Une Vie, A Piece of String and Other Stories

The weather was most distressing. It had rained all night. The roaring

of the overflowing gutters filled the deserted streets, in which the

houses, like sponges, absorbed the humidity, which penetrating to the

interior, made the walls sweat from cellar to garret. Jeanne had left

the convent the day before, free for all time, ready to seize all the

joys of life, of which she had dreamed so long. She was afraid her

father would not set out for the new home in bad weather, and for the

hundredth time since daybreak she examined the horizon. Then she

noticed that she had omitted to put her calendar in her travelling

bag. She took from the wall the little card which bore in golden

figures the date of the current year, 1819. Then she marked with a

pencil the first four columns, drawing a line through the name of each

saint up to the 2d of May, the day that she left the convent. A voice

outside the door called "Jeannette." Jeanne replied, "Come in, papa."

And her father entered. Baron Simon-Jacques Le Perthuis des Vauds was

a gentleman of the last century, eccentric and good. An enthusiastic

disciple of Jean Jacques Rousseau, he had the tenderness of a lover

for nature, in the fields, in the woods and in the animals. Of

aristocratic birth, he hated instinctively the year 1793, but being a

philosopher by temperament and liberal by education, he execrated

tyranny with an inoffensive and declamatory hatred. His great strength

and his great weakness was his kind-heartedness, which had not arms

enough to caress, to give, to embrace; the benevolence of a god, that

gave freely, without questioning; in a word, a kindness of inertia

that became almost a vice. A man of theory, he thought out a plan of

education for his daughter, to the end that she might become happy,

good, upright and gentle. She had lived at home until the age of

twelve, when, despite the tears of her mother, she was placed in the

Convent of the Sacred Heart. He had kept her severely secluded,

cloistered, in ignorance of the secrets of life. He wished the Sisters

to restore her to him pure at seventeen years of age, so that he might

imbue her mind with a sort of rational poetry, and by means of the

fields, in the midst of the fruitful earth, unfold her soul, enlighten

her ignorance through the aspect of love in nature, through the simple

tenderness of the animals, through the placid laws of existence. She

was leaving the convent radiant, full of the joy of life, ready for

all the happiness, all the charming incidents which her mind had

pictured in her idle hours and in the long, quiet nights. She was like

a portrait by Veronese with her fair, glossy hair, which seemed to

cast a radiance on her skin, a skin with the faintest tinge of pink,

softened by a light velvety down which could be perceived when the sun

kissed her cheek. Her eyes were an opaque blue, like those of Dutch

porcelain figures. She had a tiny mole on her left nostril and another

on the right of her chin. She was tall, well developed, with willowy

figure. Her clear voice sounded at times a little too sharp, but her

frank, sincere laugh spread joy around her. Often, with a familiar

gesture, she would raise her hands to her temples as if to arrange her

hair.

She ran to her father and embraced him warmly. "Well, are we going to

start?" she said. He smiled, shook his head and said, pointing toward

the window, "How can we travel in such weather?" But she implored in a

cajoling and tender manner, "Oh, papa, do let us start. It will clear

up in the afternoon." "But your mother will never consent to it."

"Yes, I promise you that she will, I will arrange that." "If you

succeed in persuading your mother, I am perfectly willing." In a few

moments she returned from her mother's room, shouting in a voice that

could be heard all through the house, "Papa, papa, mamma is willing.

Have the horses harnessed." The rain was not abating; one might almost

have said that it was raining harder when the carriage drove up to the

door. Jeanne was ready to step in when the baroness came downstairs,

supported on one side by her husband and on the other by a tall

housemaid, strong and strapping as a boy. She was a Norman woman of

the country of Caux, who looked at least twenty, although she was but

eighteen at the most. She was treated by the family as a second

daughter, for she was Jeanne's foster sister. Her name was Rosalie,

and her chief duty lay in guiding the steps of her mistress, who had

grown enormous in the last few years and also had an affection of the

heart, which kept her complaining continually. The baroness, gasping

from over-exertion, finally reached the doorstep of the old residence,

looked at the court where the water was streaming and remarked: "It

really is not wise." Her husband, always pleasant, replied: "It was

you who desired it, Madame Adelaide." He always preceded her pompous

name of Adelaide with the title madame with an air of half respectful

mockery. Madame mounted with difficulty into the carriage, causing all

the springs to bend. The baron sat beside her, while Jeanne and

Rosalie were seated opposite, with their backs to the horses.

Ludivine, the cook, brought a heap of wraps to put over their knees

and two baskets, which were placed under the seats; then she climbed

on the box beside Father Simon, wrapping herself in a great rug which

covered her completely. The porter and his wife came to bid them

good-by as they closed the carriage door, taking the last orders about

the trunks, which were to follow in a wagon. So they started. Father

Simon, the coachman, with head bowed and back bent in the pouring

rain, was completely covered by his box coat with its triple cape. The

howling storm beat upon the carriage windows and inundated the

highway.

