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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 THE FARM OF MUICERON.
BY MARIE RHEIL.
FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.

XII.

The Sunday after the last day of the harvest, M. le Marquis invited
all the boys up to the château, where a magnificent banquet was
prepared, and they were expected to remain until the evening. He
ordered a splendid repast, and music besides; the principal barn,
which ordinarily was crammed full at this season, but that, owing to
the bad season, was comparatively empty, was decorated for the
occasion. Our master desired that nothing should be spared to make
the fête a great success. All the fine linen of the château—and the
closets were heaping-full of it—the china, and silver were put into
requisition, so that there never was given a more superb banquet to
great personages than to our delighted villagers. As for the
fricassée, it is remembered to this day; it was composed, to
commence with, of a dozen kinds of poultry, so well disguised under
different sauces that one ate chicken in confidence as chicken,
because it was so written on little strips of paper laid beside each
plate, but without being positive that it was not turkey or pigeon;
and every one agreed in acknowledging that such a delicious
compound had never passed down country throats, and that the
wines, if possible, surpassed the eating; so that the good fellows
commenced to be merry and perfectly happy when the roast
appeared.
Of this roast I will say a word before passing to other things, for I
fancy you have seldom seen it equalled. With all respect, imagine a
huge hog, weighing at least a hundred pounds, roasted whole,
beautifully gilded, and trimmed with ribbons, and reposing so quietly
on a plank covered with water-cresses you would have thought him
asleep.
It was really a curious and most appetizing sight, and sufficiently
rare to be remarked; but see how stupid some people are! On
seeing this superb dish, whose delicious perfume would have
brought the dead back to life—that is to say, if they were hungry—
some of the fellows said that M. le Marquis might have better chosen
another roast, as pork was something they ate all through the year.
Whereupon Master Ruinard, the head-cook of the château, made a
good-natured grimace, and apostrophized them as a heap of fools,
but without any other sign of displeasure; and then seizing his big
knife, that he sharpened with a knowing air, he cut the animal open,
and out tumbled snipe, woodcock, rennets, and partridges, done to
a turn, and of which each one had his good share. As for the hog,
no one touched it, which proved two things—first, that you must not
speak too soon; secondly, that when a great lord gives an
entertainment, it is always sure to be remarkably fine.
At the dessert, which was abundant in pastry, ice-cream, and fresh
and dried fruits, they served a delicate wine, the color of old straw,
the name of which I don't know exactly, but which was sweet and
not at all disagreeable. At this time, M. le Marquis, accompanied by
mademoiselle, Dame Berthe, and Jeannette, entered and mingled
with the guests, who rose and bowed low. Our good master thanked
the young men for the great service they had rendered him; and as
he could not drink with each one, he touched his glass to that of
Jean-Louis, saying it was to the health of all the commune. They
cried, "Long live M. le Marquis!" until the roof shook; and as their
heads were as heated as the boilers at the big yearly wash, they
whispered among themselves that it would be well to carry Jean-
Louis again in triumph, as much to please the master as to render
justice to him who was the cause of all this festivity.
Now, our Jean-Louis was the only one who remained composed after
all this eating and drinking. He had eaten with good appetite, and
fully quenched his thirst, but not one mouthful more than was
necessary. He heard all that was said without appearing to listen;
and when others might have felt vain, he was displeased; he
therefore watched his chance, slid under the table, and, working his
way like an eel between the legs of his comrades, who were too
busily occupied to notice him, in three seconds was out of the door,
running for dear life, for fear of being caught.
He was delighted to breathe the fresh air, and did not slacken his
pace until he had gone a good quarter of a league, and was near
Muiceron. Then he stopped to take breath, laughing aloud at the
good trick he had played.
"Thank goodness!" thought he, "I have at last escaped. They can
run as fast as they choose now; there is no chance of catching up
with me. What would M. le Marquis and the family have thought to
have seen me hoisted up on the shoulders of those half-tipsy
fellows, and paraded around the court, like a learned beast on a fair-
ground? Not knowing that I had come to the château only to oblige
the master, who had besides given me a valuable watch, it would
have looked as though I wished to receive in vain applause what I
refused in money. None of that, none of that for me; there is enough
nonsense going on, without my mixing myself up in it. They can
drink and dance until sunrise to-morrow, if they so please, it is all
the same to me; and I will go home to bed, after having told all to
my dear mother, who will not fail to approve of my conduct, and
laugh heartily at my escape."
