Original spellings have been standardised only when a dominant version was found. Misspellings of words that occur only once have been corrected. The cover was created by the transcriber and placed in the public domain.

CATHERINE’S COQUETRIES

A Tale of French Country Life

BY

CAMILLE DEBANS

TRANSLATED BY LEON MEAD

ILLUSTRATED

New York:

WM. L. ALLISON COMPANY,

Publishers.

Copyright, 1890, by

WORTHINGTON COMPANY.

CATHERINE’S COQUETRIES.

A TALE OF FRENCH PEASANT LIFE.

CHAPTER I.
A GAME THAT ENDS BADLY.

“Bravo, Sidonie!”

“Ah, but he escapes her, the scamp!”

Thus shout the spectators as they watch a poor young lame girl chase, with all her energy, a young fellow of two and twenty, who makes all possible effort to elude her.

Sidonie’s right hand clasps an important adjunct of the homely game—a little cluster of red raspberries. In the absorbed ardor of pursuit the “Little Crook,” as they call her, holds it quite mechanically, and from her tightly clinched fingers trickle drops of the crimson juice as she runs.

“Good, little one, good,” cries the little old man, who is highly amused at the endeavors of the unfortunate lame girl.

Sidonie makes a fresh start—this time determined to catch the fugitive. The aspect of the afflicted girl as she hobbles about on limbs of unequal length does not engender among these peasants any particular feeling of compassion. None of her companions ever dreamed of offering her pity. She perfectly enjoys the game. She would be utterly astounded and piqued if any one manifested an open sympathy on account of her deformity. With that great endurance so natural among hardy peasants, and often so inexplicable to the city born and bred, she pursues the young man. After running in a straight line a short distance, he suddenly changes his tactics. A tree—several for that matter, but one in particular—stands near by. He runs behind it and awaits Sidonie, his hands clasping the trunk. Reaching the tree she fully expects to seize him. But he pretends to go to the right, and as she confidently advances he makes for another tree to the left, and so the game is prolonged. And the brave girl, always smiling, continues the pursuit, until at length Bruno, the young peasant, slips and falls upon the sward, and before he can recover himself, Sidonie holds him down and daubs his face over and over again with the juice of her crushed raspberries.

Everybody approaches to congratulate “Little Crook,” who laughs in glee at her triumph. Her good-natured adversary joins in the ensuing merriment.

What game are they playing? Indeed, it has no name as yet, for it has just been invented by Catherine, the wife of Madame le Hausseur’s gamekeeper; but its novelty has rendered it at once popular among the country lads and lasses.

The game continues for perhaps an hour, and more than one pretty face is smeared with the bright red juice. If a kiss is taken now and then, who complains of that? Surely not the lovely Catherine, who, though married to the gamekeeper, is not averse to a friendly caress. In truth, it is oftenest after her that the young men give chase—she is so gay, so bright, so little scandalized by the familiarities of her young adorers. Presently her turn comes to play the pursuer’s rôle. She selects Bruno as her victim. Graceful, Diana-like in form, and charming in her abandon, she bounds through the bushes.

In the background of this living picture stand the great trees—chiefly beeches and oaks—as erect as proud sentinels, their wide-spread branches forming a grateful shade where the peasants are sitting in sociable groups. In the clearing, just in front of the older people, who are watching with enjoyment the sport of the younger ones, is a dense mass of raspberry bushes that are fairly loaded down with ripe fruit. Never before have raspberries been so abundant in this locality. Under a tree are ranged all sizes and kinds of baskets. Soon in the hot July sunshine old and young will begin to gather this wild crop, which may be had for the picking. Some have come solely for the purpose of improving each shining hour of this Sunday morning in obtaining as much of the fruit as possible. Others think a little diversion is not out of order on such an occasion. And so the impromptu game proposed by the vivacious wife of the gamekeeper has been eagerly approved by a dozen or more participants.

Bruno now runs breathlessly after Catherine, but she is too fleet of foot to be caught. Animated and happy, the gamekeeper’s wife is wholly absorbed in the sport, and triumphs because she is able to distance her pursuer.

At length, a towering, broad-shouldered fellow, with a confident air, is seen coming along the footpath. By his side walks a queer little being, with uneven steps, misshapen body, short, twisted legs, and enormous arms. Both stop to watch the game—the first like a man who cannot be induced to enter into any such frivolous pastime; the other like a man incapable of doing so by reason of his poor physique.

“Good-morning, Andoche,” salutes Catherine as she passes the deformed little man, who smiles with a wry, disagreeable face.

“Good-morning, Madame Catherine,” he returns, with a look of malice in his eyes. Then turning to the other he remarks, “You will see how she will manage to invite you to join in.”

Bruno, running at a swift pace, passes before the newcomers. The young woman, making a sudden detour, again approaches them, and asks in a voice of admirable nonchalance:

“Would you not like to play for a while, Monsieur Firmin?”

“Ah, what did I tell you?” exclaims Andoche, bursting into laughter.

“Will you be one of us?” continues the young woman.

“I do not know the game, but I will play,” responds Firmin.

Catherine, by an adroit manœuvre, leads the waiting Bruno to one side and smilingly makes him a sign. He throws himself upon Firmin and besmears his face with berry juice. Firmin’s surprise quickly curdles into anger. Like a giant he resents the treatment, but it is quite unnecessary for him to give poor Bruno such a resistless blow. Advancing to interpose hasten Rosalie, Félicité, Suzanne, Justine, Nicholas, Mathieu, Constant, and others. Firmin has not time to give a second blow. He strikes out only once, but that is quite sufficient.

