Читать книгу The Bagpipers - George Sand - Страница 5

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Little Brulette was now called "handsome Brulette," and was much talked of in our country-side; for within the memory of man no prettier girl or finer eyes or slimmer waist or rosier cheek or hair of brighter gold had ever been seen; her hand was like satin, and her foot as dainty as a young lady's.

All that tells you plain enough that my cousin did not work very hard; she never went out in bad weather, took care to shade herself from the sun, did not wash the clothes, and made no use of her limbs to tire them.

Perhaps you will think she was idle? Not at all. She did everything that she could not help doing fast and well. She had too much good sense not to keep order and neatness in the household and take the best care of her grandfather, as in duty bound. Moreover, she liked finery too well not to do a good bit of sewing; but as to hard work, she never so much as heard of it. There was no occasion that she should, and therefore it can't be said she was to blame.

There are some families where toil and nothing else comes early to warn young people that life is not so much a question of amusement in this low world as of earning a living among their fellows. But in Père Brulet's home there was little to do to make both ends meet. The old man was only in the seventies, and being a good workman, very clever at cutting stone (which, you know, is quite a science in these parts), steady, and much in demand by every one, he earned a good living; and, thanks to the fact of being a widower with no one to support but his granddaughter, he had laid by quite a little sum against illness or accident. Fortunately he kept his health, so that, without riches, he was never in want.

My father, however, declared that Brulette loved ease and comfort too well; meaning by that, that she might have to come down to other things when it was time for her to marry. He agreed with me that she was as sweet and amiable in her ways as in her person; but he would not encourage me to court her in marriage. She was too poor, he said, to be a lady, and he often declared that a wife should be either rich or very full of energy. "At first sight, I like one as well as the other," he would say; "though perhaps, on second thoughts, I would rather have the energy than the money. But Brulette has not enough of either to tempt a wise man."

I knew my father was right; but my cousin's sweet eyes and gentle speech had more influence over me than he could have, and over other young fellows too,—for you must know that I was not the only one. From the time she was fifteen she was surrounded with striplings like me, whom she knew how to restrain and order about as she had done in her childish days. You might say she was born proud, and knew her value long before compliments had given her an idea of it. She loved praise and submission, and while she never allowed any one to make free with her, she was very willing they should love her timidly. I, like a good many others, was filled with the strongest desire to please her, and at the same time I was often annoyed to find myself only one of a crowd.

Two of us, however, were privileged to talk to her rather more intimately, and to walk home with her when we met at a dance, or after church. I mean Joseph Picot and I. But we gained little or nothing by that; and perhaps, without saying so, we laid the blame to each other.

Joseph was still on the farm at Aulnières, about a mile and a half from Brulette's house, and half that distance from mine. He was a mere laborer. Though he was not really handsome, some, who did not object to a melancholy face, might think him so. His face was lean and yellow, and his brown hair, falling straight from his head and down his cheeks, made him even more puny in appearance. Nevertheless, he was not ill-made, nor ungraceful in body, and there was something in his closed jaw which always seemed to me the reverse of weakness. He was thought ill because he moved slowly and had none of the gayety of youth; but seeing him often, as I did, I knew it was his nature to be so, and that he really was not suffering at all.

He was, however, a very poor laborer of the soil, not over careful with cattle, and far from agreeable in temper. His wages were the lowest that were ever paid to a plough-boy, and people were surprised that his master still kept him; for nothing prospered with him, either in the stable or the fields, and he was so sullen when reproved that no one could do anything with him. But Père Michel declared that he never gave any angry answer, and he preferred those who submitted without a word, even if they did have sulky looks, to those who deceived you with flattery.

His faithfulness and the contempt he showed at all times for injustice made his master respect him, though he often remarked what a pity it was that an honest, upright lad had such soft muscles and a mind so indifferent to his work. But he kept him for what he was worth, from habit, and also out of consideration for Père Brulet, who was one of Père Michel's earliest friends.

In what I have said of Joseph you will readily see that he could not please the girls. Indeed, they never looked at him, except to wonder why they never caught his eye, which was large and clear as an owl's and never seemed to see anything.

Yet I was always jealous of him, because Brulette paid him more attention than she gave to any one else, and obliged me to do the same. She no longer lectured him, and openly accepted his temper as God made it, without getting angry or seeming at all annoyed. She forgave him his want of gallantry, and even politeness,—two things which she exacted from the rest of us. He might do all sorts of stupid things,—such as sit down on a chair if she left it for a moment, and oblige her to find another; or neglect to pick up her balls of wool when they rolled away; or break a bodkin or some other sewing utensil,—he might do all such things, and she would never say an impatient word to him; whereas she scolded and ridiculed me if I did a tenth part of them.