As he said this to himself, he entered the wood, of which we have
already spoken, that skirts La Range and throws its shade nearly to
the fir-trees which surround Muiceron. It was such a delightful spot,
either by night or day, that it was difficult to pass through it without
feeling a disposition to loiter and meditate, particularly for such a
dreamer as Jean-Louis. After all, now that he was safe, there was
nothing to hurry him home for at least half an hour. He therefore put
his hands in his pockets, and strolled along, resting both mind and
body in a dreamy reverie for the benefit of the one, and walking
slowly to the great good of the other.
Really, the evening was delicious. The great heat of the day had
been succeeded by a fresh breeze, which, passing over the orchards
around, brought into the wood the sweet odor of young fruit,
mingled with that of the foliage and bark of the trees, damp with the
August sap. The hum of insects was heard, and not far off the
joyous murmur of the stream leaping over the stones. As the ground
had been thoroughly soaked for several weeks past, quantities of
wild flowers strewed the soil, and added to the balmy air a taste of
spring, entirely out of season. You surely must have felt, at some
time or other, how such nights and such scenes enervate the brain.
The will cannot resist the bewitching influence; insensibly we
become dreamers, and feel a strong desire to converse with the
stars. August nights especially are irresistible, and I imagine no one,
unless somebody depraved by wicked deeds and thoughts, or a born
idiot, can fail to understand and acknowledge the effect.
Judge if our Jean-Louis, with his pure soul and young heart of
twenty years, was happy in the midst of these gifts of the good God.
He was like a child who hears for the first time the sound of the
bagpipes; and I beg you will not sneer at this comparison, for the
reveries of an innocent heart have precisely the same gentle effect
on the soul as the grand harmonies that roll through vast cathedrals
on the great festivals of the church.
Doubtless, that he might better listen to this music, he seated
himself on the moss at the bottom of a birch-tree, rested his head
against the trunk, and looked up at the leaves, shaken by the wind,
his feet crossed, and in the most comfortable position possible, to
dream at his ease. Now, whether he was more fatigued than he
imagined, on account of his week's hard labor, or whether the
unusual feasting at the château made him drowsy, certain it is that
he first closed one eye, then both, and ended by falling as soundly
asleep as though he were in his bed at Muiceron.
It happened that, during this time, a storm arose behind the hill of
Chaumier, to the right of the river that runs through the parish of
Val-Saint and Ordonniers—something which our sleeper had not
foreseen, although he was very expert in judging of the weather.
Ordinarily, the river cuts the thunder-clouds, so that this side of La
Range is seldom injured by storms; but this time it was not so. At
the end of an hour or two that his sleep lasted, Jean-Louis was
suddenly awakened by a clap of thunder which nearly deafened him;
and in an instant the rain commenced to fall in great drops that
came down on his face, and of which he received the full benefit as
he lay stretched out on the grass.
He rose at a bound, and started off on a gallop, that his best clothes
might not be injured. Muiceron was not far distant, and the storm
had just commenced; he therefore hoped to reach the house in time
to escape it. Not that he thought only of his costume, like a vain,
effeminate boy, but because his mother Pierrette was very careful,
and did not like to see his Sunday suit spoiled or spotted with the
rain.
But the storm ran faster than he; the rain fell as from a great
watering-pot in the trees, lightning glared on all sides at once, and
one would have said that two thunder-clouds were warring against
each other, trying to see which could show the greatest anger.
In the midst of this infernal noise, Jean-Louis suddenly saw what he
thought, by the flash of lightning, to be a little brown form trotting
before him in the middle of the path. He was not a boy to be
alarmed by the raw-head-and-bloody-bones stories with which we
frighten children to make them behave, and which many grown-up
men, with beards on their chin, half believe to be true; but,
nevertheless, the thing appeared quite unusual. He hastened his
steps, and, as sometimes he could see in the lightning-glare as well
as at noonday, he soon recognized the costume of the women of the
country, or at least the cloak they throw over their clothes when the
weather is threatening.
"Oh!" said the kind-hearted Jeannet, "here is a poor little thing half
frightened to death on account of the storm. I must catch up with
her, and offer to take her to the village."
For Jean-Louis, although he had very little ever to do with girls, was
so kindly disposed he was always ready to be of service to his
neighbors, whether they wore blouses or petticoats.
But as he hurried on, that he might put in practice his charitable
thought, there came a flash of lightning that seemed to set the
woods on fire, and, immediately after, a terrible clap of thunder as
loud as though the heavens were rent asunder. Jeannet involuntarily
closed his eyes, and stopped short, fastened to the ground like a
stake. It was what the savants call—an electric shock. But don't
expect me to explain that expression, for I know nothing about it,
and, besides, I don't worry my head about such things.
When our boy opened his eyes, after one or two seconds, which
appeared to him very long, his first care was to explore the path, in
order that he might discover the unknown country-girl; but there
was nowhere to be seen a trace of a girl, a cloak, or anything that
resembled a human being.