Catherine briefly explains the nature of the game. During her explanation the jeering Andoche regards her insolently, and when she has finished he observes: “It is not a proper or neat game for Sunday, when one is quite clean and fresh.”

“And now,” continues Catherine, coolly, paying no heed to the sneer of Andoche, “it is your turn to run after some one, and decorate her face if you catch her.”

“I will, then, run after you,” declares this young Antinous, rather stupidly.

“How foolish!” exclaims the disagreeable Andoche. “If you expect to catch Madame Catherine, you will have to double your speed.”

Firmin does not notice the evil slur in the old man’s suggestion. As soon as he dashes forth, all seek to evade him.

Catherine, blushing a little in spite of herself, leaves the open glade and gains the forest. In two or three long strides Firmin might overtake her, but she is too quick for him, because she darts first to the right and then to the left so skilfully that the great fellow, each time going as straight as an arrow, overleaps her by several feet and so loses her, much to the amusement of the others.

“What a goose!” grumbles that beast of an Andoche. “She will lead as far as you care to follow her.”

Though the beautiful Catherine is evidently fatigued, Firmin cannot catch her. Now she disappears from view behind the raspberry hedges, some minutes perhaps elapsing before she and her pursuer are again seen. Sometimes the gamekeeper’s wife reappears with a little grimace on her face, for the game begins to pall. The cries of enthusiasm cease.

But Catherine remains indefatigable. Old Andoche continues to jeer, and finally in his garrulous, cynical voice cries: “How interesting it would be should Monsieur Barrau happen to pass this way! He might not be altogether pleased at the sight.”

Scarcely has Andoche finished speaking when through the trees they see the gleam of a musket. The branches are pushed aside, and a man clad in velvet, with long gaiters extending from his knees, makes his appearance, followed by a dog which as he bounds to and fro barks joyously.

CHAPTER II.
THE ALTERCATION.

Savin Barrau was naturally a soldier. As Catherine was a beautiful woman, so was Savin a distinguished-looking man. His regular-featured face wore an expression of hauteur and valor, as though he often had stood in the face of death. But upon his lips one could have fancied there lurked a smile both touching and tender. His handsome dark eyes brightened his face to an extraordinary degree. Brave and noble he seemed as he stood gazing upon the scene.

“Ah, ha,” said the vindictive Andoche, “I have brought trouble to our charming Madame Catherine with my remarks, I fear. Another time I shall hold my tongue.”

Savin approached, carrying his gun in his left hand. His dog Patachaud was still bounding at his side. A feeling of restlessness possessed the crowd, hitherto so joyous. A jealous glitter suddenly came into Barrau’s eyes. He could not disguise his disapproval of his wife’s frivolity.

Every one thought Catherine would discontinue the game and run to meet him. But no. Either bravado or the testy consciousness of her virtue led her to continue it. Firmin, who as yet had not perceived Barrau, darted after her with increased zest. The gamekeeper came forward with even tread.

“Ah, some game seems to be in progress,” said he as he halted.

His wife and Firmin now disappeared from view. A look of displeasure clouded Savin’s features. With a military gesture he rested his hand on his knee. The dog continuing to leap upon him, he shouted: “Down, Patachaud, down, sir!” a little rudely.

A profound silence enveloped the scene. Every one was impressed, for all knew the keeper’s mood. Why indeed should the coquettish Catherine so vex her brave husband? Presently she again came in sight. Merrily she went toward Savin, smiled up at him, and seizing his shoulders swung around him, without a thought of abandoning the game.

Certainly Savin’s look of displeasure should have warned her to desist, but that look she obstinately refused to see. Fortified by her husband’s tall figure, Catherine stood panting and laughing, while Firmin foolishly advanced toward her in pursuit.

At this juncture, the gamekeeper, impatiently tapping the ground with his foot, exclaimed: “Come, come! this is a little too bold.”

“Now for a storm,” murmured Andoche. “Firmin would have passed the time better by drinking a couple of glasses of beer with me.”

Firmin stupidly stared at Barrau, with an air of indifference; while Catherine, vexed at Savin’s interference, addressed him brusquely in these words: “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

“Not much. You have played too long. You must go and rest.”

“But we have not yet gathered the berries.”

“Well, let the others do that. Come, let us go.”

“Oh, no, indeed,” said Catherine, perversely. “You may go on if you like, but I——”

“Come along, Catherine. Do not provoke me.”

A hard look entered her eyes. To be led away before everybody appeared to her, at that moment, the acme of humiliation. It was wiser to concede to her husband’s wishes, she well knew, for he loved her ardently, and had only her welfare at heart. But she did not wish to seem so meek before her friends. Indeed, she would show them that she was not to be bullied.

“It would have been surprising had you not come to spoil all our sport. But, as I said before, you may go. I shall remain longer.”

“Poor little one,” said Andoche, hatefully.

The gamekeeper’s wife turned toward a group of peasants, some of whom were regarding her approvingly, others with displeasure.

“Catherine,” said Barrau, in vibrating tones, “I am the master, you understand, and never shall I submit to being laughed at by a Firmin.”

“Pooh! You always see evil in everything. Am I doing wrong? Whenever I try to enjoy myself you are angry. In order to please you, I ought always to stay at home. But I don’t care for that sort of life—not I.”

“Come!”

“No.”

Savin was visibly disturbed. His resolute face looked pained. He said nothing, but going straight up to his wife, he took her by the arm and forced her to go by his side. Vexed with rage, she attempted to free herself, but in vain. Her husband held her closely. But rather than go with him she fell to the ground, sobbing.