Then, she took care of him as if he were a brother. She kept a bit of meat put by for him when he came to see her, and made him eat it whether he was hungry or not, telling him he ought to strengthen his stomach and make blood. She had an eye to his clothes just like Mariton, and even took upon herself to make him new ones, saying that his mother had not time to cut and sew them. Sometimes she would lead her cattle to pasture over where he was at work, and talked to him; though he talked very little, and very badly when he tried to do so.

Besides all this, she would not allow any one to treat him with contempt, or to make fun of his melancholy face and his staring eyes. To all such remarks she replied that his health was not good; also that he was not more stupid than other people; if he talked little, it was not that he did not think; and, in short, that it was better to be silent than to talk a great deal with nothing to say.

Sometimes I was tempted to contradict her; but she quickly cut me short by saying,—

"You must have a very bad heart, Tiennet, to abandon that poor lad to the jeers of others, instead of defending him when they torment him. I thought better of you than that."

Then of course I did her will, and defended Joseph; though for my part I could not see what illness or affliction he had, unless laziness and distrust were infirmities of nature,—which might be possible; though it certainly seemed to me in the power of man to subdue them.

On his side, Joseph, without showing an aversion for me, treated me just as coldly as he did the rest, and never appeared to remember the assistance he got from me in his various encounters. Whether he cared for Brulette, like all the others, or whether he cared only for himself, he smiled in a strange manner and with an air of contempt whenever she gave me the most trifling mark of friendship.

One day, when he had pushed the thing so far as to shrug his shoulders, I resolved to have an explanation with him,—as quietly as possible, so as not to displease my cousin, but frankly enough to make him feel that if I put up with him in her presence with great patience, I expected him to treat me in the same way. But as on that occasion a number of Brulette's other lovers were present, I put off doing this until the first time I should find him alone. Accordingly, I went the next day to join him in a field where he was at work.

I was a good deal surprised to find Brulette with him, sitting on the roots of a big tree by the side of a ditch, where he was supposed to be cutting brush to make pegs. But in fact he was cutting nothing at all; though by way of work he was whittling something which he quickly put in his pocket as soon as he saw me, closing his knife and beginning to talk as if I had been his master and had caught him in a fault, or as if he had been saying secret things to my cousin which I had interrupted.

I was so troubled and vexed that I was going away without a word, when Brulette called to me, and beginning to knit (for she too had laid aside her work while talking to him), she told me to sit down beside her.

It struck me it was only a sop to soothe my vexation, so I refused, saying that the weather was not pleasant enough to sit about in ditches. And truly, though not cold, it was very damp; the thaw had made the brook full and the grass muddy. There was still a little snow in the furrows, and the wind was disagreeable. According to my notions, Brulette must have thought Joseph very interesting to make her lead her flock out there in such weather—she who so often and so readily turned them over to the care of her neighbor.

"José," said Brulette, "our friend Tiennet is sulky because he sees we have a secret between us. Won't you let me tell it to him? His advice will do no harm, and he will tell you just what he thinks of your idea."

"He!" said Joseph, beginning to shrug his shoulders just as had done the night before.

"Does your back itch whenever you see me?" I said to him, spitefully. "I can scratch you in a way that will cure you once for all."

He looked at me from under his lids as if ready to bite me; but Brulette touched him gently on the shoulder with the end of her distaff, and calling him to her, she whispered in his ear.

"No, no!" he answered, without taking the trouble to hide his answer. "Tiennet is no good at all to advise me,—he knows no more than your goat; and if you tell him the least thing, I won't tell you anything more."

Thereupon he picked up his shears and his chopper, and went to work at some distance.

"There!" said Brulette, rising to call in her flock, "now he is cross. But never mind, Tiennet, it is nothing serious,—I know his fancies; there is nothing to be done, and indeed the best way is to let him alone. He's a lad who has had a bee in his bonnet ever since he came into the world. He doesn't know how to express what he feels, and he really can't. It is better, therefore, to leave him to himself; for if one worries him with questions, he only cries, and then we have hurt his feelings for nothing."

"It is my opinion, though," I said to Brulette, "that you know how to make him confess himself."

"I was mistaken," she answered; "I thought he had some much worse trouble. It would make you laugh if I could tell you what the trouble really is; but as he chooses to tell no one but me, let us think no more about it."

"If it is such a little thing," I persisted, "you would not take so much interest in it."

