Sons of the Soil

H >> Honore de Balzac >> Sons of the Soil


"Bah!" said Emile, "idle talk! They have been robbing the general, and
they will not be allowed to rob him any longer. These people are
furious, that's the whole of it. You must remember that the law and
the government are always strongest everywhere, even in Burgundy. In
case of an outbreak the general could bring a regiment of cavalry
here, if necessary."

The abbe made a sign to Madame Michaud from behind the countess,
telling her to say no more about her fears, which were doubtless the
effect of that second sight which true passion bestows. The soul,
dwelling exclusively on one only being, grasps in the end the moral
elements that surround it, and sees in them the makings of the future.
The woman who loves feels the same presentiments that later illuminate
her motherhood. Hence a certain melancholy, a certain inexplicable
sadness which surprises men, who are one and all distracted from any
such concentration of their souls by the cares of life and the
continual necessity for action. All true love becomes to a woman an
active contemplation, which is more or less lucid, more or less
profound, according to her nature.

"Come, my dear, show your home to Monsieur Emile," said the countess,
whose mind was so pre-occupied that she forgot La Pechina, who was the
ostensible object of her visit.

The interior of the restored pavilion was in keeping with its
exterior. On the ground-floor the old divisions had been replaced, and
the architect, sent from Paris with his own workmen (a cause of bitter
complaint in the neighborhood against the master of Les Aigues), had
made four rooms out of the space. First, an ante-chamber, at the
farther end of which was a winding wooden staircase, behind which came
the kitchen; on either side of the antechamber was a dining-room and a
parlor panelled in oak now nearly black, with armorial bearings in the
divisions of the ceilings. The architect chosen by Madame de
Montcornet for the restoration of Les Aigues had taken care to put the
furniture of this room in keeping with its original decoration.

At the time of which we write fashion had not yet given an exaggerated
value to the relics of past ages. The carved settee, the high-backed
chairs covered with tapestry, the consoles, the clocks, the tall
embroidery frames, the tables, the lustres, hidden away in the
second-hand shops of Auxerre and Ville-aux-Fayes were fifty per-cent
cheaper than the modern, ready-made furniture of the faubourg Saint
Antoine. The architect had therefore bought two or three cartloads of
well-chosen old things, which, added to a few others discarded at the
chateau, made the little salon of the gate of the Avonne an artistic
creation. As to the dining-room, he painted it in browns and hung it
with what was called a Scotch paper, and Madame Michaud added white
cambric curtains with green borders at the windows, mahogany chairs
covered with green cloth, two large buffets and a table, also in
mahogany. This room, ornamented with engravings of military scenes,
was heated by a porcelain stove, on each side of which were
sporting-guns suspended on the walls. These adornments, which cost but
little, were talked of throughout the whole valley as the last extreme
of oriental luxury. Singular to say, they, more than anything else,
excited the envy of Gaubertin, and whenever he thought of his fixed
determination to bring Les Aigues to the hammer and cut it in pieces,
he reserved for himself, "in petto," this beautiful pavilion.

On the next floor three chambers sufficed for the household. At the
windows were muslin curtains which reminded a Parisian of the
particular taste and fancy of bourgeois requirements. Left to herself
in the decoration of these rooms, Madame Michaud had chosen satin
papers; on the mantel-shelf of her bedroom--which was furnished in
that vulgar style of mahogany and Utrecht velvet which is seen
everywhere, with its high-backed bed and canopy to which embroidered
muslin curtains are fastened--stood an alabaster clock between two
candelabra covered with gauze and flanked by two vases filled with
artificial flowers protected by glass shades, a conjugal gift of the
former cavalry sergeant. Above, under the roof, the bedrooms of the
cook, the man-of-all-work, and La Pechina had benefited by the recent
restoration.

"Olympe, my dear, you did not tell me all," said the countess,
entering Madame Michaud's bedroom, and leaving Emile and the abbe on
the stairway, whence they descended when they heard her shut the door.

Madame Michaud, to whom the abbe had contrived to whisper a word, was
now anxious to say no more about her fears, which were really greater
than she had intimated, and she therefore began to talk of a matter
which reminded the countess of the object of her visit.

"I love Michaud, madame, as you know. Well, how would you like to
have, in your own house, a rival always beside you?"

"A rival?"

"Yes, madame; that swarthy girl you gave me to take care of loves
Michaud without knowing it, poor thing! The child's conduct, long a
mystery to me, has been cleared up in my mind for some days."

"Why, she is only thirteen years old!"