“Catherine, my girl, come,” urged Savin, more gently. “Do not be a baby; come willingly. People are mocking at us.”

Did the young woman believe her husband would weaken? Or did she think it dramatic to make a scene? Who knows? At all events, she raised her hand to strike her husband on the face, when he, foreseeing the intention, arrested the blow. His movement was so rapid that he did not realize what strength he exerted in seizing her fingers. Held as firmly as though she were in a vice, Catherine uttered a little cry of pain.

“You hurt me, Savin. See! You hurt me!”

But the gamekeeper, swayed by his anger, did not listen to her complaint.

“A blow!” cried he. “You wished to strike me—you! Before all these people!”

Catherine reiterated her complaint.

“Be quiet,” said her husband, in tones of thunder. “Do not forget that I am Savin Barrau. You will have cause to remember this twentieth of July. Ask my pardon!”

At these words Catherine made another effort to release herself from his grasp, but Savin held her all the more firmly.

“Apologize, I tell you!”

“I will not!”

Pride overcame her pain. Her arm was aching terribly, but—she would never yield. Drops of perspiration stood on her forehead. Her heart within her seemed to stop beating. Though ready to faint, she still would have resisted, but her suffering was too great.

“Pardon me,” she cried, at length, in a grieved voice.

“You will not do so again?” demanded Savin, severely.

“No, no. Release me!”

“You will never again do so rude a thing?”

“No. Oh, how you hurt me!”

Savin dropped her arm and pushed her toward the pathway.

“Come, let us go,” said he.

Catherine, humiliated and angry, did not resist. Without once turning her head, Madame Barrau walked away, bewildered and wretched.

No one had thought of interfering between the man and wife. Country people, as a rule, have great respect for strength and authority. Savin’s behavior seemed to them quite the natural sequence of Catherine’s.

A profound silence reigned for several minutes. By tacit consent all waited until the gamekeeper and his wife were beyond hearing, and then soon enough each tongue began to wag. Catherine was very pretty, and therefore could not escape calumny. More than one venomous smile was to be seen on the lips of her enemies.

“Did you see what a look she gave him when they started?”

“And how vexed she was because he came?”

“She could have strangled him,” said Andoche, wickedly.

“Poor Barrau! how sad!”

Bruno alone was silent. Now and then he opened his mouth as though he had something to say, but he closed it again without speaking. Amid the babble Firmin ventured a word. He had been a valet in Paris, and more than one pretty chambermaid had smiled upon him: so he felt himself to be quite a squire of dames.

“Madame Barrau is such a fine-looking woman that her husband ought to be satisfied if—if—don’t you know?”

Every one save Bruno burst into laughter. He turned pale, clinched his fists, and muttered something to himself. Finally he said with vehemence, as he planted himself before Firmin: “You are a scoundrel. You, at least, have no right to say anything. I repeat, you are a scoundrel!”

“Ah, my dear fellow, how excited you are!”

“You know very well that Madame Catherine is an honest woman. I will answer for it, and I forbid you to say a word to the contrary.”

“You forbid me! You forbid me!” retorted Firmin, pale and exasperated. “And what if I laugh in your face?”

“I will break your head as I would a cat’s,” cried Bruno, more and more enraged.

“Ah, ha!” said Andoche, in his maddening way: “you are then in love with Madame Catherine?”

“I also forbid you to speak like that, Andoche. Indeed, one ought never to allow drunkards in company.”

He must be a hot-brained fellow to speak like that—this young Bruno.

Fair-skinned, slight, graceful, and blond, the son of Mother Mathurine would have been taken anywhere for a gentleman. But he could not boast that strength of limb and muscle which distinguished the young fellows with whom he had often come in contact, and who were always ready for a quarrel.

Firmin was as strong as an ox, and Andoche, the old blacksmith, had sinews of steel. Young Bruno could hardly expect to enter the lists with either, and he was rather foolhardy to challenge a dispute. Firmin and Andoche Grignon were both well enough settled in life, in a pecuniary way; while young Bruno was but the son of a poor mother, who passed as a good woman, though his father had insisted upon remaining away from home for over twenty years.

Bruno’s last remark lent a sharp piquancy to the situation. The women were quite elated at the prospect of a dispute; while the men crowded around, fearing lest they should lose a word. Andoche frowned and his face assumed an ugly expression. He never hesitated to give a blow, and his two short arms had a terrible reputation at Quarré, Rouvray, and Trinquelin.

“Who ever saw such an insolent cur?” said he, livid with rage.

For an answer Bruno struck his fist full upon the fat, red face of the stupefied Andoche. The blacksmith, for such he was, in his ill-fitting clothes, stood gaping, with his mouth and eyes wide open—struck dumb for a moment by the young man’s temerity. Had he been inebriated, as was often the case, he would not have hesitated. But now he seemed half afraid, until Firmin’s jeering voice goaded him to violence.

“Good heavens!” roared Andoche, desperately, “take that!” And he planted a cruel blow upon Bruno’s chest. Poor Bruno! he fell in a heap upon the grass. Andoche, making the most of his advantage, then leaped upon his adversary. The unfortunate fellow, brave to the last, rose to his knees only to receive another stinging blow. Firmin, meanwhile, showed himself the coward by urging the blacksmith to greater violence. Andoche again furiously seized the young man by the throat and would have strangled him, but for a new-comer, a man brawny and wiry, who stepped forward, suddenly took the blacksmith himself by the throat and pressed him so hard that, muttering a cry of pain, he relaxed his hold upon Bruno and tried to get away.

