Collected works of eugen.., p.11
Collected Works of Eugène Sue, page 11
“Yes, yes, of course; this road is as good as any other.”
“Well, then, I say, I suppose that this road leads to a delightful little village, at a considerable distance from the highroad—”
“Oh, yes; that makes it so much more still and quiet!”
“It is built facing the south, and half surrounded by trees—”
“And close by flows a gentle river.”
“Exactly! — a clear, gently flowing river. At the end of this village stands a pretty farm, with a nice orchard on one side of it, and a garden, filled with flowers, on the other—”
“That farm shall be called my farm, to which we will pretend we are now going.”
“Just so.”
“And where we know we shall get some delicious milk to drink after our journey!”
“Milk, indeed! Excellent cream, and newly laid eggs, if you please.”
“And where we would be glad to stay all our lives!”
“All our lives! Quite right, — go on.”
“And then we should go and see all the cows!”
“To be sure we should.”
“And afterwards visit the dairy?”
“Visit the dairy! Yes.”
“Then the pigeon-house?”
“Yes, so we should.”
“Oh, how very, very nice, only to think of such things!”
“But let me finish the description of the farm—”
“Yes, pray do! I quite forgot that.”
“Well, then, the ground floor contains two rooms; one, a large kitchen for the farm servants, and the other for the owner of the place.”
“Make that room have green blinds, M. Rodolph, — do, pray; they are so cool, and look so pretty!”
“Yes, yes, — green blinds to the windows. I quite agree with you, — they do look uncommonly pretty, and set off a place so well! Of course, the person tenanting this farm is your aunt.”
“Of course she is my aunt, and a very good, sensible, kind woman, M. Rodolph, is she not?”
“Particularly so, and loves you like her own child.”
“Dear, good aunt! Oh, how delightful to have some one to love us!”
“And you return the tender affection she bears you?”
“Oh, with all my heart!” exclaimed Fleur-de-Marie, clasping her hands, and raising her eyes to heaven with an expression impossible to describe. “And I should help her to work, to attend to the family linen, to keep everything neat and clean, to store up the summer fruits against winter — oh, she would never have to complain that I was idle, I promise! First of all, in the morning—”
“Wait a bit, Fleur-de-Marie; you are in too great a hurry. I want to finish describing the house to you; never mind your aunt just yet.”
“Ah, ha, Mr. Painter! All this is taken from some pretty landscape you have been painting on a fan. Now I know what makes you so expert at describing it!” said La Goualeuse, laughing merrily at her own little jest.
“You little chatterer, be quiet, will you?”
“Yes, I am a chatterer, indeed, to interrupt you so often, M. Rodolph; but pray go on, and I will not speak again till you have finished painting this dear farm.”
“Your room is on the first floor—”
“My room! how charming! Oh, go on — go on, please, M. Rodolph, and describe all about it to me!” And the delighted girl opened her large laughing eyes, and pressed more closely against Rodolph, as if she expected to see the picture in his hand.
“Your chamber has two windows looking out upon the flower garden, and a small meadow, watered by the river we mentioned. On the opposite bank of the stream rises a small hill, planted with fine old chestnut-trees; and from amongst them peeps out the village church—”
“Oh, how beautiful, — how very beautiful, M. Rodolph! It makes one quite long to be there.”
“Three or four fine cows are grazing in the meadow, which is only separated from the garden by a hedge of honeysuckle—”
“And from my windows I can see the cows?”
“Perfectly.”
“And one among them ought to be my favourite, you know, M. Rodolph; and I ought to put a little bell round its neck, and use it to feed out of my hands!”
“Of course she would come when you called her. Let me see, what name shall we give her? Suppose we say, Musette. Do you like that? She shall be very young and gentle, and entirely white.”
“Oh, what a pretty name! Musette! Ah, Musette, Musette, I shall be always feeding you and patting you to make you know me.”
“Now we will finish the inside of your apartment, Fleur-de-Marie. The curtains and furniture are green, like the blinds; and outside the window grow an enormous rose-tree and honeysuckle, which entirely cover this side of the farm, and so surround your casements that you have only to stretch out your hand to gather a large bunch of roses and honeysuckle wet with the early morning dew.”