They drove rapidly to the wharf and continued alongside the line of

tall-masted vessels until they reached the boulevard of Mont Riboudet.

Then they crossed the meadows, where from time to time a drowned

willow, its branches drooping limply, could be faintly distinguished

through the mist of rain. No one spoke. Their minds themselves seemed

to be saturated with moisture like the earth.

The baroness leaned her head against the cushions and closed her eyes.

The baron looked out with mournful eyes at the monotonous and drenched

landscape. Rosalie, with a parcel on her knee, was dreaming in the

dull reverie of a peasant. But Jeanne, under this downpour, felt

herself revive like a plant that has been shut up and has just been

restored to the air, and so great was her joy that, like foliage, it

sheltered her heart from sadness. Although she did not speak, she

longed to burst out singing, to reach out her hands to catch the rain

that she might drink it. She enjoyed to the full being carried along

rapidly by the horses, enjoyed gazing at the desolate landscape and

feeling herself under shelter amid this general inundation. Beneath

the pelting rain the gleaming backs of the two horses emitted a warm

steam.

Little by little the baroness fell asleep, and presently began to

snore sonorously. Her husband leaned over and placed in her hands a

little leather pocketbook.

This awakened her, and she looked at the pocket-book with the stupid,

sleepy look of one suddenly aroused. It fell off her lap and sprang

open and gold and bank bills were scattered on the floor of the

carriage. This roused her completely, and Jeanne gave vent to her

mirth in a merry peal of girlish laughter.

The baron picked up the money and placed it on her knees. "This, my

dear," he said, "is all that is left of my farm at Eletot. I have sold

it--so as to be able to repair the 'Poplars,' where we shall often

live in the future."

She counted six thousand four hundred francs and quietly put them in

her pocket. This was the ninth of thirty-one farms that they had

inherited which they had sold in this way. Nevertheless they still

possessed about twenty thousand livres income annually in land

rentals, which, with proper care, would have yielded about thirty

thousand francs a year.

Living simply as they did, this income would have sufficed had there

not been a bottomless hole always open in their house--kind-hearted

generosity. It dried up the money in their hands as the sun dries the

water in marshes. It flowed, fled, disappeared. How? No one knew.

Frequently one would say to the other, "I don't know how it happens,

but I have spent one hundred francs to-day, and I have bought nothing

of any consequence." This faculty of giving was, however, one of the

greatest pleasures of their life, and they all agreed on this point in

a superb and touching manner.

Jeanne asked her father, "Is it beautiful now, my castle?" The baron

replied, "You shall see, my little girl."

The storm began to abate. The vault of clouds seemed to rise and

heighten and suddenly, through a rift, a long ray of sunshine fell

upon the fields, and presently the clouds separated, showing the blue

firmament, and then, like the tearing of a veil, the opening grew

larger and the beautiful azure sky, clear and fathomless, spread over

the world. A fresh and gentle breeze passed over the earth like a

happy sigh, and as they passed beside gardens or woods they heard

occasionally the bright chirp of a bird as he dried his wings.

Evening was approaching. Everyone in the carriage was asleep except

Jeanne. They stopped to rest and feed the horses. The sun had set. In

the distance bells were heard. They passed a little village as the

inhabitants were lighting their lamps, and the sky became also

illuminated by myriads of stars. Suddenly they saw behind a hill,

through the branches of the fir trees, the moon rising, red and full

as if it were torpid with sleep.

The air was so soft that the windows were not closed. Jeanne,

exhausted with dreams and happy visions, was now asleep. Finally they

stopped. Some men and women were standing before the carriage door

with lanterns in their hands. They had arrived. Jeanne, suddenly

awakened, was the first to jump out. Her father and Rosalie had

practically to carry the baroness, who was groaning and continually

repeating in a weak little voice, "Oh, my God, my poor children!" She

refused all offers of refreshment, but went to bed and immediately

fell asleep.

Jeanne and her father, the baron, took supper together. They were in

perfect sympathy with each other. Later, seized with a childish joy,

they started on a tour of inspection through the restored manor. It

was one of those high and vast Norman residences that comprise both

farmhouse and castle, built of white stone which had turned gray,

large enough to contain a whole race of people.

An immense hall divided the house from front to rear and a staircase

went up at either side of the entrance, meeting in a bridge on the

first floor. The huge drawing-room was on the ground floor to the

right and was hung with tapestries representing birds and foliage. All

the furniture was covered with fine needlework tapestry illustrating

La Fontaine's fables, and Jeanne was delighted at finding a chair she

had loved as a child, which pictured the story of "The Fox and the

Stork."

Beside the drawing-room were the library, full of old books, and two

unused rooms; at the left was the dining-room, the laundry, the

kitchen, etc.

A corridor divided the whole first floor, the doors of ten rooms

opening into it. At the end, on the right, was Jeanne's room. She and

her father went in. He had had it all newly done over, using the

furniture and draperies that had been in the storeroom.