“The Bear!” he cried, in a stifled voice. He scarcely found himself released, when in a spasm of rage Bruno’s adversary started to punish the man who had interfered. But the tables were turned. With no great effort “the Bear” took Andoche between his iron hands, raised and hurled him to the ground. A stronger man than Andoche was master of the field.

“It is cowardly,” said he, “to beat a fellow like that. Andoche, let Firmin and Bruno settle the dispute. Bruno is courageous, and Firmin is cowardly. That statement is but just. But you! I should have thought you more honorable!”

“What a shock you gave me!” pitifully cried Andoche, who had no desire to prolong the fight.

“What caused the row? Bruno is not the lad to be incensed for nothing.”

“They were doubting the purity of Madame Catherine,” said Bruno.

“The gamekeeper’s wife?” queried “the Bear,” with some agitation.

“Yes, Madame Barrau, if you please.”

“Well, well,” said “the Bear,” with an assumed nonchalance. Then after a slight pause he added: “It is none of my affair. But if again I catch you attacking a man like little Bruno, Andoche, I will dash you to pieces.”

The blacksmith, remembering his last lesson, hung his head and said nothing.

“Bruno, my lad, come with me,” said “the Bear,” as he turned to go. But Bruno did not wish to retreat under another’s protection like a coward.

“No, thank you,” he said: “I will remain.”

“So be it,” returned “the Bear.” “Man is a free agent.”

And the shaggy-haired, strongly built man shambled away without asking if Andoche intended to renew the fight, which was far from Andoche’s wish. He had received a lesson. The women, however, continued to score and revile Catherine. Said one old gossip: “Well, that fool of a Savin has no more than he deserves. When a man marries he ought not to choose a girl who is neither a peasant nor a lady.”

“Come, come!” said Bruno, irritably.

“Ah, ha! you are sensitive on the subject, eh?”

But the interest in the discussion soon flagged, and presently they began to pick berries.

CHAPTER III.
THE CORNER OF THE WOOD.

Under arches of foliage made beautiful by an occasional stray gleam of sunshine, Savin and Catherine walked homeward in silence.

With tears trickling down her cheeks and suffusing her long eyelashes, the young woman put one foot before the other like an automaton, and saw nothing but the black earth under her feet. She took no notice of the trees and blossoming flowers, of the delicate blue gentians that fringed the path, of the soothing peace of nature.

At any other time Catherine would have gloried in the picture. The sylvan verdure, the fragrant air, the exquisite landscape had always appealed to her sense of the beautiful. But now, with downcast eyes, she cared not for the charming spectacle.

Savin, too, was an ardent admirer of nature, and he passionately loved the grand old forest. But now, jealous and discontented, he walked moodily along, while Patachaud, leaping by his side, in vain pleaded for attention.

For a long time Barrau and his wife proceeded without speaking, each keeping to his or her own path and brooding over the sorrowful situation. And yet how charming they were—she with her raven hair and lustrous dark eyes, straight aquiline nose, and perfect mouth; and he, a man of thirty-two, with the carriage of a soldier, and a strong intellectual face, a rich deep voice, and skin bronzed by the summer sun. A blond mustache gave to his face a look which the French are accustomed to trace back to their ancestors the Gauls. Certainly there could not have been found in all the countryside two handsomer persons than Savin and Catherine. Faithfully and fondly, too, had they loved each other, and until now had been happy. But a little coquetry and ardent love for pleasure on the one hand, and jealousy on the other, had spoiled it all, and—who could tell?—might lead to the direst misery.

Barrau did not know how imprudent it is for a man to take the conceit out of a pretty woman, and Catherine did not realize how hard it is to attempt to dissuade a strong man from what he considers right.

And so they, at length, reached the border of the wood—she ruminating upon vengeance, and he almost tragically annoyed by the thought that they had given cause for scandal to the gossips they had left behind.

Finally, the path became more devious, and as they advanced the magnificent beauty of the scene burst upon them. Through an opening in the trees the sun burned like a ball of fire. From every hand were wafted strains of rapturous melody. Thousands of feathered songsters were joining in one grand chorus of praise to God.

Affected in spite of himself, Savin’s face became more gentle, while Catherine’s softened almost to tenderness. But the moment of possible reconciliation passed, and home was reached.

Upon a small bluff, half hidden by trees, stood a cosy little cottage, built of wood and brick. As if conscious of its modest architectural pretensions, the chalet was quite enveloped in a network of clematis and woodbine, and a rustic veranda afforded a picturesque effect to the tiny villa. Behind it the forest plunged into a vast ravine, at the bottom of which brawled a little brook among the rocks. The mid-day sunlight beat upon the façade of the cottage and radiantly glinted the leaves of the surrounding trees, among which a dozen or more poplars extended a grateful shade over the little garden.

Catherine and Savin did not linger without, but entered the house together. The former, throwing upon the table the fichu she had worn, seated herself by the open window and began nervously tapping the floor with her foot.

A quarrel seemed imminent. Once more in their own home Catherine knew her husband would cease to be vehement. Barrau seated himself on one side of the table and watched Patachaud as he eagerly drank a cup of water which was always ready for him. Two strangers passed by, remarking on the flowers which covered the cottage roof.

At length, Barrau rose from his chair and broke the silence by saying: “We must have dinner now, Catherine.”

“You are hungry, then,” said she, with reproach. “Well, then, go and eat. I do not prevent you. Surely in order to keep so strong as you are, you must eat heartily.”

Her words cut him to his soul’s quick.

“Do not be rebellious, Catherine. Come, now.”

She bounded to her feet and bent upon him her flashing eyes.

“It is I who am wrong, then. I am the culprit, eh? You strike me, and then call me rebellious. Indeed, I ought to rebel, and for good, too.”

