Front matter (continued 2)

At the appointed hour I waited in front of my house, having closed all the doors and windows, so that the passers-by (if any there were) should think me in bed or absent. It was now spring; and as it had thundered during the day, the sky was still thick with clouds. Gusts of warm wind brought all the sweet smells of the month of May. I listened to the nightingales answering each other from distance to distance as far as I could hear, and I thought to myself that Joseph would be hard put to it to flute like them. I saw the lights of the houses in the village going out one by one; and about ten minutes after the last disappeared I found the couple I was waiting for close beside me. They had stepped so softly on the young grass and so close to the big bushes at the side of the road that I had neither seen nor heard them. I took them into the house, where the lamp was lit; and when I looked at them—she with her hair so coquettishly dressed, and he, as usual, cold and thoughtful—I could scarcely suppose them to be ardently tender lovers.

While I talked a little with Brulette, to do the honors of the house (which was quite a nice one, and I wanted her to take a fancy to it), Joseph, without a word to me, had set about tuning his flute. He found the damp weather had affected it, and he threw a handful of flax chips on the hearth to warm it. When the chips blazed up they cast a strong light upon his face, which was bent towards the fireplace; and I thought his look so strange that I called Brulette's attention to it in a low voice.

"You may think," I said to her, "that he hides by day and wanders off at night solely to surfeit himself with that flute; but I know that he has in him or about him some secret that he does not tell us."

"Bah!" she exclaimed, laughing; "just because Véret, the sabot-maker, fancies he saw him with a tall, dark man near the Râteau elm!"

"Perhaps Véret dreamed that," I answered; "but as for me, I know what I saw and heard in the forest."

"What did you see?" said José, suddenly, who had heard every word, though we spoke quite low. "What did you hear? You saw him who is my friend, but whom I cannot make known to you; and as for what you heard, you are going now to hear it again if it pleases you to do so."

Thereupon he blew into his flute, his eye on fire and his face blazing as if with fever.

Don't ask me what he played. I don't know if the devil would have understood it; as for me, I didn't, except that it seemed the same air I had heard among the brake, on the bagpipes. At that time I was so frightened that I didn't listen to it all; but now, whether it was that the music was longer, or that Joseph put some of his own into it, he never stopped fluting for a quarter of an hour, setting his fingers very delicately, never losing his breath, and getting such sounds out of his miserable reed that you would have thought, at times, there were three bagpipes going at once. At other times he played so softly that you could hear the cricket indoors and the nightingales without; and when José played low I confess I liked it,—though the whole together was so little like what we were accustomed to that it seemed to me a crazy racket.

"Oh, oh!" I exclaimed, when he had finished; "that's a mad sort of music! Where the devil did you learn that? What is the use of it? Is there any meaning in it?"

He did not answer, and seemed as if he had not heard me. He was looking at Brulette, who was leaning against a chair with her face turned to the wall.

As she did not say a word, José was seized with a rush of anger either against her or against himself, and I saw him make a motion as if to break his flute; but just at that moment the girl looked round, and I was much surprised to see great tears running down her cheeks.

Joseph ran to her and caught her hands.

"Tell me what you feel, my darling!" he cried; "let me know if it is pity for me that makes you cry, or whether it is pleasure."

"I don't know how pleasure in a thing like that could make me cry," she said. "Don't ask me if I feel pain or pleasure; all that I know is that I can't help crying."

"But what were you thinking of while I played?" said Joseph, looking fixedly at her.

"So many things that I can't give account of them," replied Brulette.

"Well, tell me one," he said, in a tone that was impatient and dictatorial.

"I did not think of anything," said Brulette, "but a thousand recollections of old times came into my mind. I seemed not to see you playing, though I heard you clearly enough; you appeared to be no older than when we lived together, and I felt as if you and I were driven by a strong wind, sometimes through the ripe wheat, sometimes into the long grass, at other times upon the running streams; and I saw the fields, the woods, the springs, the flowery meadows, and the birds in the sky among the clouds. I saw, too, in my dream, your mother and my grandfather sitting before the fires, and talking of things I could not understand; and all the while you were in the corner on your knees saying your prayers, and I thought I was asleep in my little bed. Then again I saw the ground covered with snow, and the willows full of larks, and the nights full of falling stars; and we looked at each other, sitting on a hillock, while the sheep made their little noise of nibbling the grass. In short, I dreamed so many things that they are all jumbled up in my head; and if they made me cry, it was not for grief, but because my mind was shaken in a way I can't at all explain to you."

"It is all right," said José. "What I saw and what I dreamed as I played you saw too! Thank you, Brulette. Through you I know now that I am not crazy, and that there is a truth in what we hear within us, as there is in what we see. Yes, yes," he said, taking long strides up and down the room and holding his flute above his head, "it speaks!—that miserable bit of reed! it says what we think; it shows what we see; it tells a tale as if with words; it loves like the heart, it lives, it has a being! And now, José the madman, José the idiot, José the starer, go back to your imbecility; you can afford to do so, for you are as powerful, and as wise, and as happy as others!"

So saying, he sat down and paid no further attention to anything about him.

FIFTH EVENING.

We stared at him, Brulette and I, for he was no longer the José we knew. As for me, there was something in all this which reminded me of the tales they tell among us of the wandering bagpipers, who are supposed to tame wild animals and to lead packs of wolves by night along the roads, just as other people lead their flocks in the meadows. José did not have a natural look as he sat there before me. Instead of being pale and puny, he seemed taller and better in health, as I had seen him in the forest. In short, he looked like a person. His eyes beamed in his head with the glitter of two stars, and any one who had called him the handsomest fellow in the world wouldn't have been mistaken at that particular moment.

It seemed to me that Brulette also was under some spell or witchery, because she had seen so many things in that fluting when I could only see the excitement of it. I sorely wanted to make her admit that José would never get any one but the devil to dance to such music; but she wouldn't listen to me, and asked him to begin again.

He was ready enough to do that, and began with a tune which was like the first, and yet was not quite the same; but I saw that his ideas had not changed, and that he was determined not to give in to our country fashions. Seeing that Brulette listened as if she had a taste for the thing, I made an effort in my mind to see if I couldn't like it too; and I seemed to get accustomed to this new kind of music so quickly that something was stirred inside of me. I too had a vision: I thought I saw Brulette dancing alone by the light of the moon under a hawthorn all in bloom, and shaking her pink apron as if about to fly away. But just then, all of a sudden, a sort of ringing of bells was heard not far off, like that I had heard in the forest, and Joseph stopped fluting, cut short in the very middle of a tune.

I came out of my vision, quite convinced that the bell was not a dream; Joseph himself was interrupted, and stood stock-still, evidently vexed; while Brulette gazed at him, not less astonished than I was.

All my terrors came back to me.

"José," I said, reproachfully, "there is more in this than you choose to confess. You did not learn what you know all by yourself; there's a companion outside who is answering you, whether you will or no. Come, tell him to go away; for I don't want to have him in my house. I invited you, and not him, nor any of his tribe. If he doesn't go, I'll sing him an anthem he won't like."

So saying, I took my father's old gun from over the chimney-piece, knowing it was loaded with three consecrated balls; for the Evil Beast was in the habit of roaming about the Font de Fond, and though I had never seen him, I was always prepared to do so, knowing that my parents feared him very much and that he had frequently molested them.

Joseph began to laugh instead of answering me; then, calling to his dog, he went to open the door. My own dog had followed my family on their pilgrimage, so that I had no way of ascertaining whether they were real people or evil ones who were ringing the bells; for you must know that animals, particularly dogs, are very wise in such matters, and bark in a way that lets human beings know the truth.

It is a fact that Parpluche, Joseph's dog, instead of getting angry, ran at once to the door and sprang out gayly enough; as soon as it was opened but the creature might have been bewitched, and so far as I could see, there was nothing good in the matter.

