YELLOW

Que c’est beau, le jaune!

Van Gogh.

It was understood.

The last time he had sent her a long kiss, his eyes closed as in ecstasy, and she had smiled tenderly, drooping her lashes.

They had never spoken to each other.

She lived there. There were houses, along the river bank and half way up the hill, bordering the road that wound up the slope: there was a mill, a tavern, a sabot factory and two or three little farmhouses, with a shed in which slumbered a cart. One could hear whinnying, a waggoner’s heavy oath, the crowing of a cock, the patter of the water under the mill wheels and its murmuring beneath the wooden bridge.

He, too, lived there, but higher up, behind the trees that framed the horizon. At evening, returning from the hunt, he would pause upon the bridge, look at the water, the willows, the grass, the narrow valley, where the sun, before dying, came to rest for a moment.

It was from this point that he had beheld her. She was spreading out upon the fresh lawn some strips of unbleached linen. He thought she must be the daughter of the weaver who could be heard at work near the tavern, or else some servant. On other days she would be washing clothes beneath the large hazel tree whose branches bent to kiss the stream, and would lay them on the bushes; then, before returning, she would pick some hazel nuts, or flowers, or would throw pebbles into the water. When she felt that she was being observed she would laugh, but she refused to be disturbed in her work or her play.

One day, however, she stood for a long time looking at him, eating hazel nuts that she cracked between her teeth with all the nimbleness of a squirrel.

Then he came daily. She would be there, or else she would arrive slowly, raising her head. They might have spoken to each other, but they said nothing. He threw flowers to her, or twigs, and she paid no attention. He brought her a yellow carnation: she hid it in her corsage and, without a token, disappeared.

It was on the next day that their mute agreement was concluded.

The following evening, after the first glances had been exchanged, he saw her climb in the direction of the woods and plunge into the coppice. He made a detour and caught up with her just as she was clearing the rails of a fence. Her short skirt pulled up. She showed a white knee. That decided him. This fresh little peasant lass was just the thing. Desire made him tremble a little.

He received her into his arms, pressed her close, kissed her upon the lips, but gently she freed herself and, curving her shoulders, glided in under the branches.

It was a sunken, abandoned path that led to an old cart-road; she ran quickly, avoiding the brambles, grazing the broom, the honeysuckle and the foxglove that made a crazy arabesque in this sombre lair of sand and gravel which the branches of the beeches, the ash-trees and the oaks sheltered with their thick green mantle.

Stopped by a bramble that clutched at her legs, she was caught by him; he knelt down, vanquished the bramble and threw his arm about her knees. But she did not wish to fall yet. She stiffened; she turned her back upon him. He rose to his feet; his hands ascended to the breasts which she was pressing; he kissed the back of her neck; he nibbled at an ear.

Then she turned her head; her eyes were serious; she abandoned all resistance. Leaning against the arm that encircled her waist, she surrendered her mouth to kisses, her body to caresses.

They fell tenderly.

Seated now side by side they glanced at each other from the corners of their eyes, occupied in similar motions. She was dressing her hair; he was knotting his cravat.

She was smiling.

He was dreaming.

This happy encounter enchanted him. In his career as an equivocal huntsman he had met with few that could match it. “But how difficult it is to rouse women! The transports of this loving lass were pretty feeble. She seemed more ashamed than tender, more resolved than self-abandoned, I can’t just say.”

He, however, had tasted intense happiness, and what sweet peace he now enjoyed! What charm in this young body, in those contours fresh with their first form. “She is as lissome as the trunk of a beech-tree and her flesh yielded with such pride, yet with such simplicity as well! How simple is love!”

He looked at the young girl, hunting words to say to her, but he did not have the habit of speech, and above all of tender speeches.

She appeared prettier than ever, now—more natural. This sensation of naturalness he had never before experienced. Perhaps the silence had led him to reflect.

At last he spoke, mentioning the charm of the moment, the coolness of this grotto, his happiness, his repose.

She tapped her skirt awkwardly, twisted a scape of foxglove between her fingers, smiled, but gave no sign of contentment.

“It seems to me that I could love her, almost, if she would only fondle me.”

Wishing to take out his pipe, he put his hand into the wrong pocket and struck his purse.

“Ah!”

Secretly he extracted a gold-piece, took the child’s hand and clamped her fingers over the surprise. She opened them immediately, looked, and blushed; her bosom swelled, she heaved a deep sigh, then crushed into her friend’s arms, all aquiver with nervous sobs of joy.

On her knees before him, she kissed his eyes, his cheeks, his chin, the corners of his lips.

She was happy.