"I know that, madame. But you will admit that a woman who is three
months pregnant and means to nurse her child herself may have some
fears; but as I did not want to speak of this before those gentlemen,
I talked a great deal of nonsense when you questioned me," said the
generous creature, adroitly.

Madame Michaud was not really afraid of Genevieve Niseron, but for the
last three days she was in mortal terror of some disaster from the
peasantry.

"How did you discover this?" said the countess.

"From everything and from nothing," replied Olympe. "The poor little
thing moves with the slowness of a tortoise when she is obliged to
obey me, but she runs like a lizard when Justin asks for anything, she
trembles like a leaf at the sound of his voice; and her face is that
of a saint ascending to heaven when she looks at him. But she knows
nothing about love; she has no idea that she loves him."

"Poor child!" said the countess with a smile and tone that were full
of naivete.

"And so," continued Madame Michaud, answering with a smile the smile
of her late mistress, "Genevieve is gloomy when Justin is out of the
house; if I ask her what she is thinking of she replies that she is
afraid of Monsieur Rigou, or some such nonsense. She thinks people
envy her, though she is as black as the inside of a chimney. When
Justin is patrolling the woods at night the child is as anxious as I
am. If I open my window to listen for the trot of his horse, I see a
light in her room, which shows me that La Pechina (as they call here)
is watching and waiting too. She never goes to bed, any more than I
do, till he comes in."

"Thirteen!" exclaimed the countess; "unfortunate child!"

"Unfortunate? no. This passion will save her."

"From what?" asked Madame de Montcornet.

"From the fate which overtakes nearly all the girls of her age in
these parts. Since I have taught her cleanliness she is much less ugly
than she was; in fact, there is something odd and wild about her which
attracts men. She is so changed that you would hardly recognize her.
The son of that infamous innkeeper of the Grand-I-Vert, Nicolas, the
worst fellow in the whole district, wants her; he hunts her like game.
Though I can't believe that Monsieur Rigou, who changes his
servant-girls every year or two is persecuting such a little fright, it
is quite certain that Nicolas Tonsard is. Justin told me so. It would be
a dreadful fate, for the people of this valley actually live like
beasts; but Justin and our two servants and I watch her carefully.
Therefore don't be uneasy, madame; she never goes out alone except in
broad daylight, and then only as far as the gate of Conches. If by
chance she fell into an ambush, her feeling for Justin would give her
strength and wit to escape; for all women who have a preference in
their hearts can resist a man they hate."

"It was about her that I came," said the countess, "and I little
thought my visit could be so useful to you. That child, you know,
can't remain thirteen; and she will probably grow better-looking."

"Oh, madame," replied Olympe, smiling, "I am quite sure of Justin.
What a man! what a heart!-- If you only knew what a depth of gratitude
he feels for his general, to whom, he says, he owes his happiness. He
is only too devoted; he would risk his life for him here, as he would
on the field of battle, and he forgets sometimes that he will one day
be father of a family."

"Ah! I once regretted losing you," said the countess, with a glance
that made Olympe blush; "but I regret it no longer, for I see you
happy. What a sublime and noble thing is married love!" she added,
speaking out the thought she had not dared express before the abbe.

Virginie de Troisville dropped into a revery, and Madame Michaud kept
silence.

"Well, at least the girl is honest, is she not?" said the countess, as
if waking from a dream.

"As honest as I am myself, madame."

"Discreet?"

"As the grave."

"Grateful?"

"Ah! madame; she has moments of humility and gentleness towards me
which seem to show an angelic nature. She will kiss my hands and say
the most upsetting things. 'Can we die of love?' she asked me
yesterday. 'Why do you ask me that?' I said. 'I want to know if love
is a disease.'"

"Did she really say that?"

"If I could remember her exact words I would tell you a great deal
more," replied Olympe; "she appears to know much more than I do."

"Do you think, my dear, that she could take your place in my service.
I can't do without an Olympe," said the countess, smiling in a rather
sad way.

"Not yet, madame,--she is too young; but in two years' time, yes. If
it becomes necessary that she should go away from here I will let you
know. She ought to be educated, and she knows nothing of the world.
Her grandfather, Pere Niseron, is a man who would let his throat be
cut sooner than tell a lie; he would die of hunger in a baker's shop;
he has the strength of his opinions, and the girl was brought up to
all such principles. La Pechina would consider herself your equal; for
the old man has made her, as he says, a republican,--just as Pere
Fourchon has made Mouche a bohemian. As for me, I laugh at such ideas,
but you might be displeased. She would revere you as her benefactress,
but never as her superior. It can't be otherwise; she is wild and free
like the swallows--her mother's blood counts for a good deal in what
she is."