"Do you think I take too much?" she said. "Don't I owe it to the woman who brought him into the world and who brought me up with more care and kindness than she gave to her own child?"

"That's a good reason, Brulette. If it is Mariton you love in her son, very good; in that case, I wish Mariton was my mother,—it would be better for me than being your cousin."

"Leave that sort of nonsense to my other sweethearts," answered Brulette, blushing a little. But no compliments ever came amiss to her, though she pretended to laugh at them.

As we left the fields just opposite to my house she came in with me to say good-evening to my sister.

But my sister was out, and Brulette could not wait, because her sheep were in the road. In order to keep her a moment, I bethought me of taking off her sabots, to remove the lumps of snow, and drying them. And so, holding her as it were by the paws,—for she was obliged to sit down while she waited for me to finish,—I tried to tell her, better than I had ever yet dared to do, the trouble my love for her was piling up in my heart.

But there! see the devilish thing,—I couldn't get out the crowning word of it. I managed the second and the third, but the first wouldn't come. My forehead was sweating. The girl could have helped me out, if she only would, for she knew the tune of my song well enough; others had sung it to her already. But with Brulette, one had to have patience and discretion; and though I was not altogether new at gallant speeches, those I had exchanged with others who were less difficult than Brulette (just by way of getting my hand in) had taught me nothing that was proper to say to a high-priced young girl like my cousin.

All that I could manage was to hark back to the subject of her favorite, Joseph. At first she laughed; then, little by little, seeing that I was seriously finding fault with him, she became herself serious. "Let the poor lad alone," she said; "he is much to be pitied."

"But why and wherefore? Is he consumptive, or crazy, that you are so afraid of his being meddled with?"

"He is worse than that," answered Brulette; "he is an egotist."

"Egotist" was one of the curate's words which Brulette had picked up, though it was not used among us in my day. Brulette had a wonderful memory; and that was how she sometimes came out with words which I might have recollected too, only I did not, and consequently I could not understand them.

I was too shy to ask her for an explanation and admit my ignorance. Besides, I imagined it was a mortal illness; and I felt that such a great affliction convicted me of injustice. I begged Brulette's pardon for having annoyed her, adding,—

"If I had known what you tell me sooner, I shouldn't have felt any bitterness or rancor for the poor fellow."

"How came you never to notice it?" she said. "Don't you see how he makes every one give way to him and oblige him, without ever dreaming of thanking them; how the least neglect affronts him, and the slightest joke angers him; how he sulks and suffers about things nobody else would ever notice; and how one must put one's best self into a friendship with him without his ever comprehending that it is not his due, but an offering made to God of love to our neighbor?"

"Is that the effect of illness?" I asked, a little puzzled by Brulette's explanation.

"Isn't it the very worst thing he can have in his heart?" she replied.

"Does his mother know he has something the matter with his heart?"

"She guesses at it; but, you see, I can't talk to her about it for fear of grieving her."

"Has no one tried to cure him?"

"I have done, and I mean to do, my best," she answered, continuing a topic on which we didn't understand each other; "but I think my way of managing him only makes him worse."

"It is true," I said, after reflecting awhile, "that the fellow always did have something queer about him. My grandmother, who is dead,—and you know how she piqued herself on foretelling the future,—said he had misfortune written on his face; that he was doomed to live in misery or to die in the flower of his age, because of a line he has on his forehead. Ever since then, I declare to you that when Joseph is gloomy I see that line of ill-luck, though I never knew where my grandmother saw it. At such times I'm afraid of him, or rather of his fate, and I feel led to spare him blame and annoyance as if he was not long for this world."

"Bah!" said Brulette, laughing, "nothing but my great-aunt's fancies! I remember them very well. Didn't she also tell you that light eyes, like Joseph's, can see spirits and hidden things? As for me, I don't believe a word of it, neither do I think he is in danger of dying. People live a long time with a mind like his; they take their comfort in worrying others, though perhaps, while threatening to die, they will live to bury all about them."

I could not understand what she said, and I was going to question her further, when she asked for her sabots and slipped her feet easily into them, though they were so small I couldn't get my hand in. Then, calling to her dog and shortening her petticoat, she left me, quite anxious and puzzled by all she said, and as little advanced as ever in my courtship.

The following Sunday, as she was starting for mass at Saint-Chartier, where she liked better to go than to our own parish church, because there was dancing in the market-place between mass and vespers, I asked if I could go with her.

"No," she said. "I am going with my grandfather; and he does not like a crowd of sweethearts after me along the roads."

"I am not a crowd of sweethearts," I said. "I am your cousin, and my uncle never wanted me out of his way."

