Books: A Woodland Queen, v3
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Andre Theuriet >> A Woodland Queen, v3
The next morning, May 20th, he is awakened by a general hubbub and noise
of fighting. The battalion to which he belongs has made an attack upon
Montebello, and is sending its sharpshooters among the cornfields and
vineyards. Some of the regiments invade the rice-fields, climb the walls
of the vineyards, and charge the enemy's column-ranks. The sullen roar
of the cannon alternates with the sharp report of guns, and whole showers
of grape-shot beat the air with their piercing whistle. All through the
uproar of guns and thunder of the artillery, you can distinguish the
guttural hurrahs of the Austrians, and the broken oaths of the French
troopers. The trenches are piled with dead bodies, the trumpets sound
the attack, the survivors, obeying an irresistible impulse, spring to the
front. The ridges are crested with human masses swaying to and fro, and
the first red uniform is seen in the streets of Montebello, in relief
against the chalky facades bristling with Austrian guns, pouring forth
their ammunition on the enemy below. The soldiers burst into the houses,
the courtyards, the enclosures; every instant you hear the breaking open
of doors, the crashing of windows, and the scuffling of the terrified
inmates. The white uniforms retire in disorder. The village belongs to
the French! Not just yet, though. From the last houses on the street,
to the entrance of the cemetery, is rising ground, and just behind stands
a small hillock. The enemy has retrenched itself there, and, from its
cannons ranged in battery, is raining a terrible shower on the village
just evacuated.
The assailants hesitate, and draw back before this hailstorm of iron;
suddenly a general appears from under the walls of a building already
crumbling under the continuous fire, spurs his horse forward, and shouts:
"Come, boys, let us carry the fort!"
Among the first to rally to this call, one rifleman in particular, a
fine, broad-shouldered active fellow, with a brown moustache and olive
complexion, darts forward to the point indicated. It is Claudet.
Others are behind him, and soon more than a hundred men, with their
bayonets, are hurling themselves along the cemetery road; the grand
chasserot leaps across the fields, as he used formerly in pursuit of the
game in the Charbonniere forest. The soldiers are falling right and left
of him, but he hardly sees them; he continues pressing forward,
breathless, excited, scarcely stopping to think. As he is crossing one
of the meadows, however, he notices the profusion of scarlet gladiolus
and also observes that the rye and barley grow somewhat sturdier here
than in his country; these are the only definite ideas that detach
themselves clearly from his seething brain. The wall of the cemetery is
scaled; they are fighting now in the ditches, killing one another on the
side of the hill; at last, the fort is taken and they begin routing the
enemy. But, at this moment, Claudet stoops to pick up a cartridge, a
ball strikes him in the forehead, and, without a sound, he drops to the
ground, among the noisome fennels which flourish in graveyards--he drops,
thinking of the clock of his native village.
......................
"I have sad news for you," said Julien to Reine, as he entered the garden
of La Thuiliere, one June afternoon.
He had received official notice the evening before, through the mayor, of
the decease of "Germain-Claudet Sejournant, volunteer in the seventeenth
battalion of light infantry, killed in an engagement with the enemy, May
20, 1859."
Reine was standing between two hedges of large peasant-roses. At the
first words that fell from M. de Buxieres's lips, she felt a presentiment
of misfortune.
"Claudet?" murmured she.
"He is dead," replied Julien, almost inaudibly, "he fought bravely and
was killed at Montebello."
The young girl remained motionless, and for a moment de Buxieres thought
she would be able to bear, with some degree of composure, this
announcement of the death in a foreign country of a man whom she had
refused as a husband. Suddenly she turned aside, took two or three
steps, then leaning her head and folded arms on the trunk of an adjacent
tree, she burst into a passion of tears. The convulsive movement of her
shoulders and stifled sobs denoted the violence of her emotion. M. de
Buxieres, alarmed at this outbreak, which he thought exaggerated, felt a
return of his old misgivings. He was jealous now of the dead man whom
she was so openly lamenting. Her continued weeping annoyed him; he tried
to arrest her tears by addressing some consolatory remarks to her; but,
at the very first word, she turned away, mounted precipitately the
kitchen-stairs, and disappeared, closing the door behind her. Some
minutes after, La Guite brought a message to de Buxieres that Reine
wished to be alone, and begged him to excuse her.
