Nêne/Part 2/Chapter 17

VERYTHING was ready. There was nothing more to do, nothing more to say. It was useless to weep, to pray, to struggle … all that was left for her was to go.

Only one more night—scarcely seven or eight hours

The wedding was set for Wednesday, but on Monday Violette's mother was to come with part of her household goods. Madeleine didn't want to be there to make welcome this woman who came in triumph.

For the last time she had undressed the children, forcing herself to play with them the while as usual, so they wouldn't feel badly. And she had put them both in her own bed. For the last time she had surrendered her head to Jo, who had pulled her ears and rumpled her hair—as so often before.

Now Jo and Lalie were asleep. In the men's room the new farm-hand had stopped moving about. The house was dark, yet outside, the twilight was lingering on and on.

Madeleine sat down by the open window. On a chair by her side lay a little bundle of clothes, all that remained of her own at the Moulinettes, for her other belongings had already gone. Michael had paid her off that morning.

It was the end.

She did not weep, she did not stir; her hair fell into her face; her legs and arms were numb; all her life was concentrated in her breast where her heart was beating furiously.

From the garden the border pinks sent in a sweet fragrance; a nightingale's song filled the room; then the tree-frogs began to make themselves heard from the direction of the pond, and presently their countless voices were heard all around.

Madeleine forced herself to drown the ache of her heart in a mumble of words:

"Now I shan't live in this cosy spot any more; I'd grown used to it and it hurts to go. I'll be lonesome for this nice old house, for the pond, for the stream where I did my washing. Where shall I find a garden that suits me so well? I shall never see the lilac bush again, nor the climbing roses in the front yard

She tried to lose her heartache along these little byways of thought. Poor girl!—better stick to the main road! The sleeping tots whose gentle breathing you can hardly hear, hold all your heart in bonds.

"I was the mistress here. Everything in the house went as I said;—it won't be the same elsewhere!"

As if your heart cared about that!

"I'll be ordered about roughly; they'll make me work in the fields with the men."

Why do you try to fool your heart? If you were asked, you wouldn't mind doing the work of a farm-hand all the year round;—you'd plough and sow and harvest, fetch and carry, no matter how heavy the load!

"Good evening, Madeleine!"

She looked up. A man whom she had not heard come in was standing in the yard.

"Good evening," she said.

He drew nearer. "Don't you recognise me? Does the uniform make such a difference?"

She started as if waking out of a sleep.

"Gideon!"

"Yes, it's me. I've had a furlough. I'm on my way now to catch a train back, at Château-Blanc. I didn't have much time this trip, or else I'd have paid you a real long visit."

"I'd have been very glad," said Madeleine. "Come in."

But he stepped to the window and leaned his arms on the sill. "I can't stop. I haven't got time. Is the boss at home?"

"He hasn't returned yet," and she added, with a touch of scorn:

"This is a great day for him; he got himself baptised at Chantepie. It's a triumph for the Catholics.—But you've probably heard all about it."

"Yes, it's being talked about around the neighbourhood. The wedding is set for this week?"

"Wednesday."

"And so you're leaving the Moulinettes? When are you going?"

"To-morrow."

Madeleine turned her head away. The gentle breathing of the children came faintly through the silence that had fallen between them. Gideon ventured in a low voice:

"It hurts, poor Madeleine—I know"

She answered:

"It does." Her voice was the voice of a dying woman.

He said nothing more, not knowing how to express the things that were in his heart. For a little while he stayed on, leaning close beside her; then he took her hand and straightened up.

"Are you going already?" she asked.

"I've got to. The train is due at Château-Blanc at a quarter past ten. I wish you good health and good courage, Madeleine. You know I'm fond of you. I'd like to see you happy. We've spent four years working side by side—a person can't forget that. Besides, there's what you know, between Tiennette and me.—Madeleine, I'm sorry for you with all my heart.—I wish I could comfort you. Try to cry, Madeleine—it would do you good."

He kept her hand, saying awkwardly, endlessly: "Madeleine,—you know, poor Madeleine—my dear old Madeleine" until she herself became uneasy:

"Aren't you forgetting the time, Gideon?"

He paused, a little embarrassed; then he took off his dragoon's helmet and said:

"Madeleine, I'd like to kiss you good-bye, if you'll let me." She rose and offered him her cheek.

"Good-bye, dear boy."

He walked off a few steps, stopped and turned around:

"I was going to forget: thank you, Madeleine, for the kind letter you wrote me—it did me a lot of good."