"Well, this is at least singular," said he very uneasily. "Has my sight
grown dim? No; I would stake my head that I saw before me a
flesh-and-bone woman. I saw it—that I am positive and sure. If she
has been hurt by this stroke of lightning, which must surely have
fallen near here, she must be lying on the ground; for I have never
heard that the storm kills people by making them melt like snow
under the March sun."
This sudden disappearance excited him to such a degree that,
without thinking of the rain, which was pouring down in torrents,
and had drenched his new coat of Vierzon cloth, he resolved to enter
the copse, at the risk of losing his way, and search around until he
would discover the lost girl. But before leaving the beaten path, by a
sudden inspiration, he cried out with a loud voice:
"If there is any one here who needs assistance, let her speak. I will
bring two strong arms to the rescue."
Instantly a faint voice, stifled and weeping, replied, "Oh! for S.
Sylvain's sake, good people, have mercy on me!"
"Holy Virgin Mary!" cried Jean-Louis, "is not that the voice of my
sister Jeannette? She is the last person for three leagues around I
would have expected to find in such a plight at this hour of the
night. But I must be mistaken; it can't be possible."
And with that, more dead than alive from the violent palpitation of
the heart which suddenly seized him, Jean-Louis rushed towards a
thicket of young chestnut-trees that bordered the path, and from
which seemed to come the weak, mournful voice that implored pity.
He pushed aside the branches with a vigorous hand, and soon
discovered a girl, in cloak and hood, crouched upon the ground, and
so doubled up in a heap she could have been mistaken at first sight
for a large ant-heap or bundle of old rags left there by some passing
beggar.
"For the love of our Lord and Saviour, tell me who you are, and don't
be afraid of me," said Jeannet, leaning over the poor little thing.
She raised her head, and instantly let it fall again on her knees,
around which her hands were clasped; but as the lightning
continued without ceasing a moment, the movement sufficed for
Jean-Louis to recognize her.
It was really Jeanne Ragaud, but so paralyzed with fear, so wet and
fainting, she seemed about to breathe her last. Her piteous moans
were enough to break one's heart. Her whole body trembled, and
thus huddled up in the middle of the mud in the dense underbrush,
her situation was so perilous I verily believe she would have met her
death in that lonely spot, but for the assistance sent by Heaven.
"Jeanne, Jeanne!" cried Jean-Louis, coming close to her, "keep up
your courage, my darling. Rouse up, I beg of you. Be brave; you are
already chilled through. It is dangerous to remain in the woods in
such a storm."
But the poor little creature did not move. The fright and cold of the
terrible tempest had totally bewildered her. Jeannet vainly shook her
by the shoulders, trying to raise her on her feet, and to unclasp her
hands, which had stiffened around her knees. He could not make
her change her position in the least. What could be done? He did not
know precisely how long she had wandered in the wood before
falling down; and although he had just heard her speak a moment
before, he feared that she was about to die, as perhaps she had
been struck by lightning.
He made the sign of the cross, and invoked the angels of paradise.
Immediately he remembered that not far from this grove was a
miserable cabin, used by the wood-cutters, half tumbling down, but
still sufficiently sound to shelter a Christian. This thought gave him
fresh strength; and taking the little thing, doubled up as she was, in
his arms, he raised her from the ground, and carried her, without
stopping, to the wretched hut.
Well was it that he thought of this retreat, and, still better, that it
was not far distant; for Jeannette, although slender and not tall, was
in a dead faint, and consequently so heavy that Jeannet was
perfectly exhausted when he reached the shelter.
By a still greater mercy, he had his flint in his pocket, and, luckily, it
had not been injured by the dampness. He thus was able to strike a
light, after having laid the poor girl on the dry earthen floor. He
quickly lighted some handfuls of brush and straw that strewed the
ground, and by their smoky light discovered, in a corner of the
cabin, a good moss mattress, which the wood-men used when they
came to sleep in the place, and near by a little board, upon which
laid a packet of auribus—little resin candles very much used in our
province.
"May God be praised for helping me!" thought the brave boy,
delighted at having found poor little Jeannette. "It is a poor bed-
room in comparison with the fine apartments at the château, but
worth a palace when we think of the thicket just now."
He unfastened his sister's cloak, with a thousand respectful
precautions, just as he would have touched the veil that covers the
statue of Our Lady, and in the same manner took off her shoes and
stockings, which he found very difficult, as, owing to the dampness,
the fine thread stockings clung tightly to the skin. That
accomplished, he built up the fire with all the rubbish he could find,
and, turning the moss mattress in such a manner that Jeannette's
feet were in front of the fire, he stretched her gently upon it, and
seated himself beside her, waiting for her to recover her senses.
