Читать книгу The Sin of Monsieur Antoine - George Sand - Страница 6

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After climbing with difficulty a very steep road, or rather a stairway cut in the rock, our travellers reached the entrance of Châteaubrun in about twenty minutes. The wind and the rain redoubled in violence, and the young man hardly had leisure to observe the huge portal, which offered to his sight, at that moment, nothing more than an ill-defined mass of formidable proportions. He noticed simply that the seignorial portcullis was replaced by a wooden fence like those which enclose all the fields in the province.

"Wait a moment, monsieur," said his guide. "I will climb over and get the key; for latterly old Janille has minded to have a padlock here, as if there were anything to steal in her master's house! However, her intentions are good, and I don't blame her."

The peasant scaled the fence very cleverly, and, while awaiting for him to return and admit him, the young man tried in vain to make out the arrangement of the ruined masses of architecture which he could see confusedly inside the courtyard; it was like a glimpse of chaos.

After a few moments he saw several persons approaching. The gate was speedily opened; one took his horse, another his hand, and a third went ahead carrying a lantern, which was very essential for their guidance among the rubbish and brushwood that obstructed their passage. At last, after passing across part of the courtyard and through several enormous dark rooms, open to all the winds of heaven, they reached a small oblong room with an arched ceiling, which might formerly have been used as a pantry or as a store-room between the kitchen and the stables. This room had been cleaned and whitewashed, and was used by the lord of Châteaubrun as salon and dining-room. A small fireplace had recently been built there, with mantel and uprights of polished, glistening wood; the huge cast-iron plate, which had been taken from one of the great fireplaces and which filled the whole back, together with the great fire-dogs of polished iron, sent out the heat and light beautifully into the bare white room, which, with the aid of a small tin lamp, was perfectly lighted. A chestnut table, which could be made to hold as many as six covers on great occasions, a few straw-seated chairs, and a German cuckoo clock, purchased from a peddler for six francs, composed the whole furniture of this modest salon. But everything was scrupulously clean; the table and chairs, roughly carved by some local cabinet-maker, shone in a way that bore witness to the assiduous use of the brush and duster. The hearth was carefully swept, the floor sanded in the English fashion, contrary to the customs of the province; and in an earthenware pot on the mantel was a huge bunch of roses mingled with wild-flowers plucked on the hillside roundabout.

At first glance there was nothing cherché, in the poetic or picturesque sense, in that modest interior; and yet, on examining it more closely, one would see that, in that abode, as in all those of all mankind, the natural taste and temperament of its presiding genius had governed in the choice as in the arrangement of the furniture. The young man, who then entered the room for the first time, and who was left alone there for a moment while his hosts busied themselves in preparations to make him as comfortable as possible, soon formed an idea of the mental condition of the inhabitants of that retreat. It was evident that they had refined habits and that they still felt a craving for the comforts of life; that, being in a very precarious financial condition, they had had the good sense to proscribe every species of mere external vanity, and had chosen, for their place of assemblage, among the few still intact apartments in that great building, the one that could most easily be kept clean, heated, furnished and lighted; and that, nevertheless, they had instinctively given the preference to a well-proportioned, attractive room. This little nook was in fact the first floor of a square pavilion added, toward the close of the Renaissance, to the venerable buildings which looked upon the principal courtyard. The artist who had planned this sharp-angled turret had done his best to soften the transition from one to the other of two such different styles. For the shape of the windows he had gone back to the defensive system of loop-holes and small apertures through which to watch the enemy; but it was easy to see that the small round windows had never been intended to fire cannon through, and that they were simply for purposes of ornament. Being tastefully framed with red brick and white stone, in alternation, they formed an attractive setting for the interior of the room, and divers recesses between the windows decorated in the same way, avoided the necessity for papers, hangings, or even articles of furniture, with which the wall might have been covered, without adding to their simple and pleasant aspect.

In one of these recesses, the base of which, about three feet from the floor, was formed by a flagstone white as snow and glistening like marble, stood a pretty little rustic spinning-wheel, with its distaff filled with brown flax; and as he contemplated that slight and primitive instrument of toil the traveller lost himself in reflections from which he was roused by the rustling of a woman's dress behind him. He turned hastily; but the sudden rapid beating of his youthful heart was checked by a severe disappointment. It was an old servant, who had entered the room noiselessly, thanks to the fine sand with which the floor was covered, and was leaning over to throw an armful of wild grapevine roots on the fire.