Joseph went out; the wind, which had grown very high, slammed the door after him. Brulette, who had risen, made as if she would open it to see what was going on; but I stopped her quickly, saying there was certainly some wicked secret under it all, so that she, too, began to be afraid and wished she had never come.

"Don't be frightened, Brulette," said I; "I believe in evil spirits, but I am not afraid of them. They do no harm except to those who seek them, and all they can ever do to real Christians is to frighten them. But that's a fear we can and ought to conquer. Come, say a prayer, and I'll hold the door, and you may be sure no harmful thing can get in."

"But that poor lad," said Brulette; "if he is in danger, ought we not to get him back?"

I made her a sign to be silent, and putting myself close to the door with my loaded gun I listened with all my ears. The wind blew high and the bell could only be heard now and then and seemed to be moving farther off. Brulette was at the farther end of the room, half-laughing, half-trembling, for she was a brave, intrepid sort of girl, who joked about the devil, though she would not have liked to make acquaintance with him.

Presently I heard José coming back and saying, not far from the door,—

"Yes, yes, directly after midsummer. Thank you and the good God! I will do just as you say; you have my word for that."

As he mentioned the good God I felt more confidence, so opening the door a trifle I looked out, and there I saw, by the light that streamed from the house, José, walking beside a villanous-looking man, all black from head to foot, even his face and hands, and behind him two big black dogs who were romping with Joseph's dog. The man answered, with such a loud voice that Brulette heard him and trembled: "Good-bye, little man; we shall meet again. Here, Clairin!"

He had no sooner said that than the bells began to jingle, and I saw a lean little horse come up to him, half-crouching, with eyes like live coals, and a bell which shone bright as gold upon his neck. "Call up your comrades!" said the tall dark man. The little horse galloped away, followed by the two dogs, and his master after shaking hands with José went away too. Joseph came in and shut the door, saying with a scornful air,—

"What were you doing here, Tiennet?"

"And you, José, what have you got there?" I retorted, seeing that he had a parcel wrapped in black oil-cloth under his arm.

"That?" he said, "that is something the good God has sent me at the very hour it was promised. Come, Tiennet; come, Brulette; see the fine present God has made me!"

"The good God doesn't send black angels or make presents to wrong-doers."

"Hush," said Brulette, "let José explain himself."

But she had hardly said the words when a loud commotion, like the galloping of two hundred animals, was heard from the broad grass-ground around the fountain, some sixty feet from the house, from which it was separated by the garden and hemp-field. The bell tinkled, the dogs barked, and the man's rough voice was heard shouting, "Quick, quick! here, here! to me, Clairin! come, come! I miss three! You, Louveteau, you, Satan! off with you, quick!"

For a moment Brulette was so frightened that she ran from Joseph to me, which gave me fine courage, and seizing my gun again I said to Joseph:—

"I don't choose that your people should come racketing round here at night. Brulette has had enough of it and she wants to be taken home. Come now, stop this sorcery or I'll chase your witches."

Joseph stopped me as I was going out.

"Stay here," he said, "and don't meddle with what does not concern you; or maybe you'll regret it later. Keep still, and see what I brought in; you shall know all about it presently."

As the uproar was now dying away in the distance, I did look, all the more because Brulette was crazy to know what was in the parcel; and Joseph, undoing it, showed us a bagpipe, so large, and full, and handsome that it was really a splendid thing, and such as I had never seen before.

It had double bellows, one of which measured five feet from end to end; and the wood of the instrument, which was black cherry, dazzled the eyes with the pewter ornaments, made to shine like silver, which were inlaid at all the joints. The wind-bag was of handsome leather tied with a knot of calico, striped blue and white; indeed, the whole workmanship was done in so clever a way that it only took a very little breath to fill the bag and send out a sound like thunder.

"The die is cast!" said Brulette, to whom Joseph was not listening, so intent was he in taking apart and replacing the various parts of his bagpipe. "You will be a piper, José, in spite of the hindrances you will meet with, and the trouble it will be to your mother."

"I shall be a piper," he said, "when I know how to play the bagpipe. Before then the wheat will ripen and the leaves will fall. Don't let us trouble ourselves about what will happen, children; but see things as they are, and don't accuse me of dealings with the devil. He who brought me that bagpipe is neither a sorcerer nor a demon. He is a man rather rough at times, for his business requires it, and as he is going to spend the night not far from here I advise you and I beg you, friend Tiennet, not to go where he is. Excuse me for not telling you his name or his business; and also promise me not to say that you have seen him or that he came round this way. It might cause him annoyance as well as the rest of us. Be content to know that he is a man of good sense and good judgment. It is he whom you saw in the underbrush of the forest of Saint-Chartier, playing a bagpipe like this one; for though he is not a piper by trade, he understands it thoroughly, and has played me airs that are much more beautiful than ours. He saw that not having enough money I could not buy such an instrument, and so he was satisfied with a small amount and lent me the rest, promising to buy the instrument and bring it me just about this time, letting me pay for it as I am able. For this thing, you see, costs eight pistoles, nearly one year's wages! Now, as I hadn't a third of it, he said, 'Trust me, give me what you have, and I will trust you in the same way.' That's how the thing happened. I didn't know him a mite and we had no witnesses: he could have cheated me if he wished, and if I had asked your advice you would have dissuaded me from trusting him. But you see now that he is a faithful man, for he said, 'I will come round your way at Christmas and give you an answer.' At Christmas I met him under the Râteau elm, and sure enough he came, and said: 'The thing is not yet finished; but it is being made; between the first and tenth of May I will be here again, and bring it.' This is the eighth. He has come, and just as he turned a little out of his way to look for me in the village he heard the air I was playing, which he was certain no one in these parts knew but me; and as for me, I heard and recognized his bell. That's how it happened, and the devil had nothing to do with it. We said good-evening to each other and promised to meet at midsummer."

"If that is so," I remarked, "why didn't you bring him in here, where he could have rested and been refreshed with a glass of good wine? I would have given him a hearty welcome for keeping his word to you faithfully."

"Oh! as for that," replied Joseph, "he is a man who doesn't always behave like other people. He has his ways, and his own ideas and reasons. Don't ask me more than I ought to tell you."

"Why not? is it because he is hiding from honest people?" asked Brulette. "I think that is worse than being a sorcerer. He must be some one who has done wrong, or he would not be roaming round at night, and you wouldn't be forbidden to speak of him."

"I will tell you all about it to-morrow," said Joseph, smiling at our fears. "To-night, you can think what you please, for I shall tell you nothing more. Come, Brulette, there's the cuckoo striking midnight. I'll take you home and leave my bagpipe hidden away in your charge. For I certainly shall not practise on it in this neighborhood; the time to make myself known has not yet come."

Brulette said good-night to me very prettily, putting her hand into mine. But when I saw that she put her arm into Joseph's to go away, jealousy galloped off with me again, and as they went along the high-road I cut across the hemp-field and posted myself beneath the hedge to see them pass. The weather had cleared a little, but there had been a shower, and Brulette let go of Joseph's arm to pick up her dress, saying, "It is not easy to walk two together; go in front."

If I had been in José's place I should have offered to carry her over the muddy places, or, if I had not dared to take her in my arms, I should have lingered behind her to look at her pretty ankles. But José did nothing of the kind, he concerned himself about nothing but his bagpipe; and as I saw him handling it with care and looking lovingly at it, I said to myself that he hadn't any other love just then.

I returned home, easy in mind in more ways than one, and went to bed, somewhat fatigued both in body and mind.

But it was not half an hour before Monsieur Parpluche, who had been amusing himself with the stranger's dogs, came scratching at the door in search of his master. I rose to let him in, and just then I fancied I heard a noise in my oats, which were coming up green and thick at the back of the house. It seemed to me that they were being cropped and trampled by some four-footed beast who had no business there.

I caught up the first stick that came to hand and ran out, whistling to Parpluche, who did not obey me but made off, looking for his master, after snuffing about the house.