Thus passed half an hour without the little one stirring; fortunately,
her cloak was very thick, so that the rest of her clothes were not
wet, and he could thus hope for the best. But it was the first time
Jeannet had ever watched by the side of a fainting girl; and, not
knowing by experience what to do in such a case, the time seemed
to him very long before she revived. He himself was dripping wet,
and, although he scarcely gave it a thought, he shivered as one who
might soon have the chills-and-fever.
"It would be very queer if I also should have an inclination to faint;
what then would become of us?" thought Jean-Louis, who really
began to feel very uncomfortable.
As this idea entered his head, Jeannette moved her little feet before
the fire, and began to sigh, and then to yawn, which was the best
sign that there was no danger of dying, as there is always hope as
long as a sick person can yawn. A minute afterwards, she raised
herself, and looked around with astonished eyes that asked an
explanation.
"Well," said the happy Jeannet, "how do you feel, my poor little
sister?"
"Is it you?" she asked, still trembling. "O Jeannet! how frightened I
was."
And as she spoke, she tried to throw her arms around his neck, like
a child who seeks refuge in his mother's breast. Jean-Louis drew
back—something which was entirely different from his usual manner
of receiving her caresses.
"Are you angry?" said she. "I have done nothing wrong, except to
venture out to-night to return home; but the weather was not bad
when I started, and I did not dream of such a storm."
"I angry? Why should I be?" cried Jean-Louis, kissing both her
hands. "No, no, my pet; on the contrary, I am most happy to see
you a little restored. But I am thoroughly drenched with the rain;
that is the reason I don't wish you to touch me."
"That is true," said she; "I did not notice it before. What were you
doing before this good fire, instead of drying yourself?"
"I was looking at you," replied Jeannet innocently.
"Big goose!" cried the little thing laughing heartily with her usual
good humor. "Hadn't you any more sense than that? And now you
are just ready to catch the ague."
"Don't be uneasy, Jeannette; it is not the first time I have had a
check of perspiration. What I hope is that you will not suffer by this
adventure, any more than I. But tell me, why did you run away from
the fête at the very moment the dancing was about to commence?"
"I cannot say why," replied Jeannette. "Sometimes we have ideas we
must follow, whether or no. It is as though some one stronger than
we were pushing us by the shoulders the way he wished us to go.
To speak frankly, I saw you leave hastily, and I instantly became
more serious, and felt less desire to be amused. I said to myself,
Doubtless Jeannet, who is better than I, knows that father and
mother are alone waiting for him at Muiceron, and he cannot bear
the thought of their sitting up for him until late at night. And I, what
am I doing? Am I not also a child of the house? Jeannet will relate
all that happened at the dinner, and they will ask, 'And Jeannette?'
'Oh! yes, Jeannette; does Jeannette think of anything else but
amusing herself and talking nonsense far away from her parents?' At
these thoughts my heart throbbed so I nearly burst into tears; just
then mademoiselle was busy replying to the compliments every one
was offering her; so I left the barn, and went after my cloak, and,
without further reflection, started for Muiceron. You know how afraid
I am of thunder and lightning; when I saw the storm coming up, I
became bewildered, and don't know which way I went, but I
suppose it was the wrong one. When I regained what I thought was
the right path, the storm was still raging, and I would have died of
fright, but for you, my old fellow."
"Thank God you escaped this time!" said Jean-Louis, very much
touched by the simple recital, which showed the good heart of the
little girl; "but, nevertheless, you ran a great risk. Now, Jeannette,
let us hurry home; we must quit this place, as it must be late."
"I suppose it is," said she. "Haven't you your watch to see what time
it is?"
"I left it hanging up in my room," replied Jeannet. "I did not wish to
wear it when at dinner in the château, for fear it might look as
though I wished to display it before those who had none; and it is
well I did not take it, as it would have been ruined by the rain."
"How can I walk barefooted?" asked Jeannette. "I can't put on my
wet stockings."
"And your shoes still less," replied her brother, laughing. "But if you
will let me, Jeannette, I can carry you."
"Poor Jeannet! Not at all; it would be too much for you," said she.
"Go to Muiceron, and bring me my wooden shoes. It is all quiet now
outside; I don't hear any noise, and I will not be afraid to remain
here alone for a little while."
It was really the best and shortest way of getting over the difficulty.
Jean-Louis opened the door of the cabin, and saw that the sky was
clear and bright; not this time with the lightning's glare, but with the
soft rays of the moon and beautiful stars of the good God. All was
quiet and peaceful, except that great drops fell from the trees, still
wet with the heavy rain, and that the ruts in the road were filled
with water, that made them look like little rivulets.