There were some very old Flemish tapestries, with their peculiar

looking figures. At sight of her bed, the young girl uttered a scream

of joy. Four large birds carved in oak, black from age and highly

polished, bore up the bed and seemed to be its protectors. On the

sides were carved two wide garlands of flowers and fruit, and four

finely fluted columns, terminating in Corinthian capitals, supported a

cornice of cupids with roses intertwined. The tester and the coverlet

were of antique blue silk, embroidered in gold fleur de lys. When

Jeanne had sufficiently admired it, she lifted up the candle to

examine the tapestries and the allegories they represented. They were

mostly conventional subjects, but the last hanging represented a

drama. Near a rabbit, which was still nibbling, a young man lay

stretched out, apparently dead. A young girl, gazing at him, was

plunging a sword into her bosom, and the fruit of the tree had turned

black. Jeanne gave up trying to divine the meaning underlying this

picture, when she saw in the corner a tiny little animal which the

rabbit, had he lived, could have swallowed like a blade of grass; and

yet it was a lion. Then she recognized the story of "Pyramus and

Thisbe," and though she smiled at the simplicity of the design, she

felt happy to have in her room this love adventure which would

continually speak to her of her cherished hopes, and every night this

legendary love would hover about her dreams.

It struck eleven and the baron kissed Jeanne goodnight and retired to

his room. Before retiring, Jeanne cast a last glance round her room

and then regretfully extinguished the candle. Through her window she

could see the bright moonlight bathing the trees and the wonderful

landscape. Presently she arose, opened a window and looked out. The

night was so clear that one could see as plainly as by daylight. She

looked across the park with its two long avenues of very tall poplars

that gave its name to the chateau and separated it from the two farms

that belonged to it, one occupied by the Couillard family, the other

by the Martins. Beyond the enclosure stretched a long, uncultivated

plain, thickly overgrown with rushes, where the breeze whistled day

and night. The land ended abruptly in a steep white cliff three

hundred feet high, with its base in the ocean waves.

Jeanne looked out over the long, undulating surface that seemed to

slumber beneath the heavens. All the fragrance of the earth was in the

night air. The odor of jasmine rose from the lower windows, and light

whiffs of briny air and of seaweed were wafted from the ocean.

Merely to breathe was enough for Jeanne, and the restful calm of the

country was like a soothing bath. She felt as though her heart was

expanding and she began dreaming of love. What was it? She did not

know. She only knew that she would adore him with all her soul

and that he would cherish her with all his strength. They would walk

hand in hand on nights like this, hearing the beating of their hearts,

mingling their love with the sweet simplicity of the summer nights in

such close communion of thought that by the sole power of their

tenderness they would easily penetrate each other's most secret

thoughts. This would continue forever in the calm of an enduring

affection. It seemed to her that she felt him there beside her.

And an unusual sensation came over her. She remained long musing thus,

when suddenly she thought she heard a footstep behind the house. "If

it were he." But it passed on and she felt as if she had been

deceived. The air became cooler. The day broke. Slowly bursting aside

the gleaming clouds, touching with fire the trees, the plains, the

ocean, all the horizon, the great flaming orb of the sun appeared.

Jeanne felt herself becoming mad with happiness. A delirious joy,

an infinite tenderness at the splendor of nature overcame her

fluttering heart. It was her sun, her dawn! The beginning

of her life! Thoroughly fatigued at last, she flung herself down

and slept till her father called her at eight o'clock. He walked into

the room and proposed to show her the improvements of the castle, of

her castle. The road, called the parish road, connecting the

farms, joined the high road between Havre and Fécamp, a mile and a

half further on.

Jeanne and the baron inspected everything and returned home for

breakfast. When the meal was over, as the baroness had decided that

she would rest, the baron proposed to Jeanne that they should go down

to Yport. They started, and passing through the hamlet of Etouvent,

where the poplars were, and going through the wooded slope by a

winding valley leading down to the sea, they presently perceived the

village of Yport. Women sat in their doorways mending linen; brown

fish-nets were hanging against the doors of the huts, where an entire

family lived in one room. It was a typical little French fishing

village, with all its concomitant odors. To Jeanne it was all like a

scene in a play. On turning a corner they saw before them the

limitless blue ocean. They bought a brill from a fisherman and another

sailor offered to take them out sailing, repeating his name,

"Lastique, Joséphin Lastique," several times, that they might not

forget it, and the baron promised to remember. They walked home,

chattering like two children, carrying the big fish between them,

Jeanne having pushed her father's walking cane through its gills.

A delightful life commenced for Jeanne, a life in the open air. She

wandered along the roads, or into the little winding valleys, their

sides covered with a fleece of gorse blossoms, the strong sweet odor

of which intoxicated her like the bouquet of wine, while the distant

sound of the waves rolling on the beach seemed like a billow rocking

her spirit.