"Who was her mother?"

"Doesn't madame know the story?" said Olympe. "Well, the son of the
old sexton at Blangy, a splendid fellow, so the people about here tell
me, was drafted at the great conscription. In 1809 young Niseron was
still only an artilleryman, in a corps d'armee stationed in Illyria
and Dalmatia when it received sudden orders to advance through Hungary
and cut off the retreat of the Austrian army in case the Emperor won
the battle of Wagram. Michaud told me all about Dalmatia, for he was
there. Niseron, being so handsome a man, captivated a Montenegrin girl
of Zahara among the mountains, who was not averse to the French
garrison. This lost her the good-will of her compatriots, and life in
her own town became impossible after the departure of the French. Zena
Kropoli, called in derision the Frenchwoman, followed the artillery,
and came to France after the peace. Auguste Niseron asked permission
to marry her; but the poor woman died at Vincennes in January, 1810,
after giving birth to a daughter, our Genevieve. The papers necessary
to make the marriage legal arrived a few days later. Auguste Niseron
then wrote to his father to come and take the child, with a wetnurse
he had got from its own country; and it was lucky he did, for he was
killed soon after by the bursting of a shell at Montereau. Registered
by the name of Genevieve and baptized at Soulanges, the little
Dalmatian was taken under the protection of Mademoiselle Laguerre, who
was touched by her story. It seems as if it were the destiny of the
child to be taken care of by the owners of Les Aigues! Pere Niseron
obtained its clothes, and now and then some help in money from
Mademoiselle."

The countess and Olympe were just then standing before a window from
which they could see Michaud approaching the abbe and Blondet, who
were walking up and down the wide, semi-circular gravelled space which
repeated on the park side of the pavilion the exterior half-moon; they
were conversing earnestly.

"Where is she?" said the countess; "you make me anxious to see her."

"She is gone to carry milk to Mademoiselle Gaillard at the gate of
Conches; she will soon be back, for it is more than an hour since she
started."

"Well, I'll go and meet her with those gentlemen," said Madame de
Montcornet, going downstairs.

Just as the countess opened her parasol, Michaud came up and told her
that the general had left her a widow for probably two days.

"Monsieur Michaud," said the countess, eagerly, "don't deceive me,
there is something serious going on. Your wife is frightened, and if
there are many persons like Pere Fourchon, this part of the country
will be uninhabitable--"

"If it were so, madame," answered Michaud, laughing, "we should not be
in the land of the living, for nothing would be easier than to make
away with us. The peasant's grumble, that is all. But as to passing
from growls to blows, from pilfering to crime, they care too much for
life and the free air of the fields. Olympe has been saying something
that frightened you, but you know she is in state to be frightened at
nothing," he added, drawing his wife's hand under his arm and pressing
it to warn her to say no more.

"Cornevin! Juliette!" cried Madame Michaud, who soon saw the head of
her old cook at the window. "I am going for a little walk; take care
of the premises."

Two enormous dogs, who began to bark, proved that the effectiveness of
the garrison at the gate of the Avonne was not to be despised. Hearing
the dogs, Cornevin, an old Percheron, Olympe's foster-father, came
from behind the trees, showing a head such as no other region than La
Perche can manufacture. Cornevin was undoubtedly a Chouan in 1794 and
1799.

The whole party accompanied the countess along that one of the six
forest avenues which led directly to the gate of Conches, crossing the
Silver-spring rivulet. Madame de Montcornet walked in front with
Blondet. The abbe and Michaud and his wife talked in a low voice of
the revelation that had just been made to the countess of the state of
the country.

"Perhaps it is providential," said the abbe; "for if madame is
willing, we might, perhaps, by dint of benefits and constant
consideration of their wants, change the hearts of these people."

At about six hundred feet from the pavilion and below the brooke, the
countess caught sight of a broken red jug and some spilt milk.

"Something has happened to the poor child!" she cried, calling to
Michaud and his wife, who were returning to the pavilion.

"A misfortune like Perrette's," said Blondet, laughing.

"No; the poor child has been surprised and pursued, for the jug was
thrown outside the path," said the abbe, examining the ground.

"Yes, that is certainly La Pechina's step," said Michaud; "the print
of the feet, which have turned, you see, quickly, shows sudden terror.
The child must have darted in the direction of the pavilion, trying to
get back there."