He took his departure, disconcerted, downhearted, and ready to weep
himself, over the crumbling of his hopes. As he was nearing the first
outlying houses of the village, he came across the Abbe Pernot, who was
striding along at a great rate, toward the chateau.
"Ah!" exclaimed the priest, "how are you, Monsieur de Buxieres, I was
just going over to see you. Is it true that you have received bad news?"
Julien nodded his head affirmatively, and informed the cure of the sad
notice he had received. The Abbe's countenance lengthened, his mouth
took on a saddened expression, and during the next few minutes he
maintained an attitude of condolence.
"Poor fellow!" he sighed, with a slight nasal intonation, "he did not
have a fair chance! To have to leave us at twenty-six years of age, and
in full health, it is very hard. And such a jolly companion; such a
clever shot!"
Finally, not being naturally of a melancholy turn of mind, nor able to
remain long in a mournful mood, he consoled himself with one of the pious
commonplaces which he was in the habit of using for the benefit of
others: "The Lord is just in all His dealings, and holy in all His works;
He reckons the hairs of our heads, and our destinies are in His hands.
We shall celebrate a fine high mass for the repose of Claudet's soul."
He coughed, and raised his eyes toward Julien.
"I wished," continued he, "to see you for two reasons, Monsieur de
Buxieres: first of all, to hear about Claudet, and secondly, to speak to
you on a matter--a very delicate matter--which concerns you, but which
also affects the safety of another person and the dignity of the parish."
Julien was gazing at him with a bewildered air. The cure pushed open the
little park gate, and passing through, added:
"Let us go into your place; we shall be better able to talk over the
matter."
When they were underneath the trees, the Abbe resumed:
"Monsieur de Buxieres, do you know that you are at this present time
giving occasion for the tongues of my parishioners to wag more than is at
all reasonable? Oh!" continued he, replying to a remonstrating gesture
of his companion, "it is unpremeditated on your part, I am sure, but, all
the same, they talk about you--and about Reine."
"About Mademoiselle Vincart?" exclaimed Julien, indignantly, "what can
they say about her?"
"A great many things which are displeasing to me. They speak of your
having sprained your ankle while in the company of Reine Vincart; of your
return home in her wagon; of your frequent visits to La Thuiliere, and I
don't know what besides. And as mankind, especially the female portion,
is more disposed to discover evil than good, they say you are
compromising this young person. Now, Reine is living, as one may say,
alone and unprotected. It behooves me, therefore, as her pastor,
to defend her against her own weakness. That is the reason why I have
taken upon myself to beg you to be more circumspect, and not trifle with
her reputation."
"Her reputation?" repeated Julien, with irritation. "I do not
understand you, Monsieur le Cure!"
"You don't, hey! Why, I explain my meaning pretty clearly. Human beings
are weak; it is easy to injure a girl's reputation, when you try to make
yourself agreeable, knowing you can not marry her."
"And why could I not marry her?" inquired Julien, coloring deeply.
"Because she is not in your own class, and you would not love her enough
to overlook the disparity, if marriage became necessary."
"What do you know about it?" returned Julien, with violence. "I have no
such foolish prejudices, and the obstacles would not come from my side.
But, rest easy, Monsieur," continued he, bitterly, "the danger exists
only in the imagination of your parishioners. Reine has never cared for
me! It was Claudet she loved!"
"Hm, hm!" interjected the cure, dubiously.
"You would not doubt it," insisted de Buxieres, provoked at the Abbe's
incredulous movements of his head, "if you had seen her, as I saw her,
melt into tears when I told her of Sejournant's death. She did not even
wait until I had turned my back before she broke out in her lamentations.
My presence was of very small account. Ah! she has but too cruelly made
me feel how little she cares for me!"
"You love her very much, then?" demanded the Abbe, slyly, an almost
imperceptible smile curving his lips.