A love of solitude came upon her in the sweet freshness of this

landscape and in the calm of the rounded horizon, and she would remain

sitting so long on the hill tops that the wild rabbits would bound by

her feet.

She planted memories everywhere, as seeds are cast upon the earth,

memories whose roots hold till death. It seemed to Jeanne that she was

casting a little of her heart into every fold of these valleys. She

became infatuated with sea bathing. When she was well out from shore,

she would float on her back, her arms crossed, her eyes lost in the

profound blue of the sky which was cleft by the flight of a swallow,

or the white silhouette of a seabird.

After these excursions she invariably came back to the castle pale

with hunger, but light, alert, a smile on her lips and her eyes

sparkling with happiness.

The baron on his part was planning great agricultural enterprises.

Occasionally, also, he went out to sea with the sailors of Yport. On

several occasions he went fishing for mackerel and, again, by

moonlight, he would haul in the nets laid the night before. He loved

to hear the masts creak, to breathe in the fresh and whistling gusts

of wind that arose during the night; and after having tacked a long

time to find the buoys, guiding himself by a peak of rocks, the roof

of a belfry or the Fécamp lighthouse, he delighted to remain

motionless beneath the first gleams of the rising sun which made the

slimy backs of the large fan-shaped rays and the fat bellies of the

turbots glisten on the deck of the boat.

At each meal he gave an enthusiastic account of his expeditions, and

the baroness in her turn told how many times she had walked down the

main avenue of poplars.

As she had been advised to take exercise she made a business of

walking, beginning as soon as the air grew warm. Leaning upon

Rosalie's arm and dragging her left foot, which was rather heavier

than the right, she wandered interminably up and down from the house

to the edge of the wood, sitting down for five minutes at either end.

The walking was resumed in the afternoon. A physician, consulted ten

years before, had spoken of hypertrophy because she had suffered from

suffocation. Ever since, this word had been used to describe the

ailment of the baroness. The baron would say "my wife's hypertrophy"

and Jeanne "mamma's hypertrophy" as they would have spoken of her hat,

her dress, or her umbrella. She had been very pretty in her youth and

slim as a reed. Now she had grown older, stouter, but she still

remained poetical, having always retained the impression of "Corinne,"

which she had read as a girl. She read all the sentimental love

stories it was possible to collect, and her thoughts wandered among

tender adventures in which she always figured as the heroine. Her new

home was infinitely pleasing to her because it formed such a beautiful

framework for the romance of her soul, the surrounding woods, the

waste land, and the proximity of the ocean recalling to her mind the

novels of Sir Walter Scott, which she had been devouring for some

months. On rainy days she remained shut up in her room, sending

Rosalie in a special manner for the drawer containing her "souvenirs,"

which meant to the baroness all her old private and family letters.

Occasionally, Jeanne replaced Rosalie in the walks with her mother,

and she listened eagerly to the tales of the latter's childhood. The

young girl saw herself in all these romantic stories, and was

astonished at the similarity of ideas and desires; each heart imagines

itself to have been the first to tremble at those very sensations that

awakened the hearts of the first beings, and that will awaken the

hearts of the last.

One afternoon as the baroness and Jeanne were resting on the beach at

the end of the walk, a stout priest who was moving in their direction

greeted them with a bow, while still at a distance. He bowed when

within three feet and, assuming a smiling air, cried: "Well, Madame la

Baronne, how are you?" It was the village priest. The baroness seldom

went to church, though she liked priests, from a sort of religious

instinct peculiar to women. She had, in fact, entirely forgotten the

Abbé Picot, her priest, and blushed as she saw him. She made apologies

for not having prepared for his visit, but the good man was not at all

embarrassed. He looked at Jeanne, complimented her on her appearance

and sat down, placing his three-cornered hat on his knees. He was very

stout, very red, and perspired profusely. He drew from his pocket

every moment an enormous checked handkerchief and passed it over his

face and neck, but hardly was the task completed when necessity forced

him to repeat the process. He was a typical country priest, talkative

and kindly.

Presently the baron appeared. He was very friendly to the abbé and

invited him to dinner. The priest was well versed in the art of being

pleasant, thanks to the unconscious astuteness which the guiding of

souls gives to the most mediocre of men who are called by the chance

of events to exercise a power over their fellows. Toward dessert he

became quite merry, with the gaiety that follows a pleasant meal, and

as if struck by an idea he said: "I have a new parishioner whom I must

present to you, Monsieur le Vicomte de Lamare." The baroness, who was

at home in heraldry, inquired if he was of the family of Lamares of

Eure. The priest answered, "Yes, madame, he is the son of Vicomte Jean

de Lamare, who died last year." After this, the baroness, who loved

the nobility above all other things, inquired the history of the young

vicomte. He had paid his father's debts, sold the family castle, made

his home on one of the three farms which he owned in the town of

Etouvent. These estates brought him in an income of five or six

thousand livres. The vicomte was economical and lived in this modest

manner for two or three years, so that he might save enough to cut a

figure in society, and to marry advantageously, without contracting

debts or mortgaging his farms. The priest added, "He is a very

charming young man, so steady and quiet, though there is very little

to amuse him in the country." The baron said, "Bring him in to see us,

Monsieur l'Abbé, it will be a distraction for him occasionally." After

the coffee the baron and the priest took a turn about the grounds and

then returned to say good-night to the ladies.