“Catherine,” said Savin severely.

“Ah, why did I marry a common brutal soldier?”

Barrau blushed. The thrust struck home.

“Enough! Enough!” said he, rudely; “I am the master here, at least. And any honest woman should not make such a remark.”

“Indeed! I am a worthless jade, am I? A coquette? A good-for-nothing?”

Savin made an impatient gesture.

“Say it,” she went on; “do not hesitate.”

As though to prevent further disagreement, Savin started to go, but his anger forced him to stop and say: “Ah, well, yes. Yes, then! A woman who compromises herself in the presence of evil tongues has no self-respect.”

“Take care!” cried Catherine, advancing toward him in anger.

“Take care yourself, my child. Do your duty and be circumspect is all I ask. But no more coquetry, you understand, or——”

“Or—you will kill me, perhaps. Well, then, do it. Kill me, if you will.”

“Madame,” said he, solemnly, “I do not come from a family of assassins.”

Catherine’s face turned livid. She fell heavily to the floor, and Savin could have bitten his tongue out for his cruel words.

CHAPTER IV.
THE STAMPEDE.

Three weeks later. The annual cattle show at St. Benoit is about to open. St. Benoit is the great region for fine cattle in France. From miles around the farmers and peasants assemble to exhibit the beasts they have fattened to sell in Paris at a reasonable profit.

Every road is crowded. Oxen, cows, and sheep fill the thoroughfares and byways, and the quaint rural habitations are gayly decorated with flags and streamers. Not a drop of rain has fallen since the famous day of the raspberry fête, and each morning the sun has risen in the east with more scorching radiance.

The large hamlet of St. Benoit, perfectly suited to such a fair, is crowded in spite of its size. As the sun climbs above the horizon, the cattle accumulate in greater numbers. The peasants are in the best of good spirits, and talk is heard and laughter rings on all sides. Perhaps the buyers are treated with rather more deference than the sellers, but those who come neither to buy nor to sell address themselves to the various schemes of pleasure. The fair is for everybody, and, at all events, it offers an admirable opportunity to “eat, drink, and be merry.”

The two public houses of the place are not without guests, and the respective landlords are gathering in a goodly supply of the sine qua non of life and not stopping to count the centimes. More than one young rascal, with nothing to sell and no money to buy, finds his way to the village inn and does not leave there thirsty. Among this class are two men who make more noise than all the rest, and who await the inevitable fistic encounter with interest. One of them is Andoche the blacksmith, an expert in his trade, but still more skilful in spoiling wine by drinking it.

As he sits just outside the door of the public house, at one of the tables, he appears ill at ease. In the rural portions of France people do not like to drink conspicuously, but in Paris it is different. The peasant, conscious that he might better spend his money in some other direction, prefers to take his libations under cover or behind a screen. To get tipsy is all well enough, he thinks; but it is not necessary that the whole world should witness the process from start to finish.

At length, Andoche and his friend proceed to the fair-grounds, not because they prefer to do so, but for the very simple reason that Jeanrobert, the landlord, will not trust either for another centime’s worth. Andoche cannot hope to find another man so generous as Fadard, with whom he has taken his last tipple. Fadard is either an old man who seems to have petrified in his youth, or a young man who too soon has been claimed by a precocious old age. Fadard does not belong in the town, but everybody knows him, for several times in the course of a year he comes to pay his respects—as he claims—to one Léocadia Faillot, who passes as his cousin. Evil tongues, like those of Rosalie and Victoire, make up all sorts of stories in regard to them; but they really do Mlle. Faillot an injustice. The fact is, this dried-up old young or young old man is actually a relative, who only comes to see her to borrow money now and then.

In the centre of the market-place, the Mayor, a large, solemn old man, stands talking with four or five equally aged citizens. He is a hardy old man of eighty-five years, strong as an oak, straight as a classic marble pillar, but avaricious, penurious, and cunning in the extreme. He owes his administrative position alone to his skilful management in once conducting a herd of cattle through the circuitous pathways of Forêt-au-Duc. A more truly imposing sight than that of the sturdy old man driving his oxen, and making them obey with a simple touch of the lash, could scarcely be found. As he stands near the cattle, suddenly a refractory bull, seizing his opportunity, lowers his horns as if to strike.

“Pardon me, Father Jerome,” speaks a voice behind him at this moment, “but, at your age, a blow from a bull would be an ugly present.”

“It is you, then, Savin, my boy. Thanks for your caution. And how is Madame Catherine to-day?”

Savin’s face takes on a glowering look.

“For good health, my wife has no equal,” he replies, evasively.

“Well, well, that is certainly a blessing. But does she remain as indifferent?”

“There is no change, good father,” answered Savin, sadly.

Madame Barrau herself now joins the group, and so the subject is dropped. While they greet Catherine with due courtesy, it is plain to see that a barrier divides the husband and wife. Catherine remains but a moment, and then excuses herself to speak with an acquaintance. As for Savin, he waits an instant after her departure, and then turning upon his heel walks away in an opposite direction.

“Noble fellow,” observes the Mayor, as Savin disappears from view. “I fear he has made a bitter mistake.”

“What! In marrying D’Angerolles’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“Opinions differ as to that. Some say he loved her in secret for many months, while that sot of an Andoche declares that he was caught in a trap.”

“She is not the wife for him, that is certain.”

“Be that as it may, he has been captured by the fair Catherine. How—nobody knows.”

“Ah, but somebody knows,” insists Parjeau, with emphasis.

“Who?”

“Why, Andoche, to be sure. He is coming this way. Shall I call him?”