Madeleine's mind was far away, but she inquired:

"Have you seen Tiennette?"

"Yes, that's what I came here for.—There's somebody else I wanted to meet too, a wicked red wolf whose teeth I'd have liked to bash in.—It couldn't be managed, and he can thank his stars!"

"Whom do you mean?"

"Boiseriot. I saw him all right, but I couldn't get him alone! Only a while ago I saw him at a table at the inn, at Saint- Ambroise, with your brother."

"With my brother!"

"Yes—it was a surprise to me!—They sat alone in a corner together, drinking brandy. I sat down and waited for Boiseriot to go out alone, but he didn't. I could see them very well; Boiseriot acted as if he was drunk, but he was just pretending, because I saw him empty his glass under the table. As for Trooper, he was as drunk as a lord—I heard him shout: 'You say at ten o'clock at the Bellefontaine crossroads? All right!'—And he cussed and banged the table and rolled eyes as big as saucers. He must have swallowed an awful lot of brandy to get himself in such a state."

Madeleine said half to herself:

"When he's drunk he's like crazy."

The clock in the house struck the hour.

"Nine o'clock!" said Gideon. "I'll have to hurry.—Good-bye, Madeleine!"

And he vanished in the deepening shadows of the night.

Madeleine had not risen to see him off, nor waved good-bye, nor moved at all: she was so tired, so weary and worn-out.

She was fond of her good young comrade, but she was feeling so utterly miserable just now! She was feeling so miserable that Gideon and Tiennette and Trooper and all the rest were almost indifferent to her.

Her mind was not very clear. What was it Gideon had said? Trooper was drunk;—Boiseriot made him drink brandy. Why? "At ten o'clock at the Bellefontaine crossroads" It was probably some sort of wager, some prank that would furnish the gossips with something new to talk about. Poor brother! He too chafed under his sorrow; his weak character did not stand up against adversity. He was getting drunk very often now; only the other day—when was it?—his eyes had been ugly

"Oh, my God!"

Madeleine jumped to her feet, but her legs bent under her and she fell back into her chair. One memory among the many had come to the fore, cut its way through like a pointed blade of steel. She saw again that big threatening hand upraised:

"If I meet that man—God pity him!" She understood now! For a moment she remained aghast. She did not hear the words that came brokenly from her lips:

"The wicked red wolf—ten o'clock—at Bellefontaine—that's on Michael's way—on Michael's way."

She sprang up, rushed out of the house, calling:

"Gideon! Gideon!"

But her voice was choked and didn't carry. She ran across the garden and out along the road to Château-Blanc.

"Gideon! Gideon! Help!"

No answer came. She wrung her hands.

"It's my fault!—It's my fault!—I prayed for it!—Damnation!"

Like one demented she ran across fields toward Bellefontaine. The footpaths were no longer visible in the darkness; she lost her way in a wide meadow and couldn't find the stile; she ran against a bushy hedge, broke through between two thorny shrubs with a great thrust of all her body and rolled on the other side into a deep ditch.

Her heart failed her; she had to stay sitting in the ditch for a moment. A night bird flew by, uttering its cry. With a great effort she got up; her hands, raised high, tore at each other. The cry of the owl had given birth to a thought and against the monstrosity of it she struggled with appalled desperation.

"No! no!—Not at that price!—I don't want them to be orphans!—I never wanted that!—I am cursed! I am cursed!" She ran on, gasping for breath.

"I'm cursed if I don't get there in time!"

Above the hedges she saw a great black mass: it was the Bellefontaine woods, and the road ran along its edge. Three more fields to cross,—one more.—She reached the woods; her feet stumbled no more now, but went on as in a dream. There are two ancient oak trees that twine their branches over the crossroads. She ran straight to them and her hands fell heavily on the shoulders of a man who was crouching there between the twin tree trunks.

"John, what are you doing here?"

The man straightened up and stepped back:

"Madeleine!"

"Yes, me!—Come away, this instant!"

Her voice rang harsh and cutting,—commandingly. His answer was a wild, terrible, insane burst of laughter.

"John, do you hear me?—Walk ahead of me!"

"You mind your own business! Go on home and to bed! Honest girls don't run about on the public roads at night."

Slowly, heavily he pushed her back,—back through the trees, back into a wide field where the night seemed less black. Madeleine clung to her brother's arm.

"Come, John, come away with me!"

But he shook her off with a last push and raised his arm threateningly.