The following Sunday the baroness and Jeanne went to mass, prompted by

a feeling of respect for their pastor, and after service waited to see

the priest and invite him to luncheon the following Thursday. He came

out of the sacristy leaning familiarly on the arm of a tall young man.

As soon as he perceived the ladies, he exclaimed:

"How fortunate! Allow me, baroness and Mlle. Jeanne, to present to you

your neighbor, M. le Vicomte de Lamare."

The vicomte said he had long desired to make their acquaintance, and

began to converse in a well-bred manner. He had a face of which women

dream and that men dislike. His black, wavy hair shaded a smooth,

sunburnt forehead, and two large straight eyebrows, that looked almost

artificial, cast a deep and tender shadow over his dark eyes, the

whites of which had a bluish tinge.

His long, thick eyelashes accentuated the passionate eloquence of his

expression which wrought havoc in the drawing-rooms of society, and

made peasant girls carrying baskets turn round to look at him. The

languorous fascination of his glance impressed one with the depth of

his thoughts and lent weight to his slightest words. His beard, fine

and glossy, concealed a somewhat heavy jaw.

Two days later, M. de Lamare made his first call, just as they were

discussing the best place for a new rustic bench. The vicomte was

consulted and agreed with the baroness, who differed from her husband.

M. de Lamare expatiated on the picturesqueness of the country and from

time to time, as if by chance, his eyes met those of Jeanne, and she

felt a strange sensation at the quickly averted glance which betrayed

tender admiration and an awakened sympathy.

M. de Lamare's father, who had died the preceding year, had known an

intimate friend of the baroness's father, M. Cultaux, and this fact

led to an endless conversation about family, relations, dates, etc.,

and names heard in her childhood were recalled, and led to

reminiscences.

The baron, whose nature was rather uncultivated, and whose beliefs and

prejudices were not those of his class, knew little about the

neighboring families, and inquired about them from the vicomte, who

responded:

"Oh, there are very few of the nobility in the district," just as he

might have said, "there are very few rabbits on the hills," and he

began to particularize: There was the Marquis de Coutelier, a sort of

leader of Norman aristocracy, Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Briseville,

people of excellent stock, but living to themselves, and the Comte de

Fourville, a kind of ogre, who was said to have made his wife die of

sorrow, and who lived as a huntsman in his chateau of La Vrillette,

built on a pond. There were a few parvenus among them who had bought

properties here and there, but the vicomte did not know them.

As he left, his last glance was for Jeanne, as if it were a special

tender and cordial farewell. The baroness was delighted with him, and

the baron said: "Yes, indeed, he is a gentleman." And he was invited

to dinner the following week, and from that time came regularly.

He generally arrived about four o'clock in the afternoon, went to join

the baroness in "her avenue," and offered her his arm while she took

her "exercise," as she called her daily walks. When Jeanne was at home

she would walk on the other side of her mother, supporting her, and

all three would walk slowly back and forth from one end of the avenue

to the other. He seldom addressed Jeanne directly, but his eye

frequently met hers.

He went to Yport several times with Jeanne and the baron. One evening,

when they were on the beach, Père Lastique accosted him, and without

removing his pipe, the absence of which would possibly have been more

remarkable than the loss of his nose, he said:

"With this wind, m'sieu le baron, we could easily go to étretat and

back to-morrow."

Jeanne clasped her hands imploringly:

"Oh, papa, let us do it!"

The baron turned to M. de Lamare:

"Will you join us, vicomte? We can take breakfast down there."

And the matter was decided at once. From daybreak Jeanne was up and

waiting for her father, who dressed more slowly. They walked in the

dew across the level and then through the wood vibrant with the

singing of birds. The vicomte and Père Lastique were seated on a

capstan.

Two other sailors helped to shove off the boat from shore, which was

not easy on the shingly beach. Once the boat was afloat, they all took

their seats, and the two sailors who remained on shore shoved it off.

A light, steady breeze was blowing from the ocean and they hoisted the

sail, veered a little, and then sailed along smoothly with scarcely

any motion. To landward the high cliff at the right cast a shadow on

the water at its base, and patches of sunlit grass here and there

varied its monotonous whiteness. Yonder, behind them, brown sails were

coming out of the white harbor of Fécamp, and ahead of them they saw a

rock of curious shape, rounded, with gaps in it looking something like

an immense elephant with its trunk in the water; it was the little

port of étretat.

Jeanne, a little dizzy from the motion of the waves, held the side of

the boat with one hand as she looked out into the distance. It seemed

to her as if only three things in the world were really beautiful:

light, space, water.