Entering the field, I saw something rolling on its back with its paws in the air, crushing the oats right and left, getting up, jumping about and browsing quite at its ease. For a moment I was afraid to run after it, not knowing what kind of beast it was. I could see nothing clearly but its ears, which were too long for a horse; but the body was too black and stout for a donkey. I approached it gently; it seemed neither wild nor mischievous, and then I knew it was a mule, though I had seldom seen one, for we don't raise them in our part of the country, and the muleteers never pass this way. I was just going to catch him and already had my hand on his mane when he threw up his hindquarters and lashing out a dozen kicks which I had scarcely time to avoid, he leaped like a hare over the ditch and ran away so quickly that in a moment he was out of sight.

Not wishing to have my oats ruined by the return of the beast, I put off going to bed till I could have an easy mind. I returned to the house to get my shoes and waistcoat, and after fastening the doors I went through the fields in the direction the mule had taken. I had little doubt that he belonged to the troop of the dark man, Joseph's friend. Joseph had certainly advised me to see nothing of him, but now that I had touched a living animal I was afraid of nothing. Nobody likes ghosts; but when you know you are dealing with solid things it is another affair; and the moment I realized that the dark man was a man, no matter how strong he was or how much he had daubed himself over, I didn't care for him any more than I did for a weasel.

You must have heard say that I was one of the strongest fellows of these parts in my young days; in fact, such as I am now, I am not yet afraid of any man.

Moreover, I was as nimble as a roach, and I knew that in dangers where the strength of a man was not enough to save him, it would have needed the wings of a bird to overtake me in running. Accordingly, having provided myself with a rope and my own gun (which didn't have consecrated balls, but could carry truer than my father's), I set out on a voyage of discovery.

I had scarcely taken a couple of hundred steps when I saw three more animals of the same kind in my brother-in-law's pasture, where they were behaving themselves just as badly as possible. Like the first brute, they allowed me to approach them, and then immediately galloped off to a farm on the estate of Aulnières, where they met another troop of mules capering about as lively as mice, rearing and kicking in the rising moonlight,—a regular donkey-chase, which you know is what they call the dance of the devil's she-asses, when the fairies and the will-o-the-wisps gallop up there among the clouds.

However, there was really no magic here; but only a great robbery of pasture, and abominable mischief done to the grain. The crop was not mine, and I might have said that it was none of my business, but I felt provoked to have run after the troublesome animals for nothing, and you can't see the fine wheat of the good God trampled and destroyed without answer.

I went on into the big wheat-field without meeting a single Christian soul, though the mules seemed to increase in numbers every minute. I meant to catch at least one, which would serve as proof when I complained to the authorities of the damage done to the farm.

I singled out one which seemed to be more docile than the rest, but when I got near him I saw that he wasn't the same game, but the lean little horse with a bell round his neck; which bell, as I learned later, is called in the Bourbonnais districts a clairin, and the horse that wears it goes by the same name. Not knowing the habits of these animals, it was by mere good luck that I chanced upon the right way to manage them, which was to get hold of the bell-horse, or clairin, and lead him away, being certain to catch a mule or two afterwards if I succeeded.

The little animal, which seemed good-natured and well-trained, let me pet him and lead him away without seeming to care; but as soon as he began to walk, the bell on his neck began to jingle, and great was my surprise to see the crowd of mules, scattered here and there among the wheat, come trooping upon us, and tearing after me like bees after their queen. I saw then that they were trained to follow the clairin, and that they knew its ring just as well as good monks know the bell for matins.

SIXTH EVENING.

I did not long debate what I should do with the mischievous horde. I went straight for the manor of Aulnières, thinking that I could easily open the gates of the yard and drive the beasts in; after which I would wake the farmers and they, when informed of the damage done, would do as they saw fit.

I was just nearing the yard when, as it happened, I fancied I saw a man running on the road behind me. I cocked my gun, thinking that if he was the muleteer I should have a bone to pick with him. But it was Joseph, on his way back to Aulnières after escorting Brulette to the village.

"What are you doing here, Tiennet?" he said to me, coming up as fast as he could run. "Didn't I tell you not to leave home to-night? You are in danger of death; Let go that horse and don't meddle with those mules. What can't be helped must be endured for fear of worse evils."

"Thank you, comrade," I answered. "Your fine friends pasture their cavalry in my field and you expect me to say nothing! Very good, very good! go your ways if you are afraid yourself, but as for me, I shall see the thing out, and get justice done by law or might."

As I spoke, having stopped a moment to answer him, we heard a dog bark in the distance, and José, seizing the rope by which I was leading the horse, cried out:—

"Quick, Tiennet! here come the muleteer's dogs! If you don't want to be torn in pieces, let go the horse; see, he hears them and you can't do anything with him now."

Sure enough, the clairin pricked his ears to listen; then laying them back, which is a great sign of ill-temper, he began to neigh and rear and kick, which brought all the mules capering round us, so that we had scarcely time to get out of the way before the whole of them rushed by at full speed in the direction of the dogs.

I was not satisfied to yield, however, and as the dogs, having called in their wild troop, showed signs of making straight for us, I took aim with my gun as if to shoot the first of the two that came at me. But Joseph went up to the dog and made him recognize him.

"Ah! Satan," he said to him, "the fault is yours. Why did you chase the hares into the wheat instead of watching your beasts? When your master wakes up you will be whipped if you are not at your post with Louveteau and the clairin."

Satan, understanding that he was being reproved for his behavior, obeyed Joseph, who called him towards a large tract of waste land where the mules could feed without doing any damage, and where Joseph, as he told me, intended to watch them until their master returned.

"Nevertheless, José," I said to him, "matters won't blow over as quietly as you think for; and if you will not tell me where the owner of these mules hides himself, I shall stay here and wait for him, and say what I think to his face, and demand reparation for the harm done."

"You don't know muleteers if you think it easy to get the better of them," replied Joseph. "I believe it is the first time any of them have ever passed this way. It is not their usual road; they commonly come down from the Bourbonnais forests through those of Meillant and L'Éspinasse into the Cheurre woods. I happened accidentally to meet them in the forest of Saint-Chartier, where they were halting on their way to Saint-Août; among them was the man who is here now, whose name is Huriel, and who is on his way to the iron works of Ardentes for coal and ore. He has been kind enough to come two hours out of his way to oblige me. And it may be that, having left his companions and the heath country through which the roads frequented by men of his business run, where his mules can pasture without injuring any one, he fancied he was just as free here in our wheat-lands; and though he is altogether wrong, it would be best not to tell him so."

"He will have to know what I think," I answered, "for I see now how the land lays. Ho! ho! muleteers! we know what they are. You remind me of things I have heard my godfather, Gervais the forester, tell of. Muleteers are lawless men, wicked and ignorant, who would kill a man with as little conscience as they would a rabbit. They think they have a right to feed their beasts at the expense of the peasantry, and if any one complains who is not strong enough to resist them, they will come back later or send their comrades to kill the poor man's cattle or burn his house, or worse; they live on plunder, like thieves at a fair."

"As you have heard those things," said Joseph, "you must see that we should be very foolish to draw down some great harm to the farmers and my master and your family in revenge for a little one. I don't defend what has been done, and when Maître Huriel told me he was going to pasture his mules and camp at Nohant, as he does elsewhere at all seasons, I told him about this bit of common and advised him not to let his mules stray into the wheat-fields. He promised he would not; for he is not at all ill-disposed. But his temper is quick, and he wouldn't back down if a whole crowd of people fell upon him. Please go back to your own property, keep clear of these beasts, and don't pick a quarrel with anybody. If you are questioned to-morrow, say you saw nothing; for to swear in a court of law against a muleteer is quite as dangerous as to swear against a lord."

Joseph was right; so I gave in, and took the road towards home; but I was not satisfied, for backing down before a threat is wisdom to old men and bitter wrath to young ones.

