued:-
"We must decide at once what to do with the bastard. "
"I shall soon have done here. Do you mean to feed him? "
The forester gave them a look of extreme astonishment.
"Feed him? one must be able to. One poor girl brought
him up with her own money: that was her affair. But I am
growing old; my work is too much for me already. It's too
much to be expected to bring up other folks' brats. "
The mother replied in a low but bitter tone:
"Well, then, it's best to decide at once. When you go to
register the death, take this brat to the maire. He'll make his
usher write to Paris. "
"Is it possible that you mean to forsake your girl's adopted
child? " protested Renaud.
"What right have you to meddle? " said the man; and the
old woman grumbled between her teeth, "Prison leavings! "
――――――――――――
## p. 11937 (#571) ##########################################
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The climber drew the Little Parisian out of the cabin.
For a
minute Jean walked on without speaking. The Little Parisian
sank down, stupefied, on a stone. Night had come; there was
nothing to be seen but the snow, covering the ground like a
shroud; a leaden sky overhead. Renaud meditated. This poor
little shivering creature was alone in the world like himself,-
a bastard without shelter, together with a despised poacher!
Mélanie had loved him; now he was to be turned out of the
forest—to be taken before a lot of clerks with their pens behind
their ears. He was
was so pretty-a darling-like Jean's little.
brother! Would he even have anything to eat next day? Poor,
sad, deserted child! you have the same fate as Renaud; the
deserted Renaud is your only friend.
"Isn't your name Jacques? " he asked at length.