"Watch the fire, Jeannette, and be patient ten minutes," said he;
"and in two strides I will be there and back again."
It took a little longer time than that to return, as on entering the
farm he met Ragaud, who was looking to see if the storm had
injured the palings around the barn-yard, and was therefore obliged
to stop and in a few words relate the night's adventure.
The good man, while grumbling and scolding at the imprudence of
his daughter, who, he said, had no more sense than a child six years
old, felt fearfully anxious, as was easily shown by the rapid questions
he asked Jean-Louis. To assure himself that nothing was kept
behind, and that the boy, from kindness of heart, had not disguised
the truth, he hastily took down his big woollen scarf from the hook,
and hurried off.
"I will lecture the giddy child well," said he. "Go before, Jeannet; I
will follow you. It is not far, so hurry."
"Mother will be anxious," said Jeannet. "Let me go alone; I will be
back the sooner."
"Your mother has been asleep a long time," replied Ragaud, "or else
she would have been on our heels before this, and we would have
had to carry her back also. Fasten the bolt, without any noise, and
let us be off."
With that they started. Ragaud was quick and light for his age, and
they proceeded at a rapid rate, which soon brought them to their
journey's end. Jean-Louis carried a bright lantern and a bundle of
woollen stockings and wooden shoes he had taken at random out of
the chest; for it was all-important that Jeannette's feet should be
well warmed, and that she should be in her comfortable bed as soon
as possible, so as to prevent fresh chills.
It was nearly midnight when they reached the hut, which enables us
to see what a long time had elapsed since Jean-Louis' flight from the
château, what a good sound sleep he had had in the wood, and
proves that the storm and Jeannette's swoon were not slight affairs.
As soon as they entered—Jeannet the first, Ragaud behind him—
they saw that the lantern was a wise precaution. The heap of brush-
wood was burnt up, and there was no light, except from a little pile
of red ashes, as even the resin candle glued to the wall was
flickering and falling in big drops, which announced its speedy death.
"Here we are, my Jeanne," cried Jean-Louis from the threshold of
the door. "Father is with me, and we have brought fresh lights."
No answer. The child was so weak and faint, it looked as though she
had swooned again. Ragaud, at this sight, forgot the scolding he
intended giving his daughter by way of welcome, and, leaning over
her, placed his hand on her forehead, which was icy cold.
"She is very ill, I tell you," murmured the good man. "Bring the
lantern here, Jeannet. God have mercy on me, how pale the poor
child is!... Jeanne, Jeanne, don't you know us?"
"Ah! yes, my father," she whispered, looking languidly at him. "I
hear you, but I am so sleepy ... so sleepy ... I can't talk."
"But you must wake up, and leave this place," said Ragaud. "Try and
rouse yourself, my child; in five minutes we will be at the house."
She made the effort, and tried to stand on her feet; but for Jeannet,
who was near and caught her, she would have fallen down.
"I am so tired!" she said again, closing her eyes.
"Shall we carry you on a chair to see the king?" asked Jean-Louis.
"Perhaps that will be the best way."
"Yes, yes," said she, smiling at this remembrance of her childhood;
"that will be fun."
Undoubtedly you know what is a chair to see the king? It is a child's
play, which generally is done by three persons—two boys and a girl;
the boys clasp hands in such a manner that a good seat is made for
the girl, who thus, without any fatigue to the bearers, can be carried
as easily as in a carriage.
Ragaud highly approved of the idea. Jeannet, who thought of
everything, tied the lantern to a piece of cord, and suspended it to
Jeannette's neck, who recovered enough strength to laugh; and
thus, well lighted and very happy, they started on their return to the
farm, which they soon reached safe and sound.
They entered Muiceron by the kitchen door, so softly that Pierrette,
who was sleeping in the big front room, did not hear the slightest
noise. Jeannette appeared perfectly restored; she was gay, although
still pale and shivering; but she assured them the warmth of the bed
would soon make her feel better. So they embraced, and, after many
good-nights, retired to their rooms.
The next morning Ragaud told Pierrette all the events of the
preceding night, but forbade her entering Jeannette's room, for fear
she might be awakened too soon after her great fatigue; but at the
same time, unable to restrain his own curiosity, he took off his
wooden shoes, softly lifted the latch, walked on tiptoe to the bed,
and peeped between the curtains, just to see, for a second, how the
child was resting.
Alas! poor Jeannette was sitting up in bed, her face on fire, her eyes
wandering in delirium, her whole body burning with fever. She knew
no one. Her excitement was so great she beat the air with her bare
arms, while her throat was so choked up the voice was nearly
stifled. Ragaud thought she was dying; he uttered a loud cry, which
brought Pierrette to the bedside, where the poor mother fell down,
half fainting with grief and fright.