Every one followed the traces which the bailiff pointed out as he
walked along examining them. Presently he stopped in the middle of the
path about a hundred feet from the broken jug, where the girl's
foot-prints ceased.

"Here," he said, "she turned towards the Avonne; perhaps she was
headed off from the direction of the pavilion."

"But she has been gone more than an hour," cried Madame Michaud.

Alarm was in all faces. The abbe ran towards the pavilion, examining
the state of the road, while Michaud, impelled by the same thought,
went up the path towards Conches.

"Good God! she fell here," said Michaud, returning from a place where
the footsteps stopped near the brook, to that where they had turned in
the road, and pointing to the ground, he added, "See!"

The marks were plainly seen of a body lying at full length on the
sandy path.

"The footprints which have entered the wood are those of some one who
wore knitted soles," said the abbe.

"A woman, then," said the countess.

"Down there, by the broken pitcher, are the footsteps of a man," added
Michaud.

"I don't see traces of any other foot," said the abbe, who was
tracking into the wood the prints of the woman's feet.

"She must have been lifted and carried into the wood," cried Michaud.

"That can't be, if it is really a woman's foot," said Blondet.

"It must be some trick of that wretch, Nicolas," said Michaud. "He has
been watching La Pechina for some time. Only this morning I stood two
hours under the bridge of the Avonne to see what he was about. A woman
may have helped him."

"It is dreadful!" said the countess.

"They call it amusing themselves," added the priest, in a sad and
grieved tone.

"Oh! La Pechina would never let them keep her," said the bailiff; "she
is quite able to swim across the river. I shall look along the banks.
Go home, my dear Olympe; and you gentlemen and madame, please to
follow the avenue towards Conches."

"What a country!" exclaimed the countess.

"There are scoundrels everywhere," replied Blondet.

"Is it true, Monsieur l'abbe," asked Madame de Montcornet, "that I
saved the poor child from the clutches of Rigou?"

"Every young girl over fiften years of age whom you may protect at the
chateau is saved from that monster," said the abbe. "In trying to get
possession of La Pechina from her earliest years, the apostate sought
to satisfy both his lust and his vengeance. When I took Pere Niseron
as sexton I told him what Rigou's intentions were. That is one of the
causes of the late mayor's rancor against me; his hatred grew out of
it. Pere Niseron said to him solemnly that he would kill him if any
harm came to Genevieve, and he made him responsible for all attempts
upon the poor child's honor. I can't help thinking that this pursuit
of Nicolas is the result of some infernal collusion with Rigou, who
thinks he can do as he likes with these people."

"Doesn't he fear the law?"

"In the first place, he is father-in-law of the prosecuting-attorney,"
said the abbe, pausing to listen. "And then," he resumed, "you have no
conception of the utter indifference of the rural police to what is
done around them. So long as the peasants do not burn the farm-houses
and buildings, commit no murders, poison no one, and pay their taxes,
they let them do as they like; and as these people are not restrained
by any religious principle, horrible things happen every day. On the
other side of the Avonne helpless old men are afraid to stay in their
own homes, for they are allowed nothing to eat; they wander out into
the fields as far as their tottering legs can bear them, knowing well
that if they take to their beds they will die for want of food.
Monsieur Sarcus, the magistrate, tells me that if they arrested and
tried all criminals, the costs would ruin the municipality."

"Then he at least sees how things are?" said Blondet.

"Monseigneur thoroughly understands the condition of the valley, and
especially the state of this district," continued the abbe. "Religion
alone can cure such evils; the law seems to me powerless, modified as
it is now--"

The words were interrupted by loud cries from the woods, and the
countess, preceded by Emile and the abbe, sprang bravely into the
brushwood in the direction of the sounds.



CHAPTER XI

THE OARISTYS, EIGHTEENTH ECLOGUE OF THEOCRITUS;
LITTLE ADMIRED ON THE POLICE CALENDAR

The sagacity of a savage, which Michaud's new occupation had developed
among his faculties, joined to an acquaintance with the passions and
interests of Blangy, enabled him partially to understand a third idyll
in the Greek style, which poor villagers like Tonsard, and middle-aged
rich men like Rigou, translate _freely_--to use the classic word--in the
depths of their country solitudes.