As I neared the house, quite resolved not to go to bed, I fancied I saw a light in it. I quickened my steps and finding the door, which I had latched, wide open, I rushed in and saw a man in the chimney-corner lighting his pipe by a blaze he had made. He turned round and looked at me as quietly as if the house were his, and I recognized the charcoal-blackened man whom Joseph called Huriel.

My wrath returned; and closing the door behind me I exclaimed as I went up to him:—

"Well done! I am glad you have walked into the lion's den. I've a couple of words to say to you."

"Three, if you like," he said, squatting on his heels and drawing fire through his pipe, for the tobacco was damp and did not light readily. Then he added, as if scornfully, "There's not even a pair of tongs to pick up the embers."

"No," I retorted, "but there's a good cudgel to flatten you out with."

"And pray why?" he demanded without losing an atom of assurance. "You are angry because I have entered your house without permission. Why were not you at home? I knocked on the door and asked to light my pipe, a thing no one ever refuses. Silence gives consent, so I pulled the latch. Why did not you lock the door if you are afraid of thieves? I looked at the beds and saw the house was empty; I lighted my pipe, and here I am. What have you to say to that?"

So saying, as I tell you, he took up his gun as if to examine the lock, but it was really as much as to say, "If you are armed, so am I; two can play at that game."

I had an idea of aiming at him to make him respect me; but the longer I looked at his blackened face the more I was struck with his frank air and his lively, jovial eye, so that I ceased to be angry and felt only piqued. He was a young man of twenty-five, tall and strong, and if washed and shaved, would have been quite a handsome fellow. I put my gun down beside the wall and went up to him without fear.

"Let us talk," I said, sitting down by him.

"As you will," he answered, laying aside his gun.

"Is it you they call Huriel?"

"And you Étienne Depardieu?"

"How do you know my name?"

"Just as you know mine,—from our little friend Joseph Picot."

"Then they are your mules that I have caught?"

"Caught!" he exclaimed, half-rising in astonishment. Then, laughing, he added: "You are joking! you can't catch my mules."

"Yes, I can," I said, "if I catch and lead the horse."

"Ha! you have learned the trick?" he cried, with a defiant air. "But how about the dogs?"

"I don't fear dogs when I've a gun in my hand."

"Have you killed my dogs?" he shouted, jumping up. His face flamed with anger, which let me know that though he might be jovial by nature he could be terrible at times.

"I might have killed your dogs," I replied, "and I might have led your mules into a farmyard where you would have found a dozen strong fellows to deal with. I did not do it because Joseph told me you were alone, and that it was not fair for a mere piece of mischief to put you in danger of losing your life. I agreed to that reason. But now we are one to one. Your beasts have injured my field and my sister's field, and what's more, you have entered my house in my absence, which is improper and insolent. You will beg pardon for your behavior and pay damages for my oats, or—"

"Or what?" he said, with a sneer.

"Or we will settle the matter according to the laws and customs of Berry, which are, I think, the same as those of the Bourbonnais where fists are lawyers."

"That is to say, the law of the strongest," he replied, turning up his sleeves. "That suits me better than going before the justices, and if you are really alone and don't play traitor—"

"Come outside," I said, "and you shall see that I am alone. You are wrong to insult me in that way, for I might have shot you as I came in. But guns are made to kill wolves and mad dogs. I didn't want to treat you like a beast, and though you have a chance to shoot me at this moment I think it cowardly for men to pepper each other with balls when fists were given to human beings to fight with. As to that, I don't think you are a greater fool than I, and if you have got pluck—"

"My lad," he said, pulling me towards the fire to look at me, "perhaps you are making a mistake. You are younger than I am, and though you look pretty wiry and solid I wouldn't answer for that skin of yours. I would much rather you spoke me fairly about your damages and trusted to my honesty."

"Enough," I said, knocking his hat into the ashes to anger him; "the best bruised of us two will get justice presently."

He quietly picked up his hat and laid it on the table saying,—

"What are the rules in this part of the country?"

"Among young fellows," I replied, "there is no ill-will or treachery. We seize each other round the body, or strike where we can except on the face. He who takes a stick or a stone is thought a scoundrel."

"That is not exactly our way," he said. "But come on, I shan't spare you; if I hit harder than I mean to, surrender; for there's a time, you know, when one can't answer for one's self."

Once outside on the thick sward we off coats (not to spoil them uselessly), and began to wrestle, clasping thighs and lifting one another bodily. I had the advantage of him there, for he was taller than I by a head, and in bending over he gave me a better grip. Besides, he was not angry, and thinking he would soon get the better of me, he didn't put forth his strength. So being, I was able to floor him at the third round, falling on top of him, but there he recovered himself, and before I had time to strike he wound himself round me like a snake and squeezed me so closely that I lost my breath. Nevertheless, I managed to get up first and attack him again. When he saw that he had to do with a free hitter, and caught it well in the stomach and on the shoulders, he gave me as good as I sent, and I must own that his fist was like a sledge-hammer. But I would have died sooner than show I felt it; and each time that he cried out, "Surrender!" I plucked up courage and strength to pay him in his own coin. So for a good quarter of an hour the fight seemed even. Presently, however, I felt I was getting exhausted while he was only warming to the work; for if he had less activity than I, his age and temperament were in his favor. The end of it was that I was down beneath him and fairly beaten and unable to release myself. But for all that I wouldn't cry mercy; and when he saw that I would rather be killed he behaved like a generous fellow.

"Come, enough!" he cried, loosing his grip on my throat; "your will is stronger than your bones, I see that, and I might break them to bits before you would give in. That's right! and as you are a true man let us be friends. I beg your pardon for entering your house; and now let us talk over the damage my mules have done to you. I am as ready to pay you as to fight you; and afterwards, you shall give me a glass of wine so that we may part good friends."

The bargain concluded, I pocketed three crowns which he paid me for myself and my brother-in-law; then I drew the wine and we sat down to table. Three flagons of two pints each disappeared, for we were both thirsty enough after the game we had been playing, and Maître Huriel had a carcass which could hold as much as he liked to put into it. I found him a good fellow, a fine talker, and easy to get on with; and I, not wishing to seem behindhand in words or actions, filled his glass every two minutes and swore friendship till the roof rang.

Apparently, he felt no effects of the fight. I felt them badly enough; but not wishing to show it, I proposed a song, and squeezed one, with some difficulty, from my throat, which was still hot from the grip of his hands. He only laughed.

"Comrade," said he, "neither you nor yours know anything about singing. Your tunes are as flat and your wind as stifled as your ideas and your pleasures. You are a race of snails, always snuffing the same wind and sucking the same bark; for you think the world ends at those blue hills which limit your sky and which are the forests of my native land. I tell you, Tiennet, that's where the world begins, and you would have to walk pretty fast for many a night and day before you got out of those grand woods, to which yours are but a patch of pea-brush. And when you do get out of them you will find mountains and more forests, such as you have never seen, of the tall handsome fir-trees of Auvergne, unknown to your rich plains. But what's the good of telling you about these places that you will never see? You Berry folks are like stones which roll from one rut to another, coming back to the right hand when the cart-wheels have shoved them for a time to the left. You breathe a heavy atmosphere, you love your ease, you have no curiosity; you cherish your money and don't spend it, but also you don't know how to increase it; you have neither nerve nor invention. I don't mean you personally, Tiennet; you know how to fight (in defence of your own property), but you don't know how to acquire property by industry as we muleteers do, travelling from place to place, and taking, by fair means or foul, what isn't given with a good will."

"Oh! I agree to all that," I answered; "but don't you call yours a brigand's trade? Come, friend Huriel, wouldn't it be better to be less rich and more honest? for when it comes to old age will you enjoy your ill-gotten property with a clear conscience?"

