Books: A Woodland Queen, v2
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Andre Theuriet >> A Woodland Queen, v2
Twilight had come, and it was already dark in the forest. Slowly and
reluctantly, Julien descended the slope leading to the chateau, and the
gloom of the woods entered his heart.
CHAPTER VI
LOVE BY PROXY
Jealousy is a maleficent deity of the harpy tribe; she embitters
everything she touches.
Ever since the evening that Julien had witnessed the crossing of the
brook by Reine and Claudet, a secret poison had run through his veins,
and embittered every moment of his life. Neither the glowing sun of
June, nor the glorious development of the woods had any charm for him.
In vain did the fields display their golden treasures of ripening corn;
in vain did the pale barley and the silvery oats wave their luxuriant
growth against the dark background of the woods; all these fairylike
effects of summer suggested only prosaic and misanthropic reflections in
Julien's mind. He thought of the tricks, the envy and hatred that the
possession of these little squares of ground brought forth among their
rapacious owners. The prolific exuberance of forest vegetation was an
exemplification of the fierce and destructive activity of the blind
forces of Nature. All the earth was a hateful theatre for the continual
enactment of bloody and monotonous dramas; the worm consuming the plant;
the bird mangling the insect, the deer fighting among themselves,
and man, in his turn, pursuing all kinds of game. He identified nature
with woman, both possessing in his eyes an equally deceiving appearance,
the same beguiling beauty, and the same spirit of ambuscade and perfidy.
The people around him inspired him only with mistrust and suspicion.
In every peasant he met he recognized an enemy, prepared to cheat him
with wheedling words and hypocritical lamentations. Although during the
few months he had experienced the delightful influence of Reine Vincart,
he had been drawn out of his former prejudices, and had imagined he was
rising above the littleness of every-day worries; he now fell back into
hard reality; his feet were again embedded in the muddy ground of village
politics, and consequently village life was a burden to him.
He never went out, fearing to meet Reine Vincart. He fancied that the
sight of her might aggravate the malady from which he suffered and for
which he eagerly sought a remedy.
But, notwithstanding the cloistered retirement to which he had condemned
himself, his wound remained open. Instead of solitude having a healing
effect, it seemed to make his sufferings greater. When, in the evening,
as he sat moodily at his window, he would hear Claudet whistle to his
dog, and hurry off in the direction of La Thuiliere, he would say to
himself: "He is going to keep an appointment with Reine." Then a feeling
of blind rage would overpower him; he felt tempted to leave his room and
follow his rival secretly--a moment afterward he would be ashamed of his
meanness. Was it not enough that he had once, although involuntarily,
played the degrading part of a spy! What satisfaction could he derive
from such a course? Would he be much benefited when he returned home
with rage in his heart and senses, after watching a love-scene between
the young pair? This consideration kept him in his seat, but his
imagination ran riot instead; it went galloping at the heels of Claudet,
and accompanied him down the winding paths, moistened by the evening dew.
As the moon rose above the trees, illuminating the foliage with her mild
bluish rays, he pictured to himself the meeting of the two lovers on the
flowery turf bathed in the silvery light. His brain seemed on fire.
He saw Reine in white advancing like a moonbeam, and Claudet passing his
arm around the yielding waist of the maiden. He tried to substitute
himself in idea, and to imagine the delight of the first words of
welcome, and the ecstasy of the prolonged embrace. A shiver ran through
his whole body; a sharp pain transfixed his heart; his throat closed
convulsively; half fainting, he leaned against the window-frame, his eyes
closed, his ears stopped, to shut out all sights or sounds, longing only
for oblivion and complete torpor of body and mind.
He did not realize his longing. The enchanting image of the woodland
queen, as he had beheld her in the dusky light of the charcoal-man's hut,
was ever before him. He put his hands over his eyes. She was there
still, with her deep, dark eyes and her enticing cherry lips. Even the
odor of the honeysuckle arising from the garden assisted the reality of
the vision, by recalling the sprig of the same flower which Reine was
twisting round her fingers at their last interview. This sweet breath
of flowers in the night seemed like an emanation from the young girl
herself, and was as fleeting and intangible as the remembrance of
vanished happiness. Again and again did his morbid nature return to past
events, and make his present position more unbearable.
"Why," thought he, "did I ever entertain so wild a hope? This wood-
nymph, with her robust yet graceful figure, her clear-headedness, her
energy and will-power, could she ever have loved a being so weak and
unstable as myself? No, indeed; she needs a lover full of life and
vigor; a huntsman, with a strong arm, able to protect her. What figure
should I cut by the side of so hearty and well-balanced a fellow?"