No one spoke. Père Lastique, who was at the tiller, took a pull every

now and then from a bottle hidden under the seat; and he smoked a

short pipe which seemed inextinguishable, although he never seemed to

relight it or refill it.

The baron, seated in the bow looked after the sail. Jeanne and the

vicomte seemed a little embarrassed at being seated side by side. Some

unknown power seemed to make their glances meet whenever they raised

their eyes; between them there existed already that subtle and vague

sympathy which arises so rapidly between two young people when the

young man is good looking and the girl is pretty. They were happy in

each other's society, perhaps because they were thinking of each

other. The rising sun was beginning to pierce through the slight mist,

and as its beams grew stronger, they were reflected on the smooth

surface of the sea as in a mirror.

"How beautiful!" murmured Jeanne, with emotion.

"Beautiful indeed!" answered the vicomte. The serene beauty of the

morning awakened an echo in their hearts.

And all at once they saw the great arches of étretat, like two

supports of a cliff standing in the sea high enough for vessels to

pass under them; while a sharp-pointed white rock rose in front of the

first arch. They reached shore, and the baron got out first to make

fast the boat, while the vicomte lifted Jeanne ashore so that she

should not wet her feet. Then they walked up the shingly beach side by

side, and they overheard Père Lastique say to the baron, "My! but they

would make a pretty couple!"

They took breakfast in a little inn near the beach, and while the

ocean had lulled their thoughts and made them silent, the breakfast

table had the opposite effect, and they chattered like children on a

vacation. The slightest thing gave rise to laughter.

Père Lastique, on taking his place at table, carefully hid his lighted

pipe in his cap. That made them laugh. A fly, attracted no doubt by

his red nose, persistently alighted on it, and each time it did so

they burst into laughter. Finally the old man could stand it no

longer, and murmured: "It is devilishly persistent!" whereupon Jeanne

and the vicomte laughed till they cried.

After breakfast Jeanne suggested that they should take a walk. The

vicomte rose, but the baron preferred to bask in the sun on the beach.

"Go on, my children, you will find me here in an hour."

They walked straight ahead of them, passing by several cottages and

finally by a small chateau resembling a large farm, and found

themselves in an open valley that extended for some distance. They now

had a wild longing to run at large in the fields. Jeanne seemed to

have a humming in her ears from all the new and rapidly changing

sensations she had experienced. The burning rays of the sun fell on

them. On both sides of the road the crops were bending over from the

heat. The grasshoppers, as numerous as the blades of grass, were

uttering their thin, shrill cry.

Perceiving a wood a little further on to the right, they walked over

to it. They saw a narrow path between two hedges shaded by tall trees

which shut out the sun. A sort of moist freshness in the air was

perceptible, giving them a sensation of chilliness. There was no

grass, owing to the lack of sunlight, but the ground was covered with

a carpet of moss.

"See, we can sit down there a little while," she said.

They sat down and looked about them at the numerous forms of life that

were in the air and on the ground at their feet, for a ray of sunlight

penetrating the dense foliage brought them into its light.

"How beautiful it is here! How lovely it is in the country! There are

moments when I should like to be a fly or a butterfly and hide in the

flowers," said Jeanne with emotion.

They spoke in low tones as one does in exchanging confidences, telling

of their daily lives and of their tastes, and declaring that they were

already disgusted with the world, tired of its useless monotony; it

was always the same thing; there was no truth, no sincerity in it.

The world! She would gladly have made its acquaintance; but she felt

convinced beforehand that it was not equal to a country life, and the

more their hearts seemed to be in sympathy, the more ceremonious they

became, the more frequently their glances met and blended smiling; and

it seemed that a new feeling of benevolence was awakened in them, a

wider affection, an interest in a thousand things of which they had

never hitherto thought.

They wended their way back, but the baron had already set off on foot

for the Chambre aux Demoiselles, a grotto in a cleft at the summit of

one of the cliffs, and they waited for him at the inn. He did not

return until five in the evening after a long walk along the cliffs.

They got into the boat, started off smoothly with the wind at their

backs, scarcely seeming to make any headway. The breeze was irregular,

at one moment filling the sail and then letting it flap idly along the

mast. The sea seemed opaque and lifeless, and the sun was slowly

approaching the horizon. The lulling motion of the sea had made them

silent again. Presently Jeanne said, "How I should love to travel!"

"Yes, but it is tiresome to travel alone; there should be at least

two, to exchange ideas," answered the vicomte. She reflected a moment.

"That is true--I like to walk alone, however--how pleasant it is to

dream all alone----"

He gazed at her intently.

"Two can dream as well as one."

She lowered her eyes. Was it a hint? Possibly. She looked out at the

horizon as if to discover something beyond it, and then said slowly:

"I should like to go to Italy--and Greece--ah, yes, Greece--and to

Corsica--it must be so wild and so beautiful!"