“Ah, M. Rodolph, what a good painter you are!”
“Now this is the way you will pass your day—”
“Yes, yes, let us see how I shall employ myself all day.”
“Early in the morning your good aunt wakes you with a tender kiss; she brings with her a bowl of new milk, just warm, which she prays you to drink, as she fancies you are delicate about the lungs, poor dear child! Well, you do as she wishes you; then rise, and take a walk around the farm; pay a visit to Musette, the poultry, your pets the pigeons, the flowers in the garden, till nine o’clock, when your writing-master arrives—”
“My writing-master?”
“Why, you know, unless you learned such necessary things as reading, writing, and accounts, you would not be able to assist your aunt to keep her books relative to the produce of the farm.”
“Oh, to be sure! How very stupid of me not to recollect that I must learn to write well, if I wished to help my aunt!” cried the young girl, so thoroughly absorbed in the picture of this peaceful life as to believe for the moment in its reality.
“After your lesson is concluded, you will occupy yourself in household matters, or embroider some pretty little article of dress for yourself; then you will practise your writing for an hour or two, and, when that is done, join your aunt in her round of visits to the different operations of the farm; in the summer, to see how the reapers get on in the hay field; in harvest-time, to observe the reapers, and afterwards to enjoy the delight with which the gleaners pick up the scattered ears of grain; by this time you will have almost tired yourself, and gathering a large handful of wild herbs, carefully selected by you as the known favourites of your dear Musette, you turn your steps homewards—”
“But we go back through the meadow, dear M. Rodolph, do we not?” inquired La Goualeuse, as earnestly as though every syllable her ears drank in was to be effectually brought to pass.
“Oh, yes! by all means; and there happens, fortunately, to be a nice little bridge, by which the river separating the farm-land from the meadow may be crossed. By the time you reach home, upon my word, it is seven o’clock; and, as the evenings begin to be a little chill, a bright, cheerful fire is blazing in the large farm kitchen; you go in there for a few minutes, just to warm yourself and to speak a few kind words to the honest labourers, who are enjoying a hearty meal after the day’s toil is over. Then you sit down to dinner with your aunt; sometimes the curé, or a neighbouring farmer, is invited to share the meal. After dinner you read or work, while your aunt and her guest have a friendly game at piquet. At ten o’clock she dismisses you, with a kiss and a blessing, to your chamber; you retire to your room, offer prayers and thanksgivings to the Great Author of all your happiness, then sleep soundly till morning, when the same routine begins again.”
“Oh, M. Rodolph, one might lead such a life as that for a hundred years, without ever knowing one moment’s weariness.”
“But that is not all. There are Sundays and fête-days to be thought of.”
“Yes; and how should we pass those?”
“Why, you would put on your holiday dress, with one of those pretty little caps à la paysanne, which all admit you look so very nicely in, and accompany your aunt in her large old-fashioned chaise, driven by James the farm servant, to hear mass in the village church; after which, during summer, your kind relative would take you to the different fêtes given in the adjoining parishes. You, so gentle, so modest and good-looking, so tenderly beloved by your aunt, and so well spoken of by the curé for all the virtues and qualifications which make a good wife, will have no scarcity of offers for your hand in the dance, — indeed, all the principal young farmers will be anxious to secure you as a partner, by way of opening an acquaintance which shall last for life. By degrees you begin to remark one more than the others; you perceive his deep desire to attract your undivided attention, and so—” And here Rodolph, struck by the continued silence of La Goualeuse, looked up at her. Alas! the poor girl was endeavouring, though fruitlessly, to choke the deep sobs which almost suffocated her. For a brief period, carried away by the words of Rodolph, the bright future presented to her mental vision had effaced the horrible present; but too quickly did the hideous picture return, and sweep away for ever the dear delight of believing so sweet, so calm an existence could ever be hers.
“Fleur-de-Marie,” asked Rodolph, in a kind and affectionate tone, “why is this? Why these tears?”