Nicolas, Tonsard's second son, had drawn an unlucky number at a recent
conscription. Two years earlier his elder brother had been pronounced,
through the influence of Soudry, Gaubertin, and Sarcus the rich, unfit
for military service, on account of a pretended weakness in the
muscles of the right arm; but as Jean-Louis had since wielded
instruments of husbandry with remarkable force and skill, a good deal
of talk on the subject had gone through the district. Soudry, Rigou,
and Gaubertin, who were the special protectors of the family, had
warned Tonsard that he must not expect to save Nicolas, who was tall
and vigorous, from being recruited if he drew a fatal number.
Nevertheless Gaubertin and Rigou were so well aware of the importance
of conciliating bold men able and willing to do mischief, if properly
directed against Les Aigues, that Rigou held out certain hopes of
safety to Tonsard and his son. The late monk was occasionally visited
by Catherine Tonsard who was very devoted to her brother Nicolas; on
one such occasion Rigou advised her to appeal to the general and the
countess.

"They may be glad to do you this service to cajole you; in that case,
it is just so much gained from the enemy," he said. "If the Shopman
refuses, then we shall see what we shall see."

Rigou foresaw that the general's refusal would pass as one wrong the
more done by the land-owner to the peasantry, and would bind Tonsard
by an additional motive of gratitude to the coalition, in case the
crafty mind of the innkeeper could suggest to him some plausible way
of liberating Nicolas.

Nicolas, who was soon to appear before the examining board, had little
hope of the general's intervention because of the harm done to Les
Aigues by all the members of the Tonsard family. His passion, or to
speak more correctly, his caprice and obstinate pursuit of La Pechina,
were so aggravated by the prospect of his immediate departure, which
left him no time to seduce her, that he resolved on attempting
violence. The child's contempt for her prosecutor, plainly shown,
excited the Lovelace of the Grand-I-Vert to a hatred whose fury was
equalled only by his desires. For the last three days he had been
watching La Pechina, and the poor child knew she was watched. Between
Nicolas and his prey the same sort of understanding existed which
there is between the hunter and the game. When the girl was at some
little distance from the pavilion she saw Nicolas in one of the paths
which ran parallel to the walls of the park, leading to the bridge of
the Avonne. She could easily have escaped the man's pursuit had she
appealed to her grandfather; but all young girls, even the most
unsophisticated, have a strange fear, possibly instinctive, of
trusting to their natural protectors under the like circumstances.

Genevieve had heard Pere Niseron take an oath to kill any man, no
matter who he was, who should dare to _touch_ (that was his word) his
granddaughter. The old man thought the child amply protected by the
halo of white hair and honor which a spotless life of three-score
years and ten had laid upon his brow. The vision of bloody scenes
terrifies the imagination of young girls so that they need not dive to
the bottom of their hearts for other numerous and inquisitive reasons
which seal their lips.

When La Pechina started with the milk which Madame Michaud had sent to
the daughter of Gaillard, the keeper of the gate of Conches, whose cow
had just calved, she looked about her cautiously, like a cat when it
ventures out onto the street. She saw no signs of Nicolas; she
listened to the silence, as the poet says, and hearing nothing, she
concluded that the rascal had gone to his day's work. The peasants
were just beginning to cut the rye; for they were in the habit of
getting in their own harvests first, so as to benefit by the best
strength of the mowers. But Nicolas was not a man to mind losing a
day's work,--especially now that he expected to leave the country
after the fair at Soulanges and begin, as the country people say, the
new life of a soldier.

When La Pechina, with the jug on her head, was about half-way, Nicolas
slid like a wild-cat down the trunk of an elm, among the branches of
which he was hiding, and fell like a thunderbolt in front of the girl,
who flung away her pitcher and trusted to her fleet legs to regain the
pavilion. But a hundred feet farther on, Catherine Tonsard, who was on
the watch, rushed out of the wood and knocked so violently against the
flying girl that she was thrown down. The violence of the fall made
her unconscious. Catherine picked her up and carried her into the
woods to the middle of a tiny meadow where the Silver-spring brook
bubbled up.

Catherine Tonsard was tall and strong, and in every respect the type
of woman whom painters and sculptors take, as the Republic did in
former days, for their figures of Liberty. She charmed the young men
of the valley of the Avonne with her voluminous bosom, her muscular
legs, and a waist as robust as it was flexible; with her plump arms,
her eyes that could flash and sparkle, and her jaunty air; with the
masses of hair twisted in coils around her head, her masculine
forehead and her red lips curling with that same ferocious smile which
Eugene Delacroix and David (of Angers) caught and represented so
admirably. True image of the People, this fiery and swarthy creature
seemed to emit revolt through her piercing yellow eyes, blazing with
the insolence of a soldier. She inherited from her father so violent a
nature that the whole family, except Tonsard, and all who frequented
the tavern feared her.