“Yes, on condition that he is sober. When in his cups he respects neither man nor beast.”

Celestin Parjeau beckons to the blacksmith, but the latter, fearing lest he lose a chance to gain another “smile,” pretends not to see the signal. One of the little urchins playing near by is sent to bring him, and so Andoche is obliged to join them.

“The gamekeeper,” he begins, “you want to know about him? A very delicate subject to discuss, because one cannot speak openly. The army teaches us two great duties. One is never to imbibe spirituous liquors to excess, and the other is to be generous in dealing with all questions of sentiment, especially where a woman is concerned, and practically to say nothing. I am a soldier and have had experience in those things.”

“You are drunk again,” remarks the Mayor, candidly.

“I? Indeed, no! You may place Parjeau there in my arms, and I will carry him straight as a die to the post road.”

“Well, if you are not intoxicated, you at least are talking nonsense—cheap nonsense.”

“But I have more to say.”

“Well, proceed, but be quick about it.”

“You were speaking of Savin, eh? A man who is the soul of honor, and generous, too, by the saints. Being a sergeant-major he knows the world as it stands. He has seen service, too, and——”

“To the point,” cry his hearers, impatiently.

“Ah, well, why pursue the subject? You all know D’Angerolles’s story.”

“Yes. He was suspected of shooting——”

“Suspected?”

“Yes, Andoche. It was but a mere suspicion.”

“They found old Martin dead on his doorstep. D’Angerolles had passed by only twenty-five minutes before, with his gun on his shoulder, and as a report was heard but a moment previous to his quitting the mill, you understand, it looked more than suspicious.”

“But, Andoche, D’Angerolles had no motive or object in killing Martin.”

“Vengeance is strong.”

“But he never said a word against the old man.”

“That counts for nothing.”

“But how is Savin concerned?”

“True—I had forgotten. Savin, full of sympathy and kind-heartedness, took D’Angerolles’s part in the affair and bravely upheld him from beginning to end. Nobody could speak aught against Catherine’s father before him.”

“Did he love her at that time?”

“It appears not. But her youth, after her father’s death, appealed to him. She was all alone and unprotected from the taunts of malevolent persons who went so far as to call her the daughter of an assassin. None spoke to her save to insult her, and her life was wretched. Poor child! She cried day and night. Somebody advised her to go away—to Paris—where no questions would be asked. But Savin came to the rescue. He learned how cruelly people were talking about her and he was incensed. He picked many a quarrel on her account. Among others Rosalie did not hesitate to calumniate Mademoiselle d’Angerolles and to insinuate that between her and Savin too intimate relations existed. At this Barrau was furious, of course, and the upshot of it all was that he protected Catherine by making her his wife. Nobody now dares to say a word. But it was a queer thing, after all. Had she been a peasant, it would have seemed different. But her father was a gentleman, and it appears she has no common talent for learning.”

“That is nothing derogatory to her character, my friend.”

“No, but we do not live like Parisians here. A different ménage might better please the haughty Catherine.”

“Pshaw! Her lot should be a happy one.”

“Come, come,” breaks out Andoche, “let us drink to our Mayor’s health.”

“Thanks, thanks, Andoche; but none for me, if you please.”

“Upon my invitation? I beg you will not refuse,” returns Andoche, with mock politeness. “As a soldier and gentleman, however, I will have the grace to excuse you should you insist.”

The Mayor, Parjeau, and others refuse, and the blacksmith turns to join his companion, Fadard. The fair progresses, the business transactions being concluded with more celerity as the heat becomes more intense. The sun tortures the animals like the close heat of a furnace fire. Those that by fortunate chance are near wells or ponds can leap in and cool themselves in the water, but the rest—that is to say, ninety per cent. of them—raise their parched heads toward heaven as if seeking some rain-cloud to refresh themselves. Besides, the flies, the mosquitoes, and especially the gnats exasperate them to desperation.

There is perhaps no person on the face of the earth more invulnerable to the sun’s rays than the French peasant. To-day, however, there is a general admission that it is intolerably hot. Some, fearing that even their cattle may die of sunstroke, place them under shelter without reference to whether they can be sold. But many poor beasts are left to suffer, and their piteous lowing is distinctly heard above the hum and din of the fair.

The Mayor, with his experienced eye, surveys the scene on all sides. Like a mariner who feels a coming storm before any sign is evident to his eyes, Father Jerome has the air of a man who foresees danger. Walking in the shade of the great trees, he touches his neighbor’s elbow and says: “My friend, this heat is going to play bad pranks on us.”

“What makes you think so?” demands Parjeau.

“Mon Dieu! It is not well to predict evil, but do you see those eight or ten yoke of oxen down there by Simmonet’s mill? Well, there it will begin—the stampede, I mean. Do you see that great ox rearing in the air and——”

The sense of danger makes him silent, and rushing to the nearest house he shouts at the top of his voice: “A stampede! A stampede! Call the women and children in quickly!”

“What! Is old Father Jerome crazy?” cries Andoche, who remains seated at a table, half overcome by his potations. Others at once realize the danger, and shouts of “A stampede!” resound in the ears of the peasants like the peals of a tocsin.

Among marching armies as well as sleeping camps sometimes a terrible fright takes possession of soldiers. The horror-stricken men, without a moment’s pause, throw down their arms and run here and there in mad confusion. How many times has a general, sure of his campaign, seen victory vanish because of a sudden panic without reason and for which nobody (?) is responsible.