"Clear out!"

"John, why are you here?"

'To deal death!—Get out!"

Madeleine came back close, darted at his raised arm which held a weapon aloft.

"What have you in your hand? Give it to me! Do you hear?"

She climbed against him, pulled down his wrist and seized the weapon—a roadmender's hammer with a long holly handle.

She struggled and wheedled, she commanded and pleaded, she shamed him and flattered him.

"Give it to me, John! You've been drinking, you' don't know what you're doing! Boiseriot made you drunk—the fiend!—I've come to fetch you, to lead you by the hand.—You must come with me, you must believe me!—Here! give me that thing at once! What do you want with it? John, think of waylaying anybody like this!—You're mad—and you're a coward!—Do you hear me?—If you have a grievance against someone, have it out with him in the open!—You're a coward, a beastly coward!"

"There's no cowardice about it—it's got nothing to do with it. I'm out to kill—first him, then myself!"

"Give me that thing, come on, give it to me!—Won't you? Of course you will!"

Crack! Suddenly, slyly, Madeleine had broken the flexible handle. She grabbed the hammer-head and hurled it away as far as she could.

"Now, will you come with me?"

Again that insane laughter rumbled from his throat.

"I'm out to kill!—I have my knife and, besides, I don't need any weapon, not even a stick!—I open my hand and I close it.—Death, that's what I'm here for! You get out!"

"John, you'll be eternally damned—and I too, I too! You don't know!—Those two poor children—sleeping so quietly over there come—and see them! What have they done to you, the poor little innocents?"

"Death, that's what I want!—There's nothing to say. Get out of my way!"

Madeleine clung to him, held him tight with both her arms for a last appeal—and lied desperately:

"Listen, I won't let you—I love him! Yes, I love him!—I didn't want to tell you at first—I was too ashamed. Now you know!—I won't have you hurt him! It would kill me, I tell you!—You won't hurt him, will you?—John, my own big brother!—Come! let's go away—yes, yes, let's go! Listen, I'll prevent the marriage; I can, still! You see that it's best for you to mind me!—I say you'll not touch him! I'll defend him! I'll scream as soon as he comes in sight;—and shame will be on us—on you, on me, on all the family!"

Roughly he freed himself with a shake of his powerful shoulders.

"Get out of my way!" He thrust her away and made for the trees.

"You think so? You wait!"

Madeleine leaped forward; with arms spread wide she threw herself on her brother, lifted him off his feet and carried him off. With a twist of his back he escaped from her grasp and touched the ground again; and his big hand came down on her. Madeleine felt her arms go weak; an irresistible force hurled her far away and her head rang against a tree trunk.

She found herself flat on her back; the field whirled around and around her; the ground heaved and fell; above, the stars were dancing; then nothingness.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw a big head bent over her and under her shoulders she felt a shaking arm. Trooper was kneeling beside her, completely sobered,—sobbing and pleading with infinite gentleness.

"Madeleine, wake up!—Sister, forgive me!—Madeleine, tell me you're not hurt—that I didn't do you harm!"

Madeleine looked at him, bewildered. Suddenly memory returned. She uttered a cry and with hands still weak gripped her brother's shoulders. He leaned down closer and said in a very low, shamed voice:

"Don't be afraid: he's gone past; by now he must be at the Moulinettes.—As for me, my madness is over.—Madeleine, what did I do to you? Tell me there's no limb broken"

Madeleine, raising herself painfully, had the courage to smile.

"No, nothing's broken. I had a sudden weakness, that's all.—Help me to get up, will you?"

When she was up, she had to go on leaning on him; so he said:

"Would you like me to carry you?"

She didn't answer; she was thinking.

"John," she said at last, "when you were a little fellow, I used to lead you along the roads.—I wasn't much bigger than you, but I knew the short-cuts better.—To-day you're losing your way, John, and once more I have to put you on the right road."

He replied in the gentle voice of his hours of distress:

"Lead me, sister."

"John, you must go away from these parts for a time; you must leave—right away—this very night! Walk all through the night and if you're not far enough away by morning, keep on walking through the day.—You said you'd find work easily in town:—go to town then. Here's some money for the first days of waiting;—here, take it!—When you're over this trouble and feeling all right again, you can come back. John, don't you think that's the best thing to do?"

"Lead me, sister."

She took him by the hand and together they came down through the woods. When they reached the road, they kissed each other. Then she said:

"Go now, dear."

And slowly he walked away.