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The weather was
most distressing. It had rained all night. The roaring of the overflowing
gutters filled the deserted streets, in which the houses, like sponges,
absorbed the humidity, which penetrating to the interior, made the walls sweat
from cellar to garret. Jeanne had left the convent the day before, free for all
time, ready to seize all the joys of life, of which she had dreamed so long. She
was afraid her father would not set out for the new home in bad weather, and
for the hundredth time since daybreak she examined the horizon. Then she
noticed that she had omitted to put her calendar in her travelling bag. She
took from the wall the little card which bore in golden figures the date of the
current year, 1819. Then she marked with a pencil the first four columns,
drawing a line through the name of each saint up to the 2d of May, the day that
she left the convent. A voice outside the door called “Jeannette.” Jeanne
replied, “Come in, papa.” And her father entered. Baron Simon-Jacques Le
Perthuis des Vauds was a gentleman of the last century, eccentric and good. An
enthusiastic disciple of Jean Jacques Rousseau, he had the tenderness of a
lover for nature, in the fields, in the woods and in the animals. Of
aristocratic birth, he hated instinctively the year 1793, but being a
philosopher by temperament and liberal by education, he execrated tyranny with
an inoffensive and declamatory hatred. His great strength and his great
weakness was his kind-heartedness, which had not arms enough to caress, to
give, to embrace; the benevolence of a god, that gave freely, without
questioning; in a word, a kindness of inertia that became almost a vice. A man
of theory, he thought out a plan of education for his daughter, to the end that
she might become happy, good, upright and gentle. She had lived at home until
the age of twelve, when, despite the tears of her mother, she was placed in the
Convent of the Sacred Heart. He had kept her severely secluded, cloistered, in
ignorance of the secrets of life. He wished the Sisters to restore her to him
pure at seventeen years of age, so that he might imbue her mind with a sort of
rational poetry, and by means of the fields, in the midst of the fruitful
earth, unfold her soul, enlighten her ignorance through the aspect of love in nature,
through the simple tenderness of the animals, through the placid laws of
existence. She was leaving the convent radiant, full of the joy of life, ready
for all the happiness, all the charming incidents which her mind had pictured
in her idle hours and in the long, quiet nights. She was like a portrait by
Veronese with her fair, glossy hair, which seemed to cast a radiance on her
skin, a skin with the faintest tinge of pink, softened by a light velvety down
which could be perceived when the sun kissed her cheek. Her eyes were an opaque
blue, like those of Dutch porcelain figures. She had a tiny mole on her left
nostril and another on the right of her chin. She was tall, well developed,
with willowy figure. Her clear voice sounded at times a little too sharp, but
her frank, sincere laugh spread joy around her. Often, with a familiar gesture,
she would raise her hands to her temples as if to arrange her hair.
She ran to her
father and embraced him warmly. “Well, are we going to start?” she said. He
smiled, shook his head and said, pointing toward the window, “How can we travel
in such weather?” But she implored in a cajoling and tender manner, “Oh, papa,
do let us start. It will clear up in the afternoon.” “But your mother will
never consent to it.” “Yes, I promise you that she will, I will arrange that.” “If
you succeed in persuading your mother, I am perfectly willing.” In a few
moments she returned from her mother’s room, shouting in a voice that could be
heard all through the house, “Papa, papa, mamma is willing. Have the horses
harnessed.” The rain was not abating; one might almost have said that it was
raining harder when the carriage drove up to the door. Jeanne was ready to step
in when the baroness came downstairs, supported on one side by her husband and
on the other by a tall housemaid, strong and strapping as a boy. She was a
Norman woman of the country of Caux, who looked at least twenty, although she
was but eighteen at the most. She was treated by the family as a second
daughter, for she was Jeanne’s foster sister. Her name was Rosalie, and her
chief duty lay in guiding the steps of her mistress, who had grown enormous in
the last few years and also had an affection of the heart, which kept her
complaining continually. The baroness, gasping from over-exertion, finally
reached the doorstep of the old residence, looked at the court where the water
was streaming and remarked: “It really is not wise.” Her husband, always
pleasant, replied: “It was you who desired it, Madame Adelaide.” He always
preceded her pompous name of Adelaide with the title madame with an air of half
respectful mockery. Madame mounted with difficulty into the carriage, causing
all the springs to bend. The baron sat beside her, while Jeanne and Rosalie
were seated opposite, with their backs to the horses. Ludivine, the cook,
brought a heap of wraps to put over their knees and two baskets, which were
placed under the seats; then she climbed on the box beside Father Simon,
wrapping herself in a great rug which covered her completely. The porter and
his wife came to bid them good-by as they closed the carriage door, taking the
last orders about the trunks, which were to follow in a wagon. So they started.