So with these cattle that a moment since were quiet and under control. Some nameless terror, like an insidious simoom, has seized the herd. The fury spreads like magic, and they madly plunge and rear, and turn the market-place into a scene of wild and noisy chaos. The danger is supreme. “A stampede!” The appalling announcement echoes like a peal of thunder throughout the startled fair.

Then suddenly an ominous stillness prevails, and for half a minute not a movement is made among the frightened people who are watching the spectacle from a neighboring cottage. But an unearthly bellowing breaks the brief silence, and with heads erect and glittering eyes the cattle madly paw the ground, upturning stones and tearing up the earth until thick, blinding clouds of dust obscure the landscape. Who now can doubt the danger? The merciless sun goads the herd to frenzy.

Fadard, intoxicated but still prudent, followed by Andoche, approaches the door of the cabaret[A] where they have been dawdling. A cloud of hot dust fills their eyes and nostrils, and they gladly seek refuge within.

At the same moment the distracted beasts make another dash. Like demons they career about the market-place, trampling upon and killing each other in their desperate struggle to reach the exit gates. Through these they plunge and go tearing along the highway, the earth seeming to tremble beneath their feet. The little booths by the wayside are far from safe. A part of Andoche’s jacket is carried away impaled upon the horn of a bull which has dashed against the wall of the cabaret. Consternation fills the hearts of the villagers. All who have dear ones abroad on the road or in the fields are pale with anguish. Children, too, are missing, and the suspense is heart-breaking. What will be the sequel? They hardly dare look out to see if the storm and fury have at all abated.

Under a cart-shed at the end of the market-place stands a huddled group of men. They await the end. Suddenly a little child, about two years old, runs out of a wood-chopper’s house and starts across the road along which a part of the herd is still rushing like a whirlwind.

“He will be killed!” yelled some one, as a young heifer racing forward just overleaps the boy.

But a special providence seems to protect children, and for the nonce the little fellow escapes. He miraculously reaches the shed unharmed. There is not a man in the cart-shed who is not thrilled with the desire to go and save other little ones from certain death. To be sure, many sit rooted to the spot, lacking the courage to move; but not all of them are cowards.

Just as a young girl ventures to cross the road, an enormous bull comes thundering along. She is in imminent peril. Who will attempt an heroic act of rescue? A sickening fear seizes the spectators. Onward course the foaming animals, following in the dusty wake of their formidable leader.

Not an instant too soon some one rushes out of a neighboring cottage and, clasping the young girl in his arms, prepares to shield her from the oncoming cattle. His presence of mind is remarkable; but no time is left for escape, for the herd is upon him. He makes one more effective move—he hurls the little maid into a clump of rushes, where she falls heavily, but beyond the pale of danger. He rolls under the trampling hoofs, and the whole battalion of beasts passes over the body of one who has attempted the impossible. What a terrible sight! He is crushed and bruised, but they expect to find him a shapeless mass.

“Who is he?” shout a hundred or more people nearly in unison.

“I believe he is Bruno Volane,” answers a peasant of Trinquelin.

“It’s just like him,” observes an old woman, “to rush to certain death. Ah! but he is brave.”

By this time the people, too, are in a panic. Husbands and wives and parents and children have become separated, and terrible havoc has been made by the cattle along the roads, and valuable beasts are lost or killed. The adjacent country looks not unlike a battle-field. Here and there the wounded beasts lie bleeding upon the ground. The market-place shows traces of an unusual struggle and of hard usage; the cottages are battered, windows knocked out and doors unhinged.

This stampede surpasses anything in the way of a calamity ever known in the annals of St. Benoit.

At length, a man armed with a cudgel strides forth as if to encounter the foe. Each advancing bull is driven into the ring by the man Andoche calls “the Bear.” He is a singular-looking figure as he stands there, with his unkempt beard and hair fluttering in the breeze.

Rushing to the spot where Bruno has fallen, L’Ours (“the Bear”) takes a guarded attitude and then strikes out in every direction, beating down the cattle right and left.

“He will be killed!” cries some one. “Why should he go to Bruno’s aid now? The fellow must certainly be dead.”

“Have you not noticed that L’Ours always happens around when Mother Mathurine’s son is in danger?”

“Yes—how strange it is!”

“And why is it?” asks Rosalie, who is always prying into others’ affairs, being the most inquisitive of women.

“Why? Why? Go and ask him. Perhaps he will tell you.”

Meanwhile L’Ours is beating off the infuriated animals, and the panic gradually subsides. Seizing Bruno with one hand and protecting himself with the other, he speeds to a neighboring cottage, regardless of the disorder and confusion that prevail.

The house in question belongs to an eccentric personage, well known throughout the country for his benevolence. Assistance is never withheld from the worthy seeker by Monsieur Eugène. Day and night he is always ready to give advice or succor to the unfortunate, and one can enter his house without going through the form of knocking. A welcome is always certain and the latch-string is never within.

Without ceremony, therefore, L’Ours enters the cottage, and advancing to a couch gently places his burden on the counterpane. A crowd of curious people has followed and now enters in procession. Bruno’s eyes and cheeks are ghastly with blood and his lips are set and colorless. As he lies motionless upon the bed Jean Manant (L’Ours) begins to feel his hands and limbs with anxious haste.

“Nothing broken here,” he remarks, stroking the unfortunate’s left leg. “Nor there, nor there,” he continues, probing Bruno’s arms and chest. Large beads of perspiration stand on his forehead and tears fall from his eyes like rain.

Monsieur Eugène arrives at this moment.

“What is the matter?” he inquires solicitously.

Jean makes no reply, and Brigitte Martinet and Félicité Mafflu proceed in discordant concert to relate the adventure. As both speak at once and each has a different version to tell, Eugène is unable to understand a word. So calling Catherine, who is lingering near the door, he says: “Madame Barrau, will you have the kindness to explain the situation? Come, Brigitte, let Madame speak.”