"Well, keep out of mine now," she said,—"only for to-day. My father and I want to talk with José, who is in the house and is going to mass with us."

"Then he has come to propose marriage; and you are glad enough to listen to him."

"Are you crazy, Tiennet? After all I told you about José!"

"You told me he had an illness that would make him live longer than other people; and I don't see what there is in that to quiet me."

"Quiet you for what?" exclaimed Brulette, astonished. "What illness? Where are your wits? Upon my word, I think all the men are crazy!"

Then, taking her grandfather's arm, who just then came out of the house with José, she started, as light as a feather and gay as a fawn, while my good uncle, who thought there was nothing like her, smiled at the passers-by as much as to say, "You have no such girl as that to show!"

I followed them at a distance, to see if Joseph drew any closer to her on the way, and whether she took his arm, and whether the old man left them together. Nothing of the kind. Joseph walked all the time at my uncle's left, and Brulette on his right, and they seemed to be talking gravely.

After the service I asked Brulette to dance with me.

"Oh, you are too late!" she said; "I have promised at least fifteen dances. You must come back about vesper time."

This annoyance did not include Joseph, for he never danced; and to avoid seeing Brulette surrounded by her other swains, I followed him into the inn of the "Bœuf Couronné," where he went to see his mother, and I to kill time with a few friends.

I was rather a frequenter of wine-shops, as I have already told you,—not because of the bottle, which never got the better of my senses, but from a liking for company and talk and songs. I found several lads and lasses whom I knew and with whom I sat down to table, while Joseph sat in a corner, not drinking a drop or saying a word,—sitting there to please his mother, who liked to look at him and throw him a word now and then as she passed and repassed. I don't know if it ever occurred to Joseph to help her in the hard work of serving so many people, but Benoit wouldn't have allowed such an absent-minded fellow to stumble about among his dishes and bottles.

You have heard tell of the late Benoit? He was a fat man with a topping air, rather rough in speech, but a good liver and a fine talker when occasion served. He was upright enough to treat Mariton with the respect she deserved; for she was, to tell the truth, the queen of servants, and Benoit's house had never had so much custom as while she reigned over it.

The thing Père Brulet warned her of never happened. The danger of the business cured her of coquetry, and she kept her own person as safe as she did the property of her master. The truth is, it was chiefly for her son's sake that she had brought herself down to harder work and greater discretion than was natural to her. In that she was seen to be so good a mother that instead of losing the respect of others, she had gained more since she served at the inn; and that's a thing which seldom happens in our country villages,—nor elsewhere, as I've heard tell.

Seeing that Joseph was paler and gloomier than usual, the thought of what my grandmother had said of him, together with the illness (very queer, it seemed to me) which Brulette imputed to him, somehow struck my mind and touched my heart. No doubt he was still angry with me for the harsh words I had used to him. I wanted to make him forget them, and to force him to sit at our table, thinking I could unawares make him a trifle drunk; for, like others of my age, I thought the fumes of a little good white wine a sovereign cure for low spirits.

Joseph, who paid little attention to what was going on around him, let us fill his glass and nudge his elbow so often that any one but he would soon have felt the effects. Those who were inciting him to drink, and thoughtlessly setting him the example, soon had too much; but I, who wanted my legs for the dance, stopped short as soon as I felt that I had had enough. Joseph fell into a deep cogitation, leaned his two elbows on the table, and seemed to me neither brighter nor duller than he was before.

No one paid any attention to him; everybody laughed and chattered on their own account. Some began to sing, just as folks sing when they have been drinking, each in his own key and his own time, one fellow trolling his chorus beside another who trolls his, the whole together making a racket fit to split your head, while the whole company laughed and shouted so that nobody could hear anything at all.

Joseph sat still without flinching, and looked at us in his staring way for quite a time. Then he got up and went away, without saying anything.

I thought he might be ill, and I followed him. But he walked straight and fast, like a man who was none the worse for wine; and he went so far up the slope of the hill above the town of Saint-Chartier that I lost sight of time, and came back again, for fear I should miss my dance with Brulette.

She danced so prettily, my dear Brulette, that every eye was upon her. She adored dancing and dress and compliments, but she never encouraged any one to make serious love to her; and when the bell rang for vespers, she would walk away, dignified and serious, into church, where she certainly prayed a little, though she never forgot that all eyes were on her.

As for me, I remembered that I had not paid my score at the Bœuf Couronné, and I went back to settle with Mariton, who took occasion to ask me where her son had gone.

"You made him drink," she said; "and that's not his habit. You might at least not have let him wander off alone; accidents happen so easily."