In these fits of jealousy, he was not so angry with Claudet for being
loved by Reine as for having so carefully concealed his feelings. And
yet, while inwardly blaming him for this want of frankness, he did not
realize that he himself was open to a similar accusation, by hiding from
Claudet what was troubling him so grievously.
Since the evening of the inauguration festival, he had become sullen and
taciturn. Like all timid persons, he took refuge in a moody silence,
which could not but irritate his cousin. They met every day at the same
table; to all appearance their intimacy was as great as ever, but, in
reality, there was no mutual exchange of feeling. Julien's continued
ill-humor was a source of anxiety to Claudet, who turned his brain almost
inside out in endeavoring to discover its cause. He knew he had done
nothing to provoke any coolness; on the contrary, he had set his wits to
work to show his gratitude by all sorts of kindly offices.
By dint of thinking the matter over, Claudet came to the conclusion that
perhaps Julien was beginning to repent of his generosity, and that
possibly this coolness was a roundabout way of manifesting his change of
feeling. This seemed to be the only plausible solution of his cousin's
behavior. "He is probably tired," thought he, "of keeping us here at the
chateau, my mother and myself."
Claudet's pride and self-respect revolted at this idea. He did not
intend to be an incumbrance on any one, and became offended in his turn
at the mute reproach which he imagined he could read in his cousin's
troubled countenance. This misconception, confirmed by the obstinate
silence of both parties, and aggravated by its own continuance, at last
produced a crisis.
It happened one night, after they had taken supper together, and Julien's
ill-humor had been more evident than usual. Provoked at his persistent
taciturnity, and more than ever convinced that it was his presence that
young de Buxieres objected to, Claudet resolved to force an explanation.
Instead, therefore, of quitting the dining-room after dessert, and
whistling to his dog to accompany him in his habitual promenade, the
'grand chasserot' remained seated, poured out a small glass of brandy,
and slowly filled his pipe. Surprised to see that he was remaining at
home, Julien rose and began to pace the floor, wondering what could be
the reason of this unexpected change. As suspicious people are usually
prone to attribute complicated motives for the most simple actions,
he imagined that Claudet, becoming aware of the jealous feeling he had
excited, had given up his promenade solely to mislead and avert
suspicion. This idea irritated him still more, and halting suddenly in
his walk, he went up to Claudet and said, brusquely:
"You are not going out, then?"
"No;" replied Claudet, "if you will permit me, I will stay and keep you
company. Shall I annoy you?"
"Not in the least; only, as you are accustomed to walk every evening, I
should not wish you to inconvenience yourself on my account. I am not
afraid of being alone, and I am not selfish enough to deprive you of
society more agreeable than mine."
"What do you mean by that?" cried Claudet, pricking up his ears.
"Nothing," muttered Julien, between his set teeth, "except that your
fancied obligation of keeping me company ought not to prevent you missing
a pleasant engagement, or keeping a rendezvous."
"A rendezvous," replied his interlocutor, with a forced laugh, "so you
think, when I go out after supper, I go to seek amusement. A rendezvous!
And with whom, if you please?"
"With your mistress, of course," replied Julien, sarcastically, "from
what you said to me, there is no scarcity here of girls inclined to be
good-natured, and you have only the trouble of choosing among them.
I supposed you were courting some woodman's young daughter, or some
pretty farmer girl, like--like Reine Vincart."
"Refine Vincart!" repeated Claudet, sternly, "what business have you to
mix up her name with those creatures to whom you refer? Mademoiselle
Vincart," added he, "has nothing in common with that class, and you have
no right, Monsieur de Buxieres, to use her name so lightly!"
The allusion to Reine Vincart had agitated Claudet to such a degree that
he did not notice that Julien, as he pronounced her name, was as much
moved as himself.
The vehemence with which Claudet resented the insinuation increased young
de Buxieres's irritation.
"Ha, ha!" said he, laughing scornfully, "Reine Vincart is an exceedingly
pretty girl!"
"She is not only pretty, she is good and virtuous, and deserves to be
respected."
"How you uphold her! One can see that you are interested in her."
"I uphold her because you are unjust toward her. But I wish you to
understand that she has no need of any one standing up for her--her good
name is sufficient to protect her. Ask any one in the village--there is
but one voice on that question."
"Come," said Julien, huskily, "confess that you are in love with her."
"Well! suppose I am," said Claudet, angrily, "yes, I love her! There,
are you satisfied now?"