In an instant the whole farm was in a tumult. Big Marion set up a
blubbering, crying that the child was dying; the cow-herds and
stable-boys burst into the room, and, seeing every one in tears,
began to whine in their turn without exactly knowing why. Jean-
Louis alone, when he saw his sister's dreadful condition, did not
shed a tear or make a sound, but, darting out of the room like an
arrow, leaped on a horse's bare back, and galloped off for the
doctor, who lived half a league beyond Val-Saint, towards the large
town of Preuilly.
By good fortune, he found him at home, as it was quite early; and,
while explaining the pressing case that brought him, spied the
doctor's wagon under the shed, and quickly harnessed to it the
horse which he had ridden, so that, in less time than it takes to say
it, doctor, wagon, horse, and Jean-Louis were on the way to
Muiceron, and reached there before any one else had thought that,
before such great lamentation, no matter what was the trouble, it
would have been better to have run promptly for assistance.
And here you will excuse me if I add, by way of advice, that
presence of mind, which is not counted among the virtues, is one
nevertheless, and not at all to be disdained in the life of this world;
and, therefore, I beg of you always to keep a good share in reserve,
for I do not doubt you may soon find use for it, if not to-day,
perhaps to-morrow, and you will always do well to remember what I
say.

XIII.

The doctor, on seeing the room of the patient filled with people
lamenting from useless tenderness of heart, instead of doing
something for her relief, began by being very angry. He was a good
man, rather rough and coarse in manner, but skilful in his profession,
and understood perfectly how to manage peasants, for he had
always practised in the country, and was himself of the upper class
of villagers.
"What is such a lot of noisy, lazy bawlers doing around a sick girl,
who needs air and quiet?" he cried. "Get out of here, the whole of
you, and don't one dare come within ten yards. You, Ragaud, can
stay if you choose, but keep as quiet as you are now, and don't look
as if you were more dead than alive, with your miserable face a foot
long; you, Mme. Ragaud, stop hugging your daughter. Let her go;
don't you see you are smothering her? And above all, don't be
dropping your tears on her face; she don't know you. Jean-Louis,
don't stir from here; you are reasonable and courageous, and will be
useful to me. And now open the window, and let out this smell of
the stables brought by those abominable cow-herds, who ought to
have been driven out with a pitchfork. Good. Now tell me what has
happened to this child."
All being thus quieted, and the room purified by the fresh morning
air, which came freely in through the open window, a slight change
for the better was soon seen in Jeannette. She let them lay her head
on the pillow, and, although she was still insensible, her pretty face,
crimson and swollen with the fever, looked less excited. The doctor
counted her pulse while he listened to the night's adventure, which
was correctly related by Jean-Louis, as neither the father nor mother
could have put two ideas together at that particular moment.
"Just as I thought," said the doctor; "a violent fever brought on by
exposure to the cold, and wet feet. All the danger is in the head, and
I do not deny that it is very great. The child has a cerebral fever; do
you understand? Cerebral means of the brain. Now the brain is the
inside of the head; so the sickness is there, under this beautiful
blonde hair, which you must instantly cut off. I hope, Mme. Ragaud,
you will not hesitate to sacrifice your daughter's hair to save her
life?"
"O my God!" cried poor Pierrette, sobbing. "Do what you please, my
dear doctor; if it would be of any use to cut off one of my arms, I
would willingly allow it."
"Yes, my good woman, but that would not help you much, and her
not at all; so keep your arms, we will need them for something else.
Come, we must relieve her. Jump in the wagon, Jeannet, and go to
the château, and tell them to send me some ice, mustard, and other
things that I will write on this slip of paper; and remember to tell
mademoiselle not to be uneasy, and not to put her foot in this house
short of a week. While waiting for the return of Jean-Louis, Mme.
Ragaud, draw a bucket of water from the well, and bring it to me
immediately."
Poor Pierrette obeyed without saying a word, which was very
beautiful in her; for hearing it announced that her daughter was ill
from cold, the words ice and well-water confused her terribly. She
had already been horrified when commanded to open the window.
Indeed, Dr. Aubry was no fool, as had been well proved for twenty
years; and the best way was to think that he knew what he was
about, no matter how unreasonable his words might sound.
Jean-Louis performed his errand with his usual promptitude; he
brought back what was needed for the first applications. During his
absence, the doctor had constantly applied bandages, soaked in very
cold water, to Jeannette's head; but that was not effective enough,
and, as soon as the ice was brought from the château, he prepared
to use it. It was the moment to accomplish the sacrifice of
Jeannette's beautiful hair, which was still dressed as for the previous
night's dance. To tell the truth, the thick, heavy braids were enough
to weigh down the poor sick head. Pierrette showed great courage;
she only cared for the relief of her child. As for the doctor, he
thought no more of cutting off this splendid hair than of pulling up a
bunch of nettle out of the flower-beds in his garden.