"Ill-gotten! Look here, friend Tiennet," he said, laughing, "you who have, I suppose, like all the small proprietors about here, a couple of dozen sheep, two or three goats, and perhaps an old mare that feeds on the common, do you go and offer reparation if, by accident, your beasts bark your neighbor's trees and trample his young wheat? Don't you call in your animals as fast as you can, without saying a word about it; and if your neighbors take the law of you, don't you curse them and the law too? And if you could, without danger, get them off into a corner, wouldn't you make amends to yourself by belaboring their shoulders? I tell you, it is either cowardice or force that makes you respect the law, and it is because we avoid both that you blame us, out of jealousy of the freedom that we have known how to snatch."

"I don't like your queer morality, Huriel; but what has all this got to do with music? Why do you laugh at my song? Do you know a better?"

"I don't pretend to, Tiennet; but I tell you that music, liberty, beautiful wild scenery, lively minds, and, if you choose, the art of making money without getting stupefied,—all belong together like fingers to the hand. I tell you that shouting is not singing; you can bellow like deaf folks in your fields and taverns, but that's not music. Music is on our side of those hills, and not on yours. Your friend Joseph felt this, for his senses are more delicate than yours; in fact, my little Tiennet, I should only lose my time in trying to show you the difference. You are a Berrichon, as a swallow is a swallow; and what you are to-day you will be fifty years hence. Your head will whiten, but your brain will never be a day older."

"Why, do you think me a fool?" I asked, rather mortified.

"Fool? Not at all," he said. "Frank as to heart and shrewd as to interest,—that's what you are and ever will be; but living in body and lively in soul you never can be. And this is why, Tiennet," he added, pointing to the furniture of the room. "See these big-bellied beds where you sleep in feathers up to your eyes. You are spade and pickaxe folk,—toilers in the sun,—but you must have your downy beds to rest in. We forest fellows would soon be ill if we had to bury ourselves alive in sheets and blankets. A log hut, a fern bed,—that's our home and our furniture; even those of us who travel constantly and don't mind paying the inn charges, can't stand a roof over our heads; we sleep in the open air in the depth of winter, on the pack-saddles of our mules, with the snow for a coverlet. Here you have dresses and tables and chairs and fine china, ground glass, good wine, a roasting-jack and soup-pots, and heaven knows what? You think you must have all that to make you happy; you work your jaws like cows that chew the cud; and so, when obliged to get upon your feet and go back to work, you have a pain in your chest two or three times a day. You are heavy, and no gayer at heart than your beasts of burden. On Sundays you sit, with your elbows on the table, eating more than your hunger tells you to, and drinking more than your thirst requires; you think you are amusing yourself by storing up indigestion and sighing after girls who are only bored with you though they don't know why,—your partners in those dragging dances in rooms and barns where you suffocate; turning your holidays and festivals into a burden the more upon your spirits and stomachs. Yes, Tiennet, that's the life you live. To indulge your ease you increase your wants, and in order to live well you don't live at all."

"And how do you live, you muleteers?" I said, rather shaken by his remarks. "I don't speak now of your part of the country, of which I know nothing, but of you, a muleteer, whom I see there before me, drinking hard, with your elbows on the table, not sorry to find a fire to light your pipe and a Christian to talk with. Are you made different from other men? When you have led this hard life you boast of for a score of years, won't you spend your money, which you have amassed by depriving yourself of everything, in procuring a wife, a house, a table, a good bed, good wine, and rest at last?"

"What a lot of questions, Tiennet!" replied my guest. "You argue fairly well for a Berrichon. I'll try to answer you. You see me drink and talk because I am a man and like wine. Company and the pleasures of the table please me even more than they do you, for the very good reason that I don't need them and am not accustomed to them. Always afoot, snatching a mouthful as I can, drinking at the brooks, sleeping under the first oak I come to, of course it is a feast for me to come across a good table and plenty of good wine; but it is a feast, and not a necessity. To me, living alone for weeks at a time, the society of a friend is a holiday; I say more to him in one hour's talk than you would say in a day at a tavern. I enjoy all, and more, than you fellows do, because I abuse nothing. If a pretty girl or a forward woman comes after me in the woods to tell me that she loves me, she knows I have no time to dangle after her like a ninny and wait her pleasure; and I admit that in the matter of love I prefer that which is soon found to that you have to search and wait for. As to the future, Tiennet, I don't know if I shall ever have a home and a family; but if I do, I shall be more grateful to the good God than you are, and I shall enjoy its sweetness more, too. But I swear that my helpmate shall not be one of your buxom, red-faced women, let her be ever so rich. A man who loves liberty and true happiness never marries for money. I shall never love any woman who isn't slender and fair as a young birch,—one of those dainty, lively darlings, who grow in the shady woods and sing better than your nightingales."

"A girl like Brulette," I thought to myself. "Luckily she isn't here, for though she despises all of us, she might take a fancy to this blackamoor, if only by way of oddity."

The muleteer went on talking.

"And so, Tiennet, I don't blame you for following the road that lies before you; but mine goes farther and I like it best. I am glad to know you, and if you ever want me send for me. I can't ask the same of you, for I know that a dweller on the plains makes his will and confesses to the priest before he travels a dozen leagues to see a friend. But with us it isn't so; we fly like the swallows, and can be met almost everywhere. Good-bye. Shake hands. If you get tired of a peasant's life call the black crow from the Bourbonnais to get you out of it; he'll remember that he played the bagpipe on your back without anger, and surrendered to your bravery."

SEVENTH EVENING.

Thereupon Huriel departed to find Joseph, and I went to bed; for if up to that time I had concealed out of pride and forgotten out of curiosity the ache in my bones, I was none the less bruised from head to foot. Maître Huriel walked off gayly enough, apparently without feeling anything, but as for me I was obliged to stay in bed for nearly a week, spitting blood, with my stomach all upset. Joseph came to see me and did not know what to make of it all; for I was shy of telling him the truth, because it appeared that Huriel, in speaking to him of me, hadn't mentioned how we came to an explanation.

Great was the amazement of the neighborhood over the injury done to the wheat-fields of Aulnières, and the mule-tracks along the roads were something to wonder at. When I gave my brother-in-law the money I had earned with my sore bones I told him the whole story secretly, and as he was a good, prudent fellow, no one got wind of it.

Joseph had left his bagpipe at Brulette's and could not make use of it, partly because the haying left him no time, and also because Brulette, fearing Carnat's spite, did her best to put him out of the notion of playing.

Joseph pretended to give in; but we soon saw that he was concocting some other plan and thinking to hire himself out in another parish, where he could slip his collar and do as he pleased.

About midsummer he gave warning to his master to get another man in his place; but it was impossible to get him to say where he was going; and as he always replied, "I don't know," to any question he didn't choose to answer, we began to think he would really let himself be hired in the market-place, like the rest, without caring where he went.

As the Christians' Fair, so-called, is one of the great festivals of the town, Brulette went there to dance, and so did I. We thought we should meet Joseph and find out before the end of the day what master and what region he had chosen. But he did not appear either morning or evening on the market-place. No one saw him in the town. He had left his bagpipe, but he had carried off, the night before, all the articles he usually left in Père Brulet's house.

That evening as we came home,—Brulette and I and all her train of lovers with the other young folks of our parish,—she took my arm, and walking on the grassy side of the road away from the others, she said:—

"Do you know, Tiennet, that I am very anxious about José? His mother, whom I saw just now in town, is full of trouble and can't imagine where he has gone. A long time ago he told her he thought of going away; but now she can't find out where, and the poor woman is miserable."

"And you, Brulette," I said, "it seems to me that you are not very gay, and you haven't danced with the same spirit as usual."

"That's true," she answered; "I have a great regard for the poor lunatic fellow,—partly because I ought to have it, on account of his mother, and then for old acquaintance' sake, and also because I care for his fluting."

"Fluting! does it really have such an effect upon you?"

"There's nothing wrong in its effect, cousin. Why do you find fault with it?"