Catherine comes forward. All are surprised at her lack of emotion. In a few words she tells Monsieur Eugène all the circumstances: how Bruno rushed to the child’s rescue, and how Jean bravely fought his way to Bruno’s prostrate body and carried him here.

“Remarkable!” exclaims Monsieur in cheerful tones. “And now, good people, do me the favor to wait outside in the yard until we see what can be done. Too many here will be an inconvenience, but one or two of you may stay to assist.”

Catherine and Sidonie, the little cripple, remain, but the others file slowly out into the yard. As she is leaving an old peasant woman is motioned to remain. She is a nonentity, but a woman who will follow Monsieur Eugène’s directions to the letter without a quiver of the eyelids or the lips. Nothing astonishes her, for she is like an iceberg—immovable and unfathomable. In the village there are people who declare she never speaks. Jeannille Marselon is a curiosity to the villagers, who years since have ceased trying to thaw out this living icicle.

CHAPTER V.
SIDONIE.

Scarcely had the door closed upon the crowd when Monsieur Eugène threw off his coat, and bending over Bruno’s prostrate form said:

“First let us see if there is life.”

With these words he rested his head on Bruno’s chest. Jean Manant could hardly breathe, so deep was his dread of the possible truth; while poor little Sidonie was choked with anguish. After a moment of cruel suspense Eugène raised his head sadly, as if to regain his breath, and then once more inclined his ear.

Jean Manant and Sidonie were in despair. Catherine alone remained calm and collected. A few more moments of suspense passed, and then with a little cry Monsieur Eugène sprang up.

“He is living. His heart is beating, though faintly,” said he. “Wait!”

He immediately selected a lance from an unpretentious little surgeon’s case near by and summoned the three women to help him.

“Here, Jeannille,” he quickly called, “support Bruno’s head and shoulders—like that. And you, Madame Barrau, will you kindly hold his wrist firmly? You are not easily frightened, are you? I am going to bleed him.”

“All right,” answered Catherine, without a sign of flinching, as she seized his wrist, but poor Sidonie was trembling like an aspen-leaf.

Under the lance the vein was opened and there spurted out a stream of blood, the sight of which nearly distracted the little lame girl.

“Good! good!” said Monsieur Eugène, with a smile.

“Is he saved?” asked Jean in a trembling whisper.

“At all events, the chances are in his favor.”

“But those cattle must have crushed his bones,” insisted Manant, who was still possessed by a horrible doubt.

“Jean, my boy, it is a miracle; but, barring more or less severe contusions, Bruno has escaped.”

Still incredulous, Jean regarded Monsieur Eugène steadily for half a minute as if to read the truth in the latter’s face. Calmly Eugène returned his gaze and soon Jean’s doubts vanished, for a sigh fell from Bruno’s lips.

A great joy illumined Manant’s face and Sidonie lifted her eyes in prayer. Old Jeannille sat unmoved and impenetrable. Catherine looked at the young man a little curiously. He seemed too slender and delicate a fellow to be so daring. His white arm was like a woman’s. Indeed, what woman in St. Benoit could not boast of more muscle than he? And his slender wrist inspired a sort of pity in her breast.

“Poor fellow!” she murmured to herself, as she reflected how ardently, though respectfully, Bruno loved her—not daring to confess it.

Poor fellow, indeed!

Sidonie gazed upon his shapely form in mute admiration. How perfect he seemed to her. How noble and graceful. Ah! could he but learn to love her!

Bruno moved gently. Another sigh—a deeper one than before—came from his lips. Monsieur Eugène was bathing his wounds with arnica and bandaging them. Bruno’s long-fringed drooping eyelids feebly opened, and he slowly looked around him.

Catherine affected an air of cool indifference, but Sidonie wore a look of absolute devotion. Bruno abruptly changed his gaze from the lame girl’s enraptured face to Madame Barrau’s, and his own became radiant for a moment. A bit of color crept into his cheeks. Catherine continued to hold his wrist while the vein was bleeding, and the contact of her soft hand sent a delicious magnetic thrill through his body.

“Thank you, Madame Catherine,” he murmured—hardly above a whisper—and then, with a smile on his lips, he again fainted away.

Catherine also smiled, but in a spirit of triumph, and Jeannille turned upon her a look of such frigidity that the gamekeeper’s wife, blushing and disconcerted, asked if the operation was not nearly over.

“A moment more; but if you are tired Jean will relieve you,” answered Monsieur Eugène. Jean Manant did not require a second bidding. With a delicacy that was wonderful in so clumsy a man, he took Bruno’s arm in his hands. In a few minutes Bruno returned to consciousness.

“Where do you suffer?” asked Monsieur Eugène.

“I am not in pain,” said Bruno, his eyes riveted on Catherine’s face. Just then the door slammed.

“Who’s there?” shouted Eugène, impatiently.

“It is I, Monsieur,” answered the awkward Firmin, as he entered.

“What do you want? Didn’t they tell you I was engaged and did not wish to be disturbed?”

“But important business brings me.”

“Well, well, speak quickly.”

“I wish to ask Monsieur my rights.”

“In what respect?”

“Monsieur knows of the stampede. Well, I had just bought a pair of oxen from Carassol, who lives at Bocasse, but they had not been surrendered to me when the stampede commenced.”

“Well?”

“Well, they did like all the rest. They ran away.”

“Ah! And Carassol claims that the transaction was concluded in good faith and that he is not responsible for the oxen?”