"Oh, yes! I love her," exclaimed he, impetuously; then coloring and
drooping his head. "But it is very foolish of me to betray myself,
since Reine cares nothing at all for me!"
There was a moment of silence, during which the curb took a pinch of
snuff from a tiny box of cherry wood.
"Monsieur de Buxieres;" said he, With a particularly oracular air,
"Claudet is dead, and the dead, like the absent, are always in the wrong.
But who is to say whether you are not mistaken concerning the nature of
Reine's unhappiness? I will have that cleared up this very day. Good-
night; keep quiet and behave properly."
Thereupon he took his departure, but, instead of returning to the
parsonage, he directed his steps hurriedly toward La Thuiliere.
Notwithstanding a vigorous opposition from La Guite, he made use of his
pastoral authority to penetrate into Reine's apartment, where he shut
himself up with her. What he said to her never was divulged outside the
small chamber where the interview took place. He must, however, have
found words sufficiently eloquent to soften her grief, for when he had
gone away the young girl descended to the garden with a soothed although
still melancholy mien. She remained a long time in meditation in the
thicket of roses, but her meditations had evidently no bitterness in
them, and a miraculous serenity seemed to have spread itself over her
heart like a beneficent balm.
A few days afterward, during the unpleasant coolness of one of those
mornings, white with dew, which are the peculiar privilege of the
mountain-gorges in Langres, the bells of Vivey tolled for the dead,
announcing the celebration of a mass in memory of Claudet. The grand
chasserot having been a universal favorite with every one in the
neighborhood, the church was crowded. The steep descent from the high
plain overlooked the village. They came thronging in through the wooded
glens of Praslay; by the Auberive road and the forests of Charbonniere;
companions in hunting and social amusements, foresters and wearers of
sabots, campers in the woods, inmates of the farms embedded in the
forests--none failed to answer the call. The rustic, white-walled nave
was too narrow to contain them all, and the surplus flowed into the
street. Arbeltier, the village carpenter, had erected a rudimentary
catafalque, which was draped in black and bordered with wax tapers, and
placed in front of the altar steps. On the pall, embroidered with silver
tears, were arranged large bunches of wild flowers, sent from La
Thuiliere, and spreading an aromatic odor of fresh verdure around. The
Abbe Pernot, wearing his insignia of mourning, officiated. Through the
side windows were seen portions of the blue sky; the barking of the dogs
and singing of birds were heard in the distance; and even while listening
to the 'Dies irae', the curb could not help thinking of the robust and
bright young fellow who, only the year previous, had been so joyously
traversing the woods, escorted by Charbonneau and Montagnard, and who was
now lying in a foreign land, in the common pit of the little cemetery of
Montebello.
As each verse of the funeral service was intoned, Manette Sejournant,
prostrate on her prie-dieu, interrupted the monotonous chant with
tumultuous sobs. Her grief was noisy and unrestrained, but those present
sympathized more with the quiet though profound sorrow of Reine Vincart.
The black dress of the young girl contrasted painfully with the dead
pallor of her complexion. She emitted no sighs, but, now and then, a
contraction of the lips, a trembling of the hands testified to the inward
struggle, and a single tear rolled slowly down her cheek.
From the corner where he had chosen to stand alone, Julien de Buxieres
observed, with pain, the mute eloquence of her profound grief, and became
once more a prey to the fiercest jealousy. He could not help envying the
fate of this deceased, who was mourned in so tender a fashion. Again the
mystery of an attachment so evident and so tenacious, followed by so
strange a rupture, tormented his uneasy soul. "She must have loved
Claudet, since she is in mourning for him," he kept repeating to himself,
"and if she loved him, why this rupture, which she herself provoked, and
which drove the unhappy man to despair?"
At the close of the absolution, all the assistants defiled close beside
Julien, who was now standing in front of the catafalque. When it came to
Reine Vincart's turn, she reached out her hand to M. de Buxieres; at the
same time, she gazed at him with such friendly sadness, and infused into
the clasp of her hand something so cordial and intimate that the young
man's ideas were again completely upset. He seemed to feel as if it were
an encouragement to speak. When the men and women had dispersed, and a
surging of the crowd brought him nearer to Reine, he resolved to follow
her, without regard to the question of what people would say, or the
curious eyes that might be watching him.