"I don't; but—"

"Come, say what you mean," she exclaimed, laughing; "for you are always chanting some sort of dirge about it, and I want to say amen to you once for all, so that I may hear the last of it."

"Well then, Brulette," I replied, "we won't say another word about Joseph, but let us talk of ourselves. Why won't you see that I have a great love for you? and can't you tell me that you will return it one of these days?"

"Oh! oh! are you talking seriously, this time?"

"This time and all times. It has always been serious on my part, even when shyness made me pretend to joke about it."

"Then," said Brulette, quickening her step with me that the others might not overhear us, "tell me how and why you love me; I'll answer you afterwards."

I saw she wanted compliments and flattery, but my tongue was not very ready at that kind of thing. I did my best, however, and told her that ever since I came into the world I had never thought of any one but her; for she was the prettiest and sweetest of girls, and had captivated me even before she was twelve years old.

I told nothing that she did not know already; indeed she said so, and owned she had seen it at the time we were catechised. But she added laughing:—

"Now explain why you have not died of grief, for I have always put you down; and tell me also why you are such a fine-grown, healthy fellow, if love, as you declare, has withered you."

"That's not talking seriously, as you promised me," I said.

"Yes, it is," she replied; "I am serious, for I shall never choose any one who can't swear that he has never in his life fancied, or loved, or desired any girl but me."

"Then it is all right, Brulette," I cried. "If that's so, I fear nobody, not even that José of yours, who, I will allow, never looked at a girl in his life, for his eyes can't even see you, or he wouldn't go away and leave you."

"Don't talk of Joseph; we agreed to let him alone," replied Brulette, rather sharply, "and as you boast of such very keen eyes, please confess that in spite of your love for me you have ogled more than one pretty girl. Now, don't tell fibs, for I hate lying. What were you saying so gayly to Sylvia only last year? And it isn't more than a couple of months since you danced two Sundays running, under my very nose, with that big Bonnina. Do you think I am blind, and that nobody comes and tells me things?"

I was rather mortified at first; but then, encouraged by the thought that there was a spice of jealousy in Brulette, I answered, frankly,—

"What I was saying to such girls, cousin, is not proper to repeat to a person I respect. A fellow may play the fool sometimes to amuse himself, and the regret he feels for it afterwards only proves that his heart and soul had nothing to do with it."

Brulette colored; but she answered immediately,—

"Then, can you swear to me, Tiennet, that my character and my face have never been lowered in your esteem by the prettiness or the amiability of any other girl,—never, since you were born?"

"I will swear to it," I said.

"Swear, then," she said; "but give all your mind, and all your religion to what you are going to say. Swear by your father and your mother, by your conscience and the good God, that no girl ever seemed to you as beautiful as I."

I was about to swear, when, I am sure I don't know why, a recollection made my tongue tremble. Perhaps I was very silly to heed it; a shrewder fellow wouldn't have done so, but I couldn't lie at the moment when a certain image came clearly before my mind. And yet, I had totally forgotten it up to that very moment, and should probably never have remembered it at all if it had not been for Brulette's questions and adjurations.

"You are in no hurry to swear," she said, "but I like that best; I shall respect you for the truth and despise you for a lie."

"Well then, Brulette," I answered, "as you want me to tell the exact truth I will do so. In all my life I have seen two girls, two children I might say, between whom I might have wavered as to preference if any one had said to me (for I was a child myself at the time), 'Here are two little darlings who may listen to you in after days; choose which you will have for a wife.' I should doubtless have answered, 'I choose my cousin,' because I knew how amiable you were, and I knew nothing of the other, having only seen her for ten minutes. And yet, when I came to think of it, it is possible I might have felt some regret, not because her beauty was greater than yours, for I don't think that possible, but because she gave me a good kiss on both cheeks, which you never gave me in your life. So I conclude that she is a girl who will some day give her heart generously, whereas your discretion holds me and always has held me in fear and trembling."

"Where is she now?" asked Brulette, who seemed struck by what I said. "What is her name?"

She was much surprised to hear that I knew neither her name nor the place she lived in, and that I called her in my memory "the girl of the woods." I told her the little story of the cart that stuck in the mud, and she asked me a variety of questions which I could not answer, my recollections being much confused and the whole affair being of less interest to me than Brulette supposed. She turned over in her head every word she got out of me, and it almost seemed as if she were questioning herself, with some vexation, to know if she were pretty enough to be so exacting, and whether frankness or coyness was the best way of pleasing the lads.

Perhaps she was tempted for a moment to try coquetry and make me forget the little vision that had come into my head, and which, for more reasons than one, had displeased her; but after a few joking words she answered seriously:—

"No, Tiennet, I won't blame you for having eyes to see a pretty girl when the matter is as innocent and natural as you tell me; but nevertheless it makes me think seriously, I hardly know why, about myself. Cousin, I am a coquette. I feel the fever of it to the very roots of my hair. I don't know that I shall ever be cured of it; but, such as I am, I look upon love and marriage as the end of all my comfort and pleasure. I am eighteen,—old enough to reflect. Well, reflection comes to me like a blow on the stomach; whereas you have been considering how to get yourself a happy home ever since you were fifteen or sixteen, and your simple heart has given you an honest answer. What you need is a wife as simple and honest as yourself, without caprices, or pride, or folly: I should deceive you shamefully if I told you that I am the right kind of girl for you. Whether from caprice or distrust I don't know, but I have no inclination for any of those I can choose from, and I can't say that I ever shall have. The longer I live the more my freedom and my light-heartedness satisfy me. Therefore be my friend, my comrade, my cousin; I will love you just as I love Joseph, and better, if you are faithful to our friendship; but don't think any more about marrying me. I know that your relations would be opposed to it, and so am I, in spite of myself, and with great regret for disappointing you. See, the others are coming after us to break up this long talk. Promise me not to sulk; choose a course; be my brother. If you say yes, we'll build the midsummer bonfire when we get back to the village, and open the dance together gayly."

"Well, Brulette," I answered, sighing, "it shall be as you say. I'll do my best not to love you, except as you wish, and in any case I shall still be your cousin and good friend, as in duty bound."

She took my hand and ran with me to the village market-place, delighted to make her lovers scamper after her; there we found that the old people had already piled up the fagots and straw of the bonfire. Brulette, being the first to arrive, was called to set fire to it, and soon the flames darted higher than the church porch.

We had no music to dance by until Carnat's son, named François, came along with his bagpipe; and he was very willing to play, for he, too, like the rest, was putting his best foot foremost to please Brulette.

So we opened the ball joyously, but after a minute or two everybody cried out that the music tired their legs. François Carnat was new at the business, and though he did his best, we found we couldn't get along. He let us make fun of him, however, and kept on playing,—being, as I suppose, rather glad of the practice, as it was the first time he had played for people to dance.

Nobody liked it, however, and when the young men found that dancing, instead of resting their tired legs, only tired them more, they talked of bidding good-night or spending the evening in the tavern. Brulette and the other girls exclaimed against that, and told us we were unmannerly lads and clodhoppers. This led to an argument, in the midst of which, all of a sudden, a tall, handsome fellow appeared, before it could be seen where he came from.

"Hallo there, children!" he cried, in such a loud tone that it drowned our racket and forced us to listen. "If you want to go on dancing, you shall. Here's a bagpiper who will pipe for you as long as you like, and won't ask anything for his trouble. Give me that," he said to François Carnat, taking hold of his bagpipe, "and listen; it may do you good, for though music is not my business, I know more about it than you."

Then, without waiting for François's consent, he blew out the bag and began to play, amid cries of joy from the girls and with many thanks from the lads.