Ragaud sat as though nailed to his chair, and seemed neither to hear
nor see anything passing around him. You would have pitied the
poor old man. But our Jeannet, so brave until then, could not look
on indifferently at the murderous play of the scissors around that
dear head, which would so soon be shorn of its crowning beauty. As
the doctor cut off a tress and threw it on the floor, as if it were a
noxious weed, he picked it up and smoothed it with his hand, as
though to repay by caresses the condemnation it had received. Thus
he soon had all the fair hair in his hands; and then, as he thought
that soon—too soon, perhaps—it might be the only living vestige of
Jeannette, his courage vanished; he sank on a chair near the
window, hid his face in the mass of hair, that was still warm, and
sobbed as though his heart would break....
This touched Dr. Aubry, who was kind-hearted under his rough
exterior. He never talked sentiment, being too much accustomed to
tears and lamentations around sick-beds; but he loved Jeannet, and
thought him more refined and superior in tone to the surrounding
boys. So he approached the poor child, and, tapping him on the
shoulder, he said by way of consolation: "Bah! you big ninny, that
will improve her hair; in one year it will be handsomer and thicker
than ever, and you will have enough of this to make a hundred yards
of watch-chain."
"In one year!" cried Jean-Louis, who only heard this word of all the
fine consolation. "Then you don't think she will die?"
"What are you talking about? Die? A beautiful young girl of
seventeen, who has always been healthy and good, don't die from
having got her feet soaked on a stormy night. Be reasonable, follow
my orders, keep everything around quiet and fresh, don't fatigue her
with words and embraces when she recovers her senses, and, with
the help of God, I will answer for her."
"Oh!" said Jean-Louis, throwing his arms around the doctor's neck,
"may Heaven listen to you, M. Aubry!"
These cheering words brought old Ragaud back to life; big tears
rolled from his dry, fixed eyes, and relieved him greatly. Pierrette fell
on her knees by the bedside; for, before thanking the doctor, it was
right to raise her heart to God, who saw further still than he.
M. Aubry again repeated his orders, which he always did—oftener six
times than once with his village patients; for it must be
acknowledged we are very stupid about nursing, and, outside of the
common remedies, which are purgatives, emetics, and quinine to
break the fever, all the rest of the medical gibberish appears to us
very strange, and often rather contrary to good sense. That is the
reason those who are cured burn a candle to S. Sylvain. But for his
kind protection, there would be as many deaths as sick people; and
if you find fault with that expression, I will tell you that I am very
sorry for it, but that is the way we talk, and I cannot express myself
differently or more delicately than I was taught.
The doctor drove off in his wagon, to which the farm-horse was still
harnessed, and he had the privilege of keeping it several days, which
was a great convenience to him, as his own beast was out at
pasture. He took care to pass by Val-Saint, where he found
mademoiselle very anxious and sad about her god-daughter's
accident. As soon as she heard it was a serious illness, she rushed to
the bell, crying that she must have the carriage immediately to go to
her darling; but M. Aubry, who had his own way with every one,
caught her by the arm.
"I beg your pardon," said he; "but you are not going there at all."
"Why not?" she asked. "I cannot stay here without seeing my
Jeanne, when I know she is suffering."
"You shall not go," repeated M. Aubry firmly. "It would be dangerous
for you; and I am your physician as well as hers."
"What nonsense!" said mademoiselle, who, gentle as she was, did
not like him to oppose her. "You will never make me believe a brain
fever is contagious."
"That is yet to be seen," replied M. Aubry, who could lie when
necessary as well as any dentist; "and, if you should get sick, I
declare that, daughter of a marquis as you are, I would not have the
time to take care of you. At this moment I have more sick people—
maimed, wounded, and down with fever—than I can manage, and I
don't want another case; without counting that your château is
perched up as high as the devil, and, to get up here, I would lose
half a day."
"You horrid man!" said mademoiselle, who could not help smiling,
for she knew the doctor's way, and never took offence at what he
said. "You talk like a car-driver; but you are perfectly capable of
doing as you say, so I dare not risk it. But when can I go?"
"We will see about that; neither to-morrow nor next day, nor for
several days after. I will come and bring news of her."
"But how will you find time, with all your patients?" asked
mademoiselle, delighted to catch the doctor in a little falsehood.
"You give me the change for my money," said M. Aubry, laughing in
his turn. "I see you are as malicious as ever. Well, then, to speak
frankly, it is not the contagion that I fear, but your chattering and
gabbling, which never stop. If La Ragaudine recovers, it will depend
upon quiet and repose. Not even the buzzing of a fly must be heard
in her room for a week; therefore, it would be useless for you to go
there. But now you can act as you think proper."