He preferred Switzerland on account of its chalets and its lakes.

"No," said she, "I like new countries like Corsica, or very old

countries full of souvenirs, like Greece. It must be delightful to

find the traces of those peoples whose history we have known since

childhood, to see places where great deeds were accomplished."

The vicomte, less enthusiastic, exclaimed: "As for me, England

attracts me very much; there is so much to be learned there."

Then they talked about the world in general, discussing the

attractions of each country from the poles to the equator, enthusing

over imaginary scenes and the peculiar manners of certain peoples like

the Chinese and the Lapps; but they arrived at the conclusion that the

most beautiful country in the world was France, with its temperate

climate, cool in summer, mild in winter, its rich soil, its green

forests, its worship of the fine arts which existed nowhere else since

the glorious centuries of Athens. Then they were silent. The setting

sun left a wide dazzling train of light which extended from the

horizon to the edge of their boat. The wind subsided, the ripples

disappeared, and the motionless sail was red in the light of the dying

day. A limitless calm seemed to settle down on space and make a

silence amid this conjunction of elements; and by degrees the sun

slowly sank into the ocean.

Then a fresh breeze seemed to arise, a little shiver went over the

surface of the water, as if the engulfed orb cast a sigh of

satisfaction across the world. The twilight was short, night fell with

its myriad stars. Père Lastique took the oars, and they saw that the

sea was phosphorescent. Jeanne and the vicomte, side by side, watched

the fitful gleams in the wake of the boat. They were hardly thinking,

but simply gazing vaguely, breathing in the beauty of the evening in a

state of delicious contentment; Jeanne had one hand on the seat and

her neighbor's finger touched it as if by accident; she did not move;

she was surprised, happy, though embarrassed at this slight contact.

When she reached home that evening and went to her room, she felt

strangely disturbed, and so affected that the slightest thing impelled

her to weep. She looked at her clock, imagining that the little bee on

the pendulum was beating like a heart, the heart of a friend; that it

was aware of her whole life, that with its quick, regular tickings it

would accompany her whole life; and she stopped the golden fly to

press a kiss on its wings. She would have kissed anything, no matter

what. She remembered having hidden one of her old dolls of former days

at the bottom of a drawer; she looked for it, took it out, and was

delighted to see it again, as people are to see loved friends; and

pressing it to her heart, she covered its painted cheeks and curly wig

with kisses. And as she held it in her arms, she thought:

Can he be the husband promised through a thousand secret

voices, whom a superlatively good Providence had thus thrown across

her path? Was he, indeed, the being created for her--the being to whom

she would devote her existence? Were they the two predestined beings

whose affection, blending in one, would beget love?

She did not as yet feel that tumultuous emotion, that mad enchantment,

those deep stirrings which she thought were essential to the tender

passion; but it seemed to her she was beginning to fall in love, for

she sometimes felt a sudden faintness when she thought of him, and she

thought of him incessantly. His presence stirred her heart; she

blushed and grew pale when their eyes met, and trembled at the sound

of his voice.

From day to day the longing for love increased. She consulted the

marguerites, the clouds, and coins which she tossed in the air.

One day her father said to her:

"Make yourself look pretty to-morrow morning."

"Why, papa?"

"That is a secret," he replied.

And when she came downstairs the following morning, looking fresh and

sweet in a pretty light dress, she found the drawing-room table

covered with boxes of bonbons, and on a chair an immense bouquet.

A covered wagon drove into the courtyard bearing the inscription,

"Lerat, Confectioner, Fécamp; Wedding Breakfasts," and from the back

of the wagon Ludivine and a kitchen helper were taking out large flat

baskets which emitted an appetizing odor.

The Vicomte de Lamare appeared on the scene, his trousers were

strapped down under his dainty boots of patent leather, which made his

feet appear smaller. His long frock coat, tight at the waist line, was

open at the bosom showing the lace of his ruffle, and a fine neckcloth

wound several times round his neck obliged him to hold erect his

handsome brown head, with its air of serious distinction. Jeanne, in

astonishment, looked at him as though she had never seen him before.

She thought he looked the grand seigneur from his head to his feet.

He bowed and said, smiling:

"Well, comrade, are you ready?"

"But what is it? What is going on?" she stammered.

"You will know presently," said the baron.

The carriage drove up to the door, and Madame Adelaide, in festal

array, descended the staircase, leaning on the arm of Rosalie, who was

so much affected at the sight of M. de Lamare's elegant appearance

that the baron whispered:

"I say, vicomte, I think our maid admires you."

The vicomte blushed up to his ears, pretended not to have heard and,

taking up the enormous bouquet, handed it to Jeanne. She accepted it,

more astonished than ever. They all four got into the carriage, and

Ludivine, who brought a cup of bouillon to the baroness to sustain her

strength, said: "Truly, madame, one would say it was a wedding!"