At his very first words I had recognized the Bourbonnais accent of the muleteer, but I could hardly believe my eyes, so changed was he for the better in looks. Instead of his coal-dusty smock-frock, his old leathern gaiters, his battered hat, and his grimy face, he had a new suit of clothes of fine white woollen stuff streaked with blue, handsome linen, a straw hat with colored ribbons, his beard trimmed, his face washed and as rosy as a peach. In short, he was the handsomest man I ever saw; grand as an oak, well-made in every part of him, clean-limbed and vigorous; with teeth that were bits of ivory, eyes like the blades of a knife, and the affable air and manners of a gentleman. He ogled all the girls, smiled at the beauties, laughed with the plain ones, and was merry, good company with every one, encouraging and inspiriting the dancers with eye and foot and voice (for he did not blow much into his bagpipe, so clever was he in managing his wind), and shouting between the puffs a dozen drolleries and funny sayings, which put everybody in good humor for the evening.

Moreover, instead of doling out exact measure like an ordinary piper, and stopping short when he had earned his two sous for every couple, he went on bagpiping a full quarter of an hour, changing his tunes you couldn't tell how, for they ran into one another without showing the join; in short, it was the best reel music ever heard, and quite unknown in our parts, but so enlivening and danceable that we all seemed to be flying in the air instead of jigging about on the grass.

I think he would have played and we should have danced all night without getting tired, if it had not been that Père Carnat, hearing the music from the wine-shop of La Biaude and wondering much that his son could play so well, came proudly over to listen. But when he saw his own bagpipe in the hands of a stranger, and François dancing away without seeing the harm of yielding his place, he was furious; and pushing the muleteer from behind, he made him jump from the stone on which he was perched into the very middle of the dancers.

Maître Huriel was a good deal surprised, and turning round he saw Carnat, red with anger, ordering him to give up the instrument.

You never knew Carnat the piper? He was getting in years even then, but he was still as sturdy and vicious as an old devil.

The muleteer began by showing fight, but noticing Carnat's white hair, he returned the bagpipe gently, remarking, "You might have spoken with more civility, old fellow; but if you don't like me to take your place I give it up to you,—all the more willingly that I should like to dance myself, if the young people will allow a stranger in their company."

"Yes, yes! come and dance! you have earned it," cried the whole parish, who had turned out to hear the fine music and were charmed with him,—old and young both.

"Then," he said, taking Brulette's hand, for he had looked at her more than at all the rest, "I ask, by way of payment, to be allowed to dance with this pretty girl, even though she be engaged to some one else."

"She is engaged to me, Huriel," said I, "but as we are friends, I yield my rights to you for this dance."

"Thank you," answered he, shaking hands; then he whispered in my ear, "I pretended not to know you; but if you see no harm to yourself so much the better."

"Don't say you are a muleteer and it is all right," I replied.

While the folks were questioning about the stranger, another fuss arose at the musician's stone. Père Carnat refused to play or to allow his son to play. He even scolded François openly for letting an unknown man supplant him; and the more people tried to settle the matter by telling him the stranger had not taken any money, the angrier he got. In fact when Père Maurice Viaud told him he was jealous, and that the stranger could outdo him and all the other neighboring players, he was beside himself with rage.

He rushed into the midst of us and demanded of Huriel whether he had a license to play the bagpipes,—which made every body laugh, and the muleteer most of all. At last, being summoned by the old savage to reply, Huriel said, "I don't know the customs in your part of the country, old man, but I have travelled enough to know the laws, and I know that nowhere in France do artists buy licenses."

"Artists!" exclaimed Carnat, puzzled by a word which, like the rest of us, he had never heard, "What does that mean? Are you talking gibberish?"

"Not at all," replied Huriel. "I will call them musicians if you like; and I assert that I am free to play music wherever I please without paying toll to the king of France."

"Well, well, I know that," answered Carnat, "but what you don't know yourself is that in our part of the country musicians pay a tax to an association of public players, and receive a license after they have been tried and initiated."

"I know that too," said Huriel, "and I also know how much money is paid into your pockets during those trials. I advise you not to try that upon me. However, happily for you, I don't practise the profession, and want nothing in your parts. I play gratis where I please, and no one can prevent that, for the reason that I have got my degree as master-piper, which very likely you have not, big as you talk."

Carnat quieted down a little at these words, and they said something privately to each other that nobody heard, by which they discovered that they belonged to the same corporation, if not to the same company. The two Carnats, having no further right to object, as every one present testified that Huriel had not played for money, departed grumbling and saying spiteful things, which no one answered so as to be sooner rid of them.

As soon as they were gone we called on Marie Guillard, a lass with a carrying voice, and made her sing, so that the stranger might have the pleasure of dancing with us.

He did not dance in our fashion, though he accommodated himself very well to the time and figures. But his style was much the best, and gave such free play to his body that he really looked handsomer and taller than ever. Brulette watched him attentively and when he kissed her, which is the fashion in our parts when each dance begins, she grew quite red and confused, contrary to her usual indifferent and easy way of taking a kiss.

I argued from this that she had rather overdone her contempt for love when talking with me about mine; but I took no notice, and I own that in spite of it all I felt a good deal set up on my own account by the fine manners and talents of the muleteer.

When the dance was over he came up to me with Brulette on his arm, saying,—

"It is your turn now, comrade; and I can't thank you better than by returning the pretty dancer you lent me. She is a beauty like those of my own land, and for her sake I do homage to the Berrichon girls. But why end the evening so early? Is there no other bagpipe in the village besides that of the old cross patch?"

"Yes, there is," said Brulette quickly, letting out the secret she wanted to keep in her eagerness for dancing; then, catching herself up, she added, blushing, "That is to say, there are shepherd's pipes, and herd-boys who can play them after a fashion."

"Pipes indeed!" cried the muleteer; "if you happen to laugh they go down your throat and make you cough! My mouth is too big for that kind of instrument; and yet I want to make you dance, my pretty Brulette; for that is your name, I have heard it," he said, drawing us both aside; "and I know, too, that there's a fine bagpipe in your house, which came from the Bourbonnais, and belongs to a certain Joseph Picot, your friend from childhood, and your companion at the first communion."

"Oh! how did you know that?" cried Brulette, much astonished. "Do you know our Joseph? Perhaps you can tell us where he has gone?"

"Are you anxious about him?" said Huriel, looking narrowly at her.

"So anxious that I will thank you with all my heart if you can give me news of him."

"Well, I'll give you some, my pretty one; but not until you bring me his bagpipe, which he wants me to carry to him at the place where he now is."

"What!" cried Brulette, "is he very far away?"

"So far that he has no idea of coming back."

"Is that true? Won't he come back? has he gone for good and all? That ends my wanting to laugh and dance any more to-night."

"Ho, ho, pretty one!" cried Huriel; "so you are Joseph's sweetheart, are you? He did not tell me that."

"I am nobody's sweetheart," answered Brulette, drawing herself up.

"Nevertheless," said the muleteer, "here is a token which he told me to show you in case you hesitated to trust me with the bagpipe."

"Where is it? what is it?" I exclaimed.

"Look at my ear," said the muleteer, lifting a great lock of his curly black hair and showing us a tiny silver heart hanging to a large earring of fine gold, which pierced his ears after a fashion among the middle classes of those days.

I think that earring began to open Brulette's eyes, for she said to Huriel, "You can't be what you seem to be, but I see plainly that you are not a man to deceive poor folks. Besides, that token is really mine, or rather it is Joseph's, for it is a present his mother made to me on the day of our first communion, and I gave it to him the next day as a remembrance, when he left home to go to service. So, Tiennet," she said, turning to me, "go to my house and fetch the bagpipe, and bring it over there, under the church porch, where it is dark, so that people can't see where it comes from; for Père Carnat is a wicked old man and might do my grandfather some harm if he thought we were mixed up in the matter."

EIGHTH EVENING.