"You should have told me this at first," said mademoiselle. "I will not
go; but promise me you will always tell the truth about her, and
never conceal any danger."
"My God! no," said the doctor quietly; "and, to commence, since you
do not wish me to disguise the truth, I will tell you that, if Jeanne
Ragaud does not recover her senses to-night, she will be dead to-
morrow at twelve o'clock."
"But you are a monster!" cried mademoiselle, the tears streaming
from her eyes. "How can you be so hard-hearted as to tell me such
news without any preparation?"
"There!" said the doctor, "you are off again. I thought you wished
me to tell you the whole truth."
"My poor Jeanne! Dead to-morrow!" sobbed mademoiselle.
"One moment—pay attention to what I say—if she does not recover
her senses to-night; but she will, for she was already a little better
before I left Muiceron."
"Oh! I wish you would go away!" cried mademoiselle. "I hate to hear
you talk; you will set me wild.... Come now, doctor, speak seriously:
is poor dear Jeannette really in danger?"
"I tell you yes, but I have great hope. And now I am going away;
you are not angry with me, dear mademoiselle?"
"I will have to forgive you," said she, giving him her hand; "but
know well that I detest you from the bottom of my heart, and, when
I am sick, I will send for another doctor."
"Bah! I bet you won't," replied M. Aubry, perfectly unmoved; "you
are so amiable and gentle when the fever comes on!"
Mademoiselle laughed through her tears; she knew from experience
it was not easy to have the last word with M. Aubry, and she let him
go without further discussion.
The good God showed that he loved Muiceron. For three days
Jeannette was very ill, after which her youth and good constitution
overcame the disease. M. Aubry declared he would answer with his
head for hers, and soon the dear child recovered strength and color.
But this was the moment to be careful; for convalescence is very
uncertain and dangerous, they say, in such a case, and the least
imprudence will suffice to cause a relapse. Therefore the doctor for
ever repeated:
"Attend to what I say; because she is better, that is no reason to
think she is cured. Don't let her stir any more than you would let
loose a chicken among the fir-trees; these affections of the brain are
terrible if there is a relapse."
That word, affections, was another that Pierrette could not manage
to understand; each time he said it she was terribly perplexed, and
looked intently at the doctor, to see if he could not use a more
appropriate one in its place.
"For," thought she, "I see nothing affectionate in such a wicked fever
that nearly brought my daughter to the threshold of the grave.
Whoever does or speaks ill is always called a great enemy; and I
don't think an enemy can ever be affectionate, or friendly, or
anything else of the sort."
And you will acknowledge the argument was not bad for a good
countrywoman, who knew nothing except to read her Mass-prayers
by force of habit.
It is not necessary to inform you that all the people around were
very much interested in Jeannette's illness; and if there is a
consolation that softens the bitterness of grief, it is surely that which
is given by friends who offer to share trouble. Many of the neighbors
were anxious to relieve Pierrette by taking her place at night; but
you understand that a mother is always mother, and, unless she had
fallen dead at her daughter's bedside, she would yield her post to no
one. Happily, the great danger which demanded such extreme care
did not last long; and as at the end of a week the fever left
Jeannette, and she then slept tranquilly the greater part of the night,
Pierrette consented to lie down, without undressing, on a little bed
temporarily placed in the sick-room by Jean-Louis, and thus was
enabled to obtain some rest.
But many weeks elapsed before Jeannette was strong enough to
resume her accustomed life; and as she daily felt herself improving,
the great difficulty was to keep her quiet in bed, and furnish her
amusement, so that she would not get up too soon, at the risk of
falling ill again; and here, again, Jean-Louis, with his devotion and
thoughtfulness, provided a remedy.
Not far off lived a beautiful young girl, a year or two older than
Jeannette, and the friend of her childhood, named Solange Luguet,
the sister of Pierre; she was tall, rather thin and pale, like Jean-
Louis, whom she somewhat resembled in features and character.
This will not astonish you, as I have already told you they were first-
cousins without knowing it; and, whether legitimate or illegitimate,
near relatives generally have a certain family resemblance.
Solange led a retired life, some said from piety, others from shyness.
She was a skilful seamstress, and embroidered beautifully;
consequently, she never wanted work, and passed her time by her
little window, sewing from morning till night. Jean-Louis was very
fond of her. He often wished Jeannette's tastes and habits were as
quiet, and he sometimes held up Solange to her as a model. But
Jeannette's character was entirely different, and what seemed to
Solange the perfection of happiness would have been miserably
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