They alighted as soon as they entered Yport, and as they walked

through the village the sailors, in their new clothes, still showing

the creases, came out of their homes, and shaking hands with the

baron, followed the party as if it were a procession. The vicomte, who

had offered his arm to Jeanne, walked with her at the head.

When they reached the church they stopped, and an acolyte appeared

holding upright the large silver crucifix, followed by another boy in

red and white, who bore a chalice containing holy water.

Then came three old cantors, one of them limping; then the trumpet

("serpent"), and last, the curé with his gold embroidered stole. He

smiled and nodded a greeting; then, with his eyes half closed, his

lips moving in prayer, his beretta well over his forehead, he followed

his surpliced bodyguard, walking in the direction of the sea.

On the beach a crowd was standing around a new boat wreathed with

flowers. Its mast, sail and ropes were covered with long streamers of

ribbon that floated in the breeze, and the name, "Jeanne," was painted

in gold letters on the stern.

Père Lastique, the proprietor of this boat, built with the baron's

money, advanced to meet the procession. All the men, simultaneously,

took off their hats, and a row of pious persons wearing long black

cloaks falling in large folds from their shoulders, knelt down in a

circle at sight of the crucifix.

The curé walked, with an acolyte on either side of him, to one end of

the boat, while at the other end, the three old cantors, in their

white surplices, with a serious air and their eyes fixed on the

psalter, sang at the top of their voices in the clear morning air.

Each time they stopped to take breath, the "serpent" continued its

bellowing alone, and as he puffed out his cheeks the musician's little

gray eyes disappeared, and the skin of his forehead and neck seemed to

distend.

The motionless, transparent sea seemed to be taking part meditatively

in the baptism of this boat, rolling its tiny waves, no higher than a

finger, with the faint sound of a rake on the shingle. And the big

white gulls, with their wings unfurled, circled about in the blue

heavens, flying off and then coming back in a curve above the heads of

the kneeling crowd, as if to see what they were doing.

The singing ceased after an Amen that lasted five minutes; and the

priest, in an unctuous voice, murmured some Latin words, of which one

could hear only the sonorous endings. He then walked round the boat,

sprinkling it with holy water, and next began to murmur the "Oremus,"

standing alongside the boat opposite the sponsors, who remained

motionless, hand in hand.

The vicomte had the usual grave expression on his handsome face, but

Jeanne, choking with a sudden emotion, and on the verge of fainting,

began to tremble so violently that her teeth chattered. The dream that

had haunted her for some time was suddenly beginning, as if in a kind

of hallucination, to take the appearance of reality. They had spoken

of a wedding, a priest was present, blessing them; men in surplices

were singing psalms; was it not she whom they were giving in marriage?

Did her fingers send out an electric shock, did the emotion of her

heart follow the course of her veins until it reached the heart of her

companion? Did he understand, did he guess, was he, like herself,

pervaded by a sort of intoxication of love? Or else, did he know by

experience, alone, that no woman could resist him? She suddenly

noticed that he was squeezing her hand, gently at first, and then

tighter, tighter, till he almost crushed it. And without moving a

muscle of his face, without anyone perceiving it, he said--yes, he

certainly said:

"Oh, Jeanne, if you would consent, this would be our betrothal."

She lowered her head very slowly, perhaps meaning it for "yes." And

the priest, who was still sprinkling the holy water, sprinkled some on

their fingers.

The ceremony was over. The women rose. The return was unceremonious.

The crucifix had lost its dignity in the hands of the acolyte, who

walked rapidly, the crucifix swaying to right and left, or bending

forward as though it would fall. The priest, who was not praying now,

walked hurriedly behind them; the cantors and the musician with the

"serpent" had disappeared by a narrow street, so as to get off their

surplices without delay; and the sailors hurried along in groups. One

thought prompted their haste, and made their mouths water.

A good breakfast was awaiting them at "The Poplars."

The large table was set in the courtyard, under the apple trees.

Sixty people sat down to table, sailors and peasants. The baroness in

the middle, with a priest at either side of her, one from Yport, and

the other belonging to "The Poplars." The baron seated opposite her on

the other side of the table, the mayor on one side of him, and his

wife, a thin peasant woman, already aging, who kept smiling and bowing

to all around her, on the other.

Jeanne, seated beside her co-sponsor, was in a sea of happiness. She

saw nothing, knew nothing, and remained silent, her mind bewildered

with joy. Presently she said:

"What is your Christian name?"

"Julien," he replied. "Did you not know?"

But she made no reply, thinking to herself:

"How often I shall repeat that name!"

When the feast was over, the courtyard was given up to the sailors,

and the others went over to the other side of the chateau. The

baroness began to take her exercise, leaning on the arm of the baron

and accompanied by the two priests. Jeanne and Julien went toward the

wood and walked along one of the mossy paths. Suddenly seizing her

hands, the vicomte said:

"Tell me, will you be my wife?"

She lowered her head, and as he stammered: "Answer me, I implore you!"

she raised her eyes to his timidly, and he read his answer there.