"Come near the fire, monsieur," she said, lisping with a sort of affectation, "and give me your cap and cloak, so that I can have them dried in the kitchen. That's a fine cloak for the rain; I don't know what they call this material, but I've seen it in Paris. It would be a good thing to see such a cloak on Monsieur le Comte's shoulders! But it must cost a lot, and besides, he hasn't said that he would wear it. He thinks he's still twenty-five years old, and he declares that the water from the sky never yet gave an honest man a cold; however, he began to have a touch of sciatica last winter. But a man isn't afraid of those things at your age. Never mind, warm your bones all the same; here, turn your chair like this and you'll be more comfortable. You're from Paris, I am sure; I can tell by your complexion, which is too fresh for our country; a fine country, monsieur, but very hot in summer and very cold in winter. You will say that it's as cold to-night as a night in November; that's true enough, but what can you expect? it's on account of the storm. But this little room is very comfortable, very easy to heat; in a moment you'll see if I'm not right. We are lucky to have plenty of dead wood. There are so many old trees about here, and we can keep the oven going all winter just with the brambles that grow in the courtyard. To be sure, we don't do much cooking. Monsieur le Comte is a small eater and his daughter's like him; the little servant is the heartiest eater in the house; why, he has to have three pounds of bread a day; but I bake for him separate, and I don't spare the rye. That's good enough for him, and with a little bran it goes farther and isn't bad for the health. Ha! ha! that makes you laugh, does it? and me too. You see, I have always liked to laugh and talk; the work goes off just as fast, for I like to be quick in everything. Monsieur Antoine is like me; when he has once spoken, off you must go like the wind. So we have always agreed on that point. You'll excuse us, monsieur, if we keep you waiting a little while. Monsieur has gone down the cellar with the man who brought you here, and the stairs are so broken down that they can't go very fast; but it's a fine cellar, monsieur; the walls are more than ten feet thick, and it's so far underground that when you're down there you feel as if you were buried alive. Really! it's a funny feeling. They say that there was a time when they used to put prisoners of war there; now, we don't put anybody there and our wine keeps very well. What delays us is that our child has already gone to bed; she had a sick headache to-day because she went out in the sun without a hat. She says that she means to get used to it, and that she can get along without hat or umbrella just as well as I can; but she's mistaken; she's been brought up like a young lady, as she should have been, poor child! for when I say our child, I don't mean that I am Mademoiselle Gilberte's mother; she's no more like me than a goldfinch is like a sparrow; but as I brought her up, I have always kept the habit of calling her my girl: she would never let me stop calling her thou. She's such a sweet child! I am sorry she's in bed, but you will see her to-morrow; for you won't go away without breakfast, you won't be let go, and she'll help me to serve you a little better than I can do alone. It's not courage that I lack, however, monsieur, for I have a good pair of legs; I have always been thin, as you see me, with my short body, and you would never think me as old as I am. Come! how old would you call me?"

The young man thought that, thanks to this question, he would be able to put in a word at last, to thank her and to guide her, for he was very desirous of fuller details concerning Mademoiselle Gilberte; but the good woman did not await his reply, but continued volubly:

"I am sixty-four years old, monsieur, that is to say, I shall be on Saint-Jean's day, and I do more work alone than three young hussies could ever do. My blood runs quick, you see, monsieur. I am not from Berry, I was born in Marche, more than half a league from here; so you can understand it. Ah! you are looking at our child's work? Do you know that is spun as even and fine as the best spinner in the province can do it? She wanted me to teach her to spin. 'Look you, mother,' she said, for she always calls me that; she never knew her own mother and always loved me as if I was, although we were about as much alike as a rose and a nettle; 'look you, mother,' she said, 'all that embroidery and drawing and nonsense they taught me at the convent will never do me any good here. Teach me to spin and knit and sew, so that I can help you make father's clothes.'"

Just as the good woman's indefatigable monologue was beginning to be interesting to her weary auditor, she left the room, as she had already done several times; for she did not remain quiet a moment, and, while talking, had covered the table with a coarse white cloth, laid plates, glasses and knives; had swept the hearth, wiped the chairs and rekindled the fire ten times, always resuming her soliloquy at the point where she had let it drop. But this time her voice, which began to lisp in the passageway outside the door, was drowned by other stronger voices, and the Comte de Châteaubrun and the peasant who had guided our traveller at last appeared before him, each carrying two large earthenware jugs which they placed on the table. Not until then had the young man had an opportunity to see their faces distinctly.

Monsieur de Châteaubrun was a man of some fifty years, of medium height, with a noble and commanding figure, broad-shouldered, with a neck like a bull, the limbs of an athlete, a skin quite as tanned as his companion's, and large hands, calloused and roughened by hunting and by the sunlight and the cold air; a genuine poacher's hands, if such things can be, for the worthy nobleman had too little land not to hunt on that of other people.

He had a frank, ruddy, smiling face, a firm walk and the voice of a stentor. His hunting costume, neat and clean although patched at the elbow, his coarse shirt, his leather gaiters, his grizzly beard which was patiently waiting for Sunday,—everything about him indicated that his life was rough and wild, whereas his pleasant face, his hearty, affectionate manners and an ease of bearing, not unmixed with dignity, recalled the courteous gentleman and the man who was accustomed to protect and assist, rather than to be protected and assisted.