Father Simon, the coachman, with head bowed and back bent in the pouring rain,
was completely covered by his box coat with its triple cape. The howling storm
beat upon the carriage windows and inundated the highway.
They drove
rapidly to the wharf and continued alongside the line of tall-masted vessels
until they reached the boulevard of Mont Riboudet. Then they crossed the
meadows, where from time to time a drowned willow, its branches drooping
limply, could be faintly distinguished through the mist of rain. No one spoke.
Their minds themselves seemed to be saturated with moisture like the earth.
The baroness
leaned her head against the cushions and closed her eyes. The baron looked out
with mournful eyes at the monotonous and drenched landscape. Rosalie, with a
parcel on her knee, was dreaming in the dull reverie of a peasant. But Jeanne,
under this downpour, felt herself revive like a plant that has been shut up and
has just been restored to the air, and so great was her joy that, like foliage,
it sheltered her heart from sadness. Although she did not speak, she longed to
burst out singing, to reach out her hands to catch the rain that she might
drink it. She enjoyed to the full being carried along rapidly by the horses,
enjoyed gazing at the desolate landscape and feeling herself under shelter amid
this general inundation. Beneath the pelting rain the gleaming backs of the two
horses emitted a warm steam.
Little by
little the baroness fell asleep, and presently began to snore sonorously. Her
husband leaned over and placed in her hands a little leather pocketbook.
This awakened
her, and she looked at the pocket-book with the stupid, sleepy look of one
suddenly aroused. It fell off her lap and sprang open and gold and bank bills
were scattered on the floor of the carriage. This roused her completely, and
Jeanne gave vent to her mirth in a merry peal of girlish laughter.
The baron
picked up the money and placed it on her knees. “This, my dear,” he said, “is
all that is left of my farm at Eletot. I have sold it—so as to be able to
repair the ‘Poplars,’ where we shall often live in the future.”
She counted six
thousand four hundred francs and quietly put them in her pocket. This was the
ninth of thirty-one farms that they had inherited which they had sold in this
way. Nevertheless they still possessed about twenty thousand livres income
annually in land rentals, which, with proper care, would have yielded about
thirty thousand francs a year.
Living simply
as they did, this income would have sufficed had there not been a bottomless
hole always open in their house—kind-hearted generosity. It dried up the money
in their hands as the sun dries the water in marshes. It flowed, fled,
disappeared. How? No one knew. Frequently one would say to the other, “I don’t
know how it happens, but I have spent one hundred francs to-day, and I have
bought nothing of any consequence.” This faculty of giving was, however, one of
the greatest pleasures of their life, and they all agreed on this point in a
superb and touching manner.
Jeanne asked
her father, “Is it beautiful now, my castle?” The baron replied, “You shall
see, my little girl.”
The storm began
to abate. The vault of clouds seemed to rise and heighten and suddenly, through
a rift, a long ray of sunshine fell upon the fields, and presently the clouds
separated, showing the blue firmament, and then, like the tearing of a veil,
the opening grew larger and the beautiful azure sky, clear and fathomless,
spread over the world. A fresh and gentle breeze passed over the earth like a
happy sigh, and as they passed beside gardens or woods they heard occasionally
the bright chirp of a bird as he dried his wings.
Evening was
approaching. Everyone in the carriage was asleep except Jeanne. They stopped to
rest and feed the horses. The sun had set. In the distance bells were heard.
They passed a little village as the inhabitants were lighting their lamps, and
the sky became also illuminated by myriads of stars. Suddenly they saw behind a
hill, through the branches of the fir trees, the moon rising, red and full as
if it were torpid with sleep.
The air was so
soft that the windows were not closed. Jeanne, exhausted with dreams and happy
visions, was now asleep. Finally they stopped. Some men and women were standing
before the carriage door with lanterns in their hands. They had arrived.
Jeanne, suddenly awakened, was the first to jump out. Her father and Rosalie
had practically to carry the baroness, who was groaning and continually
repeating in a weak little voice, “Oh, my God, my poor children!” She refused
all offers of refreshment, but went to bed and immediately fell asleep.
Jeanne and her
father, the baron, took supper together. They were in perfect sympathy with
each other. Later, seized with a childish joy, they started on a tour of
inspection through the restored manor. It was one of those high and vast Norman
residences that comprise both farmhouse and castle, built of white stone which
had turned gray, large enough to contain a whole race of people.
An immense hall
divided the house from front to rear and a staircase went up at either side of
the entrance, meeting in a bridge on the first floor. The huge drawing-room was
on the ground floor to the right and was hung with tapestries representing
birds and foliage. All the furniture was covered with fine needlework tapestry
illustrating La Fontaine’s fables, and Jeanne was delighted at finding a chair
she had loved as a child, which pictured the story of “The Fox and the Stork.”
Beside the
drawing-room were the library, full of old books, and two unused rooms; at the
left was the dining-room, the laundry, the kitchen, etc.