“Ah, M. Rodolph, you have unintentionally caused me much pain. Foolish girl that I was, I had listened to you till I quite fancied this paradise were a true picture.”
“And so it is, my dear child! This paradise, as you call it, is no fiction.”
“Stop, coachman!”
“Now look! see! observe where we are!”
As the carriage stopped, La Goualeuse, at Rodolph’s bidding, mechanically raised her head, — they were on the summit of a little hill. What was her surprise, her astonishment, at the scene which revealed itself to her gaze! The pretty village, built facing the south, the farm, the meadow, the beautiful cows, the little winding river, the chestnut grove, the church in the distance, — the whole picture, so vividly painted, was before her eyes. Nothing was wanting, — even the milk-white heifer, Musette, her future pet, was peacefully grazing as she had been described. The rich colouring of an October sun gilded the charming landscape, while the variegated tint of the chestnut-leaves, slightly tinged by the autumnal breezes, stood out in bold relief against the clear blue of the surrounding sky.
“Well, my little Fleur-de-Marie, what do you say to this? Am I a good painter, or not?”
La Goualeuse looked at him with a surprise in which a degree of uneasiness was mingled; all she saw and heard appeared to her to partake largely of the supernatural.
“M. Rodolph,” she at length exclaimed, with a bewildered look, “how can this be? Indeed, indeed, I feel afraid to look at it, — it is so exactly alike. I cannot believe it is anything but a dream you have conjured up, and which will quickly pass away. Speak to me! pray do; and tell me what to believe.”
“Calm yourself, my dear child! Nothing is more simple or true than what you behold here. The good woman who owns this farm was my nurse, and brought me up here; intending to give myself a treat, I sent to her early this morning to say I was coming to see her. You see I painted after nature.”
“You are quite right, M. Rodolph,” sighed La Goualeuse. “There is, indeed, nothing but what is quite natural in all this.”
The farm to which Rodolph had conducted Fleur-de-Marie was situated at the outer extremity of the village of Bouqueval, — a small, isolated, and unknown hamlet, entirely surrounded by its own lands, and about two leagues’ distance from Ecouen; the vehicle, following the directions of Rodolph, rapidly descended the hill, and entered a long avenue bordered with apple and cherry trees, while the wheels rolled noiselessly over the short fine grass with which the unfrequented road was overgrown.
Fleur-de-Marie, whose utmost efforts were unavailing to shake off the painful sensations she experienced, remained so silent and mournful that Rodolph reproached himself with having, by his well-intentioned surprise, been the cause of it. In a few moments more, the carriage, passing by the large entrance to the farm, entered a thick avenue of elm-trees, and stopped before a little rustic porch, half hidden by the luxuriant branches of the vine which clustered round it.
“Now, Fleur-de-Marie, here we are. Are you pleased with what you see?”
“Indeed I am, M. Rodolph. But how shall I venture before the good person you mentioned as living here? Pray do not let her see me, — I cannot venture to approach her.”
“And why, my child?”
“True, M. Rodolph; I forget she does not know me, and will not guess how unworthy I am.” And poor Fleur-de-Marie tried to suppress the deep sigh that would accompany her words.
The arrival of Rodolph had, no doubt, been watched for; the driver had scarcely opened the carriage door when a prepossessing female, of middle age, dressed in the style of wealthy landholders about Paris, and whose countenance, though melancholy, was also gentle and benevolent in its expression, appeared in the porch, and with respectful eagerness advanced to meet Rodolph.
Poor Goualeuse felt her cheeks flush and her heart beat as she timidly descended from the vehicle.
“Good day, good day, Madame Georges,” said Rodolph, advancing towards the individual so addressed, “you see I am punctual.” Then turning to the driver, and putting money into his hand, he said, “Here, my friend, there is no further occasion to detain you; you may return to Paris as soon as you please.”
The coachman, a little, short, square-built man, with his hat over his eyes, and his countenance almost entirely concealed by the high collar of his driving-coat, pocketed the money without a word, remounted his seat, gave his horses the whip, and disappeared down the allée verte by which he had entered.