His companion the peasant was not nearly as presentable. The storm and the muddy roads had wrought havoc with his jacket and his shoes. While the nobleman's beard may have been six or seven days old, the villager's was fully fourteen or fifteen. He was thin, bony and wiry, several inches taller than the other, and although his face also expressed good-nature and cordiality, it had, if we may so describe it, flashes of malevolence, of melancholy and haughty aloofness. It was evident that he had more intelligence or was more unfortunate than the lord of Châteaubrun.

"Well, monsieur," said the nobleman, "are you a little dryer than you were? You are welcome here and my supper is at your service."

"I am grateful for your generous welcome," replied the traveller, "but I am afraid you will deem me lacking in courtesy if I do not tell you first of all who I am."

"No matter, no matter," rejoined the count, whom hereafter we shall call Monsieur Antoine, as he was generally called in the neighborhood; "you can tell me that later, if you choose; so far as I am concerned, I have no questions to ask you, and I consider that I can satisfy the demands of hospitality without making you give your names and titles. You are travelling, you are a stranger in the province, caught by an infernal night at the very gate of my house; those are your titles and your claims. In addition you have an attractive face and a manner that pleases me; I believe therefore that I shall be rewarded for my confidences by the pleasure of having accommodated a good fellow. Come, sit you down, and eat and drink."

"You are too kind and I am touched by your frank and amiable manner of welcoming strangers. But I do not need any refreshment, monsieur, and it is quite enough that you should allow me to wait here until the end of the storm. I had supper at Eguzon hardly an hour ago. So do not serve anything for me, I beg you."

"You have supped already? why, that's no reason! Is your stomach one of those that can digest only one meal at a time? At your age I would have supped every hour in the night if I had had the chance. A ride in the saddle and the mountain air are quite enough to renew the appetite. To be sure, one's stomach is less obliging at fifty; so that I consider myself well-treated if I have half a glass of good wine with a crust of stale bread. But do not stand on ceremony here. You have come in the nick of time, for I was just about to sit down, and as my poor little one has a sick-headache to-day, Janille and I were very depressed at the idea of eating alone: so your arrival is a comfort to us, and this good fellow's too, my old playmate, whom I am always glad to see. Come, sit you down here beside me," he said to the peasant, "and you, Mère Janille, opposite me. Do the honors; for you know I have a heavy hand, and when I undertake to carve, I cut the joint and platter and cloth, and sometimes the table, and you don't like that."

The supper which Dame Janille had spread on the table with an air of condescension consisted of a goat's-milk cheese, a sheep's-milk cheese, a plate of nuts, a plateful of prunes, a large round loaf of rye bread, and four jugs of wine brought by the master in person. The table-companions set about discussing this frugal meal with evident satisfaction, with the exception of the traveller, who had no appetite, and who was well content to observe the good grace with which the worthy host invited him, without embarrassment or false shame, to partake of his splendid banquet. There was in that cordial and ingenuous ease something at once fatherly and childlike which won the young man's heart.

True to the law of generosity which he had imposed upon himself, Monsieur Antoine asked his guest no questions and even avoided remarks which might suggest curiosity in disguise. The peasant seemed a little more uneasy and was more reserved. But soon, being insensibly drawn into the general conversation which Monsieur Antoine and Dame Janille had begun, he laid aside his reserve and allowed his glass to be filled so often that the traveller began to stare in amazement at a man capable of drinking so much, not only without losing his wits but without departing from his usual self-possession and gravity.

But with the master of the house it was very different. He had not drunk half of the contents of the jug beside him when his eye began to kindle, his nose to turn red and his hand to tremble. However he did not lose his wits, even after all the jugs had been emptied by himself and his friend the peasant—for Janille, whether from economy or from natural sobriety, merely poured a few drops of wine into her water, and the traveller, having made a heroic effort to swallow the first bumper, abstained from further indulgence in that sour, cloudy and execrable beverage.

The two countrymen, however, seemed to enjoy it hugely. After a quarter of an hour, Janille, who could not live without moving about, left the table, took up her knitting and began to work in the chimney corner, constantly scratching her head with her needle, but never disturbing the thin bands of hair, still black as a crow's wing, which protruded from under her cap. That spruce little old woman might once have been pretty; her delicate profile did not lack distinction, and if she had been less affected, less intent upon appearing fashionable and knowing, our traveller would have been attracted to her as well.

The other persons, who, in the absence of the young lady, formed Monsieur Antoine's household, were a young peasant, of some fifteen years, wide-awake and light-footed, who performed the functions of factotum, and an old hunting-dog, with a lifeless eye, thin flanks and a melancholy, dreamy air; he lay beside his master and dropped asleep philosophically between every two mouthfuls that he gave him, calling him monsieur with a gravely jocose air.