A happy chance came in his way. Reine Vincart had gone home by the path
along the outskirts of the wood and the park enclosure. Julien went
hastily back to the chateau, crossed the gardens, and followed an
interior avenue, parallel to the exterior one, from which he was
separated only by a curtain of linden and nut trees. He could just
distinguish, between the leafy branches, Reine's black gown, as she
walked rapidly along under the ashtrees. At the end of the enclosure,
he pushed open a little gate, and came abruptly out on the forest path.
On beholding him standing in advance of her, the young girl appeared more
surprised than displeased. After a momentary hesitation, she walked
quietly toward him.
"Mademoiselle Reine," said he then, gently, "will you allow me to
accompany you as far as La Thuiliere?"
"Certainly," she replied, briefly.
She felt a presentiment that something decisive was about to take place
between her and Julien, and her voice trembled as she replied. Profiting
by the tacit permission, de Buxieres walked beside Reine; the path was so
narrow that their garments rustled against each other, yet he did not
seem in haste to speak, and the silence was interrupted only by the
occasional flight of a bird, or the crackling of some falling branches.
"Reine," said Julien, suddenly, "you have so often and so kindly extended
to me the hand of friendship, that I have decided to speak frankly,
and open my heart to you. I love you, Reine, and have loved you for a
long time. But I have been so accustomed to hide what I think, I know so
little how to conduct myself in the varying circumstances of life, and I
have so much mistrust of myself, that I never have dared to tell you
before now. This will explain to you my stupid behavior. I am suffering
the penalty to-day, for while I was hesitating, another took my place;
although he is dead, his shadow stands between us, and I know that you
love him still."
She listened to him with bent head and half-closed eyes, and her heart
began to beat violently.
"I never have loved him in the way you suppose," she replied, simply.
A gleam of light shot through Julien's melancholy blue eyes. Both
remained silent. The green pasture-lands, bathed in the full noonday
sun, were lying before them. The grasshoppers were chirping in the
bushes, and the skylarks were soaring aloft with their joyous songs.
Julien was endeavoring to extract the exact meaning from the reply he had
just heard. He was partly reassured, but some points had still to be
cleared up.
"But still," said he, "you are lamenting his loss."
A melancholy smile flitted for an instant over Reine's pure, rosy lips.
"Are you jealous of my tears?" said she, softly.
"Oh, yes!" he exclaimed, with sudden exultation, "I love you so entirely
that I can not help envying Claudet his share in your affections! If his
death causes you such poignant regret, he must have been nearer and
dearer to you than those that survive."
"You might reasonably suppose otherwise," replied she, almost in a
whisper, "since I refused to marry him."
He shook his head, seemingly unable to accept that positive statement.
Then Reine began to reflect that a man of his distrustful and despondent
temperament would, unless the whole truth were revealed to him,
be forevermore tormented by morbid and injurious misgivings. She knew he
loved her, and she wished him to love her in entire faith and security.
She recalled the last injunctions she had received from the Abbe Pernot,
and, leaning toward Julien, with tearful eyes and cheeks burning with
shame, she whispered in his ear the secret of her close relationship to
Claudet.
This painful and agitating confidence was made in so low a voice as to be
scarcely distinguished from the soft humming of the insects, or the
gentle twittering of the birds.
The sun was shining everywhere; the woods were as full of verdure and
blossoms as on the day when the young man had manifested his passion with
such savage violence. Hardly had the last words of her avowal expired on
Reine's lips, when Julien de Buxieres threw his arms around her and
fondly kissed away the tears from her eyes.
This time he was not repelled.
ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:
Accustomed to hide what I think
Consoled himself with one of the pious commonplaces
How small a space man occupies on the earth
More disposed to discover evil than good
Nature's cold indifference to our sufferings
Never is perfect happiness our lot
Plead the lie to get at the truth
The ease with which he is forgotten
Those who have outlived their illusions
Timidity of a night-bird that is made to fly in the day
Vexed, act in direct contradiction to their own wishes
You have considerable patience for a lover