Fleur-de-Marie sprang to the side of Rodolph, and with an air of unfeigned alarm, almost amounting to distress, said, in a tone so low as not to be overheard by Madame Georges:
“M. Rodolph! M. Rodolph! pray do not be angry, but why have you sent away the carriage? Will it not return to fetch us away?”
“Of course not; I have quite done with the man, and therefore dismissed him.”
“But the ogress!”
“What of her? Why do you mention her name?”
“Alas! alas! because I must return to her this evening; indeed, indeed, I must, or — or she will consider me a thief. The very clothes I have on are hers, and, besides, I owe her—”
“Make yourself quite easy, my dear child; it is my part to ask your forgiveness, not you mine.”
“My forgiveness! Oh, for what can you require me to pardon you?”
“For not having sooner told you that you no longer owe the ogress anything; that it rests only with yourself to decide whether you will henceforward make this quiet spot your home, and cast off the garments you now wear for others my kind friend, Madame Georges, will furnish you with. She is much about your height, and can supply you with everything you require. She is all impatience to commence her part of ‘aunt,’ I can assure you.”
Poor Fleur-de-Marie seemed utterly unable to comprehend the meaning of all she saw and heard, and gazed with wondering and perplexed looks from one companion to the other, as though fearing to trust either her eyes or ears.
“Do I understand you rightly?” she cried at length, half breathless with emotion. “Not go back to Paris? Remain here? And this lady will permit me to stay with her? Oh, it cannot be possible; I dare not hope it; that would, indeed, be to realise our ‘castles in the air.’”
“Dear Fleur-de-Marie, your wishes are realised, — your dream a true one.”
“No, no, you must be jesting; that would be too much happiness to expect, or even dare to hope for.”
“Nay, Fleur-de-Marie, we should never find fault with an oversupply of happiness.”
“Ah, M. Rodolph, for pity’s sake deceive me not; you cannot believe the misery I should experience were you to tell me all this happiness was but a jest.”
“My child, listen to me,” said Rodolph, with a tone and manner which, although still affectionate, was mingled with a dignified accent and manner Fleur-de-Marie had never previously remarked in him. “I repeat that, if you please, you may from this very hour lead here, with Madame Georges, that peaceful life whose description but a short time since so much delighted you. Though the kind lady with whom you will reside be not your aunt, she will feel for you the most lively and affectionate interest, and with the personages about the farm you will pass as being really and truly her niece, and this innocent deception will render your residence here more agreeable and advantageous. Once more I repeat to you, Fleur-de-Marie, you may now at your own pleasure realise the dream of our journey. As soon as you have assumed your village dress,” said Rodolph, smilingly, “we will take you to see that milk-white heifer, Musette, who is to be your favourite henceforward, and who is only waiting for the pretty collar you designed to ornament her with; then we will go and introduce ourselves to your pets, the pigeons, afterwards visit the dairy, and so go on till we have been all over the farm. I mean to keep my promise in every respect, I assure you.”
Fleur-de-Marie pressed her hands together with earnest gratitude. Surprise, joy, and the deepest thankfulness, mingled with respect, lit up her beautiful countenance, while, with eyes streaming with tears, she exclaimed:
“M. Rodolph, you are, you must be, one of those beneficent angels sent by the Almighty to do good upon earth, and to rescue poor fallen creatures, like myself, from shame and misery.”
“My poor girl,” replied Rodolph, with a smile of deep sadness and ineffable kindness, “though still young, I have already deeply suffered. I lost a dear child, who, if living, would now be about your age. Let that explain my deep sympathy with all who suffer, and for yourself particularly, Fleur-de-Marie, or, rather, Marie only. Now, go with Madame Georges, who will shew you the pretty chamber, with its clustering roses and honeysuckle to form your morning bouquets. Yes, Marie, henceforward let that name, simple and sweet as yourself, be your only appellation. Before my departure we will have some talk together, and then I shall quit you, most happy in the knowledge of your full contentment.”