Although de Buxieres knew what he had to expect, he was not the less
affected by so open an avowal thrust at him, as it were. He stood for a
moment, silent; then, with a fresh burst of rage:
"You love her, do you? Why did you not tell me before? Why were you not
more frank with me?"
As he spoke, gesticulating furiously, in front of the open window, the
deep red glow of the setting sun, piercing through the boughs of the ash-
trees, threw its bright reflections on his blazing eyeballs and convulsed
features. His interlocutor, leaning against the opposite corner of the
window-frame, noticed, with some anxiety, the extreme agitation of his
behavior, and wondered what could be the cause of such emotion.
"I? Not frank with you! Ah, that is a good joke, Monsieur de Buxieres!
Naturally, I should not go proclaiming on the housetops that I have a
tender feeling for Mademoiselle Vincart, but, all the same, I should have
told you had you asked me sooner. I am not reserved; but, you must
excuse my saying it, you are walled in like a subterranean passage. One
can not get at the color of your thoughts. I never for a moment imagined
that you were interested in Reine, and you never have made me
sufficiently at home to entertain the idea of confiding in you on that
subject."
Julien remained silent. He had reseated himself at the table, where,
leaning his head in his hands, he pondered over what Claudet had said.
He placed his hand so as to screen his eyes, and bit his lips as if a
painful struggle was going on within him. The splendors of the setting
sun had merged into the dusky twilight, and the last piping notes of the
birds sounded faintly among the sombre trees. A fresh breeze had sprung
up, and filled the darkening room with the odor of honeysuckle.
Under the soothing influence of the falling night, Julien slowly raised
his head, and addressing Claudet in a low and measured voice like a
father confessor interrogating a penitent, said:
"Does Reine know that you love her?"
"I think she must suspect it," replied Claudet, "although I never have
ventured to declare myself squarely. But girls are very quick, Reine
especially. They soon begin to suspect there is some love at bottom,
when a young man begins to hang around them too frequently."
"You see her often, then?"
"Not as often as I should like. But, you know, when one lives in the
same district, one has opportunities of meeting--at the beech harvest,
in the woods, at the church door. And when you meet, you talk but
little, making the most of your time. Still, you must not suppose,
as I think you did, that we have rendezvous in the evening. Reine
respects herself too much to go about at night with a young man as
escort, and besides, she has other fish to fry. She has a great deal to
do at the farm, since her father has become an invalid."
"Well, do you think she loves you?" said Julien, with a movement of
nervous irritation.
"I can not tell," replied Claudet shrugging his shoulders, "she has
confidence in me, and shows me some marks of friendship, but I never have
ventured to ask her whether she feels anything more than friendship for
me. Look here, now. I have good reasons for keeping back; she is rich
and I am poor. You can understand that I would not, for any
consideration, allow her to think that I am courting her for her money--"
"Still, you desire to marry her, and you hope that she will not say no--
you acknowledge that!" cried Julien, vociferously.
Claudet, struck with the violence and bitterness of tone of his
companion, came up to him.
"How angrily you say that, Monsieur de Buxieres!" exclaimed he in his
turn; "upon my word, one might suppose the affair is very displeasing to
you. Will you let me tell you frankly an idea that has already entered
my head several times these last two or three days, and which has come
again now, while I have been listening to you? It is that perhaps you,
yourself, are also in love with Reine?"
"I!" protested Julien. He felt humiliated at Claudet's perspicacity;
but he had too much pride and selfrespect to let his preferred rival know
of his unfortunate passion. He waited a moment to swallow something in
his throat that seemed to be choking him, and then, trying in vain to
steady his voice, he added:
"You know that I have an aversion for women; and for that matter, I think
they return it with interest. But, at all events, I am not foolish
enough to expose myself to their rebuffs. Rest assured, I shall not
follow at your heels!"
Claudet shook his head incredulously.
"You doubt it," continued de Buxieres; "well, I will prove it to you.
You can not declare your wishes because Reine is rich and you are poor?
I will take charge of the whole matter."
"I--I do not understand you," faltered Claudet, bewildered at the strange
turn the conversation was taking.
"You will understand-soon," asserted Julien, with a gesture of both
decision and resignation.
The truth was, he had made one of those resolutions which seem illogical
and foolish at first sight, but are natural to minds at once timid and
exalted. The suffering caused by Claudet's revelations had become so
acute that he was alarmed. He recognized with dismay the disastrous
effects of this hopeless love, and determined to employ a heroic remedy
to arrest its further ravages. This was nothing less than killing his
love, by immediately getting Claudet married to Reine Vincart.