A corridor
divided the whole first floor, the doors of ten rooms opening into it. At the
end, on the right, was Jeanne’s room. She and her father went in. He had had it
all newly done over, using the furniture and draperies that had been in the
storeroom.
There were some
very old Flemish tapestries, with their peculiar looking figures. At sight of
her bed, the young girl uttered a scream of joy. Four large birds carved in
oak, black from age and highly polished, bore up the bed and seemed to be its
protectors. On the sides were carved two wide garlands of flowers and fruit,
and four finely fluted columns, terminating in Corinthian capitals, supported a
cornice of cupids with roses intertwined. The tester and the coverlet were of
antique blue silk, embroidered in gold fleur de lys. When Jeanne had
sufficiently admired it, she lifted up the candle to examine the tapestries and
the allegories they represented. They were mostly conventional subjects, but
the last hanging represented a drama. Near a rabbit, which was still nibbling,
a young man lay stretched out, apparently dead. A young girl, gazing at him,
was plunging a sword into her bosom, and the fruit of the tree had turned
black. Jeanne gave up trying to divine the meaning underlying this picture,
when she saw in the corner a tiny little animal which the rabbit, had he lived,
could have swallowed like a blade of grass; and yet it was a lion. Then she
recognized the story of “Pyramus and Thisbe,” and though she smiled at the
simplicity of the design, she felt happy to have in her room this love
adventure which would continually speak to her of her cherished hopes, and
every night this legendary love would hover about her dreams.
It struck
eleven and the baron kissed Jeanne goodnight and retired to his room. Before
retiring, Jeanne cast a last glance round her room and then regretfully
extinguished the candle. Through her window she could see the bright moonlight
bathing the trees and the wonderful landscape. Presently she arose, opened a
window and looked out. The night was so clear that one could see as plainly as
by daylight. She looked across the park with its two long avenues of very tall
poplars that gave its name to the château and separated it from the two farms
that belonged to it, one occupied by the Couillard family, the other by the
Martins. Beyond the enclosure stretched a long, uncultivated plain, thickly
overgrown with rushes, where the breeze whistled day and night. The land ended
abruptly in a steep white cliff three hundred feet high, with its base in the
ocean waves.
Jeanne looked
out over the long, undulating surface that seemed to slumber beneath the
heavens. All the fragrance of the earth was in the night air. The odor of
jasmine rose from the lower windows, and light whiffs of briny air and of
seaweed were wafted from the ocean.
Merely to
breathe was enough for Jeanne, and the restful calm of the country was like a
soothing bath. She felt as though her heart was expanding and she began
dreaming of love. What was it? She did not know. She only knew that she would
adore him with all her soul and that he would cherish her with all his
strength. They would walk hand in hand on nights like this, hearing the beating
of their hearts, mingling their love with the sweet simplicity of the summer
nights in such close communion of thought that by the sole power of their
tenderness they would easily penetrate each other’s most secret thoughts. This
would continue forever in the calm of an enduring affection. It seemed to her
that she felt him there beside her. And an unusual sensation came over
her. She remained long musing thus, when suddenly she thought she heard a
footstep behind the house. “If it were he.” But it passed on and she
felt as if she had been deceived. The air became cooler. The day broke. Slowly
bursting aside the gleaming clouds, touching with fire the trees, the plains,
the ocean, all the horizon, the great flaming orb of the sun appeared.
Jeanne felt
herself becoming mad with happiness. A delirious joy, an infinite tenderness at
the splendor of nature overcame her fluttering heart. It was her sun, her
dawn! The beginning of her life! Thoroughly fatigued at last, she
flung herself down and slept till her father called her at eight o’clock. He
walked into the room and proposed to show her the improvements of the castle,
of her castle. The road, called the parish road, connecting the farms,
joined the high road between Havre and Fécamp, a mile and a half further on.
Jeanne and the
baron inspected everything and returned home for breakfast. When the meal was
over, as the baroness had decided that she would rest, the baron proposed to
Jeanne that they should go down to Yport. They started, and passing through the
hamlet of Etouvent, where the poplars were, and going through the wooded slope
by a winding valley leading down to the sea, they presently perceived the
village of Yport. Women sat in their doorways mending linen; brown fish-nets
were hanging against the doors of the huts, where an entire family lived in one
room. It was a typical little French fishing village, with all its concomitant
odors. To Jeanne it was all like a scene in a play. On turning a corner they
saw before them the limitless blue ocean. They bought a brill from a fisherman
and another sailor offered to take them out sailing, repeating his name,
“Lastique, Joséphin Lastique,” several times, that they might not forget it,
and the baron promised to remember. They walked home, chattering like two
children, carrying the big fish between them, Jeanne having pushed her father’s
walking cane through its gills.
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