Sacrifices like this are easier to souls that have been subjected since
their infancy to Christian discipline, and accustomed to consider the
renunciation of mundane joys as a means of securing eternal salvation.
As soon as this idea had developed in Julien's brain, he seized upon it
with the precipitation of a drowning man, who distractedly lays hold of
the first object that seems to offer him a means of safety, whether it be
a dead branch or a reed.
"Listen," he resumed; "at the very first explanation that we had
together, I told you I did not intend to deprive you of your right to a
portion of your natural father's inheritance. Until now, you have taken
my word for it, and we have lived at the chateau like two brothers.
But now that a miserable question of money alone prevents you from
marrying the woman you love, it is important that you should be legally
provided for. We will go to-morrow to Monsieur Arbillot, and ask him to
draw up the deed, making over to you from me one half of the fortune of
Claude de Buxieres. You will then be, by law, and in the eyes of all,
one of the desirable matches of the canton, and you can demand the hand
of Mademoiselle Vincart, without any fear of being thought presumptuous
or mercenary."
Claudet, to whom this conclusion was wholly unexpected, was
thunderstruck. His emotion was so great that it prevented him from
speaking. In the obscurity of the room his deep-set eyes seemed larger,
and shone with the tears he could not repress.
"Monsieur Julien," said he, falteringly, "I can not find words to thank
you. I am like an idiot. And to think that only a little while ago I
suspected you of being tired of me, and regretting your benefits toward
me! What an animal I am! I measure others by myself. Well! can you
forgive me? If I do not express myself well, I feel deeply, and all I
can say is that you have made me very happy!" He sighed heavily.
"The question is now," continued he, "whether Reine will have me! You
may not believe me, Monsieur de Buxieres, but though I may seem very bold
and resolute, I feel like a wet hen when I get near her. I have a
dreadful panic that she will send me away as I came. I don't know
whether I can ever find courage to ask her."
"Why should she refuse you?" said Julien, sadly, "she knows that you
love her. Do you suppose she loves any one else?"
"That I don't know. Although Reine is very frank, she does not let every
one know what is passing in her mind, and with these young girls, I tell
you, one is never sure of anything. That is just what I fear may be
possible."
"If you fear the ordeal," said de Buxieres, with a visible effort, "would
you like me to present the matter for you?"
"I should be very glad. It would be doing me a great service. It would
be adding one more kindness to those I have already received, and some
day I hope to make it all up to you."
The next morning, according to agreement, Julien accompanied Claudet to
Auberive, where Maitre Arbillot drew up the deed of gift, and had it at
once signed and recorded. Afterward the young men adjourned to breakfast
at the inn. The meal was brief and silent. Neither seemed to have any
appetite. As soon as they had drunk their coffee, they turned back on
the Vivey road; but, when they had got as far as the great limetree,
standing at the entrance to the forest, Julien touched Claudet lightly on
the shoulder.
"Here," said he, "we must part company. You will return to Vivey, and I
shall go across the fields to La Thuiliere. I shall return as soon as I
have had an interview with Mademoiselle Vincart. Wait for me at the
chateau."
"The time will seem dreadfully long to me," sighed Claudet; "I shall not
know how to dispose of my body until you return."
"Your affair will be all settled within two or three hours from now.
Stay near the window of my room, and you will catch first sight of me
coming along in the distance. If I wave my hat, it will be a sign that I
bring a favorable answer."
Claudet pressed his hand; they separated, and Julien descended the newly
mown meadow, along which he walked under the shade of trees scattered
along the border line of the forest.
The heat of the midday sun was tempered by a breeze from the east, which
threw across the fields and woods the shadows of the white fleecy clouds.
The young man, pale and agitated, strode with feverish haste over the
short-cropped grass, while the little brooklet at his side seemed to
murmur a flute-like, soothing accompaniment to the tumultuous beatings of
his heart. He was both elated and depressed at the prospect of
submitting his already torn and lacerated feelings to so severe a trial.
The thought of beholding Reine again, and of sounding her feelings, gave
him a certain amount of cruel enjoyment. He would speak to her of love--
love for another, certainly--but he would throw into the declaration he
was making, in behalf of another, some of his own tenderness; he would
have the supreme and torturing satisfaction of watching her countenance,
of anticipating her blushes, of gathering the faltering avowal from her
lips. He would once more drink of the intoxication of her beauty, and
then he would go and shut himself up at Vivey, after burying at La
Thuiliere all his dreams and profane desires. But, even while the
courage of this immolation of his youthful love was strong within him,
he could not prevent a dim feeling of hope from crossing his mind.
Claudet was not certain that he was beloved; and possibly Reine's answer
would be a refusal. Then he should have a free field.
By a very human, but very illogical impulse, Julien de Buxieres had
hardly concluded the arrangement with Claudet which was to strike the
fatal blow to his own happiness when he began to forestall the
possibilities which the future might have in store for him. The odor of
the wild mint and meadow-sweet, dotting the banks of the stream, again
awoke vague, happy anticipations. Longing to reach Reine Vincart's
presence, he hastened his steps, then stopped suddenly, seized with an
overpowering panic. He had not seen her since the painful episode in the
hut, and it must have left with her a very sorry impression. What could
he do, if she refused to receive him or listen to him?
While revolting these conflicting thoughts in his mind, he came to the
fields leading directly to La Thuiliere, and just beyond, across a waving
mass of oats and rye, the shining tops of the farm-buildings came in
sight. A few minutes later, he pushed aside a gate and entered the yard.
The shutters were closed, the outer gate was closed inside, and the house
seemed deserted. Julien began to think that the young girl he was
seeking had gone into the fields with the farm-hands, and stood uncertain
and disappointed in the middle of the courtyard. At this sudden
intrusion into their domain, a brood of chickens, who had been clucking
sedately around, and picking up nourishment at the same time, scattered
screaming in every direction, heads down, feet sprawling, until by
unanimous consent they made a beeline for a half-open door, leading to
the orchard. Through this manoeuvre, the young man's attention was
brought to the fact that through this opening he could reach the rear
facade of the building. He therefore entered a grassy lane, winding
round a group of stones draped with ivy; and leaving the orchard on his
left, he pushed on toward the garden itself--a real country garden with
square beds bordered by mossy clumps alternating with currant-bushes,
rows of raspberry-trees, lettuce and cabbage beds, beans and runners
climbing up their slender supports, and, here and there, bunches of red
carnations and peasant roses.
Suddenly, at the end of a long avenue, he discovered Reine Vincart,
seated on the steps before an arched door, communicating with the
kitchen. A plum-tree, loaded with its violet fruit, spread its light
shadow over the young girl's head, as she sat shelling fresh-gathered
peas and piling the faint green heaps of color around her. The sound of
approaching steps on the grassy soil caused her to raise her head, but
she did not stir. In his intense emotion, Julien thought the alley never
would come to an end. He would fain have cleared it with a single bound,
so as to be at once in the presence of Mademoiselle Vincart, whose
immovable attitude rendered his approach still more difficult.
Nevertheless, he had to get over the ground somehow at a reasonable pace,
under penalty of making himself ridiculous, and he therefore found plenty
of time to examine Reine, who continued her work with imperturbable
gravity, throwing the peas as she shelled them into an ash-wood pail at
her feet.
She was bareheaded, and wore a striped skirt and a white jacket fitted to
her waist. The checkered shadows cast by the tree made spots of light
and darkness over her face and her uncovered neck, the top button of her
camisole being unfastened on account of the heat. De Buxieres had been
perfectly well recognized by her, but an emotion, at least equal to that
experienced by the young man, had transfixed her to the spot, and a
subtle feminine instinct had urged her to continue her employment, in
order to hide the sudden trembling of her fingers. During the last
month, ever since the adventure in the hut, she had thought often of
Julien; and the remembrance of the audacious kiss which the young de
Buxieres had so impetuously stolen from her neck, invariably brought the
flush of shame to her brow. But, although she was very indignant at the
fiery nature of his caress, as implying a want of respect little in
harmony with Julien's habitual reserve, she was astonished at herself for
not being still more angry. At first, the affront put upon her had
roused a feeling of indignation, but now, when she thought of it,
she felt only a gentle embarrassment, and a soft beating of the heart.
She began to reflect that to have thus broken loose from all restraint
before her, this timid youth must have been carried away by an
irresistible burst of passion, and any woman, however high-minded she may
be, will forgive such violent homage rendered to the sovereign power of
her beauty. Besides his feeding of her vanity, another independent and
more powerful motive predisposed her to indulgence: she felt a tender and
secret attraction toward Monsieur de Buxieres. This healthy and
energetic girl had been fascinated by the delicate charm of a nature so
unlike her own in its sensitiveness and disposition to self-blame.
Julien's melancholy blue eyes had, unknown to himself, exerted a magnetic
influence on Reine's dark, liquid orbs, and, without endeavoring to
analyze the sympathy that drew her toward a nature refined and tender
even to weakness, without asking herself where this unreflecting instinct
might lead her, she was conscious of a growing sentiment toward him,
which was not very much unlike love itself.