I did as I was told, not pleased, however, at leaving Brulette alone with the muleteer in a place already darkened by the coming night. When I returned, bringing the bagpipe, taken apart and folded up under my blouse, I found them still in the same corner arguing over something with a good deal of vehemence. Seeing me, Brulette said: "Tiennet, I take you to witness that I do not consent to give this man that token which is hung on his earring. He declares he cannot give it back because it belongs to Joseph, but he also says that Joseph does not want it; it is a little thing, to be sure, not worth ten sous, but I don't choose to give it to a stranger. I was scarcely twelve years old when I gave it to José, and people must be suspicious to see any meaning in that; but, as they will have it so, it is only the more reason why I should refuse to give it to another."

It seemed to me that Brulette was taking unnecessary pains to show the muleteer she was not in love with Joseph, and also that Huriel, on his side, was very glad to find her heart was free. However that may be, he did not trouble himself to stop courting her before me.

"My pretty one," he said, "you are too suspicious. I would not show your gifts to any one, even if I had them to boast of; but I admit here, before Tiennet, that you do not encourage me to love you. I can't say that that will stop me; at any rate, you cannot hinder me from remembering you, and I shall value this ten-sous token in my ear above anything I ever coveted. Joseph is my friend, and I know he loves you; but the lad's affection is so quiet he will never think of asking for his token again. So, if it is one year or ten before we meet again, you will see it just where it is; that is, unless the ear is gone."

So saying, he took Brulette's hand and kissed it, and then he set to work to put the bagpipe together and fill it.

"What are you doing?" cried Brulette. "I told you that I had no heart to amuse myself, now that Joseph has left his mother and friends for such a time, and as for you, you'll be in danger of a fight if the other pipers should come this way and find you playing."

"Bah!" said Huriel, "we'll see about that; don't be troubled for me,—you must dance, Brulette, or I shall think you are really in love with an ungrateful fellow who has left you."

Whether it was that Brulette was too proud to let him think that, or that the dancing mania was too strong for her, it is certain that the bagpipe was no sooner fitted and filled and beginning to sound than she held out no longer and let me carry her off for the first reel.

You would hardly believe, friends, what cries of satisfaction and delight filled the marketplace at the resounding noise of that bagpipe and the return of the muleteer, for every one thought him gone. The dancing had flagged and the company were about to disperse when he made his appearance once more on the piper's stone. Instantly such a hubbub arose! no longer four to eight couples were dancing, but sixteen to thirty-two, joining hands, skipping, shouting, laughing, so that the good God himself couldn't have got a word in edgewise. And presently every one in the market-place, old and young, children who couldn't yet use their legs, grandfathers tottering on theirs, old women jigging in the style of their youth, awkward folk who couldn't get the time or the tune,—they all set to spinning; and, indeed, it is a wonder the clock of the parish church didn't spin too. Fancy! the finest music ever heard in our parts and costing nothing! It seemed as if the devil had a finger in it, for the piper never asked to rest, and tired out everybody except himself. "I'm determined to be the last," he cried when they advised him to rest. "The whole parish shall give in before me; I intend to keep it up till sunrise, and you shall all cry me mercy!" So on we went, he piping and we twirling like mad.

Mère Biaude, who kept the tavern, seeing there was profit in it, brought out tables and benches and something to eat and drink; as to the latter article, she couldn't furnish enough for so many stomachs hungry by dancing, so folks living near brought out for their friends and acquaintance the victuals they had laid in for the week. One brought cheese, another a bag of nuts, another the quarter of a kid, or a sucking pig, all of which were roasted and broiled at a fire hastily built in the market-place. It was like a wedding to which every one flocked. The children were not sent to bed, for no one had time to think of them, and they fell asleep, like a heap of lambs, on the piles of lumber which always lay about the market-place, to the wild racket of the dance and the bagpipe, which never stopped except it was to let the piper drink a jorum of the best wine.

The more he drank the gayer he was and the better he played. At last hunger seized the sturdiest, and Huriel was forced to stop for lack of dancers. So, having won his wager to bury us all, he consented to go to supper. Everybody invited him and quarrelled for the honor and pleasure of feasting him; but seeing that Brulette was coming to my table, he accepted my invitation and sat down beside her, boiling over with wit and good humor. He ate fast and well, but instead of getting torpid from digestion he was the first to clink his glass for a song; and although he had blown his pipe like a whirlwind for six hours at a stretch, his voice was as fresh and as true as if he had done nothing. The others tried to hold their own, but even our renowned singers soon gave it up for the pleasure of listening to him; his songs were far beyond theirs, as much for the tunes as the words; indeed, we had great difficulty in catching the chorus, for there was nothing in his throat that wasn't new to our ears, and of a quality, I must own, above our knowledge.

People left their tables to listen to him, and just as day was beginning to dawn through the leaves a crowd of people were standing round him, more bewitched and attentive than at the finest sermon.

At that moment he rose, jumped on his bench, and waved his empty glass to the first ray of sunlight that shone above his head, saying, in a manner that made us all tremble without knowing why or wherefore:—

"Friends, see the torch of the good God! Put out your little candles and bow to the clearest and brightest light that shines on the world. And now," he said, sitting down again and setting his glass bottom up on the table, "we have talked enough and sung enough for one night. What are you about, verger? Go and ring the Angelus, that we may see who signs the cross like a Christian; and that will show which of us have enjoyed ourselves decently, and which have degraded our pleasure like fools. After we have rendered thanks to God I must depart, my friends, thanking you for this fine fête and all your signs of confidence. I owed you a little reparation for some damage I did a few of you lately without intending it. Guess it if you can,—I did not come here to confess it; but I think I have done my best to amuse you; and as pleasure, to my thinking, is worth more than profit, I feel that I am quits with you. Hush!" he added, as they began to question him, "hear the Angelus!"

He knelt down, which led every one to do likewise, and do it, too, with soberness of manner, for the man seemed to have some extraordinary power over his fellows.

When the prayer ended we looked about for him, but he was gone,—and so completely that there were people who rubbed their eyes, fancying that they had dreamed this night of gayety and merriment.

NINTH EVENING.

Brulette was trembling all over, and when I asked her what the matter was and what she was thinking of, she answered, rubbing her cheek with the back of her hand, "That man is pleasant, Tiennet, but he is very bold."

As I was rather more heated than usual, I found courage to say,—

"If the lips of a stranger offend your skin, perhaps those of a friend can remove the stain."

But she pushed me away, saying,—

"He has gone, and it is wisest to forget those who go."

"Even poor José?"

"He! oh, that's different," she answered.

"Why different? You don't answer me. Oh, Brulette, you care for—"

"For whom?" she said, quickly. "What is his name? Out with it, as you know it!"

"It is," I said, laughing, "the black man for whose sake José has given himself over to the devil,—that man who frightened you one night last spring when you were at my house."

"No, no; nonsense! you are joking. Tell me his name, his business, and where he comes from."

"No, I shall not, Brulette. You say we ought to forget the absent, and I would rather you didn't change your mind."

The whole parish was surprised when it was known that the piper had departed before they had thought of discovering who he was. To be sure, a few had questioned him, but he gave them contradictory answers. To one he said he was a Marchois and was named thus and so; to another he gave a different name, and no one could make out the truth. I gave them still another name to throw them off the scent,—not that Huriel the wheat-spoiler need fear any one after Huriel the piper had turned everybody's head, but simply to amuse myself and to tease Brulette. Then, when I was asked where I had known him, I answered, laughing, that I didn't know him at all,—that he had taken it into his head on arriving to accost me as a friend, and that I had answered him in kind by way of a joke.

Brulette, however, sifted me to the bottom, and I was forced to tell her what I knew; and though it was not much, she was sorry she had heard it, for like most country folks, she had a great prejudice against strangers, and muleteers in particular.

I thought this repugnance would soon make her forget Huriel; and if she ever thought of him she never showed it, but continued to lead the gay life she liked so well, declaring that she meant to be as faithful a wife as she was thoughtless a girl, and therefore she should take her time and study her suitors; and to me she kept repeating that she wanted my faithful, quiet friendship, without any thought of marriage.

As my nature never turned to gloominess, I made no complaint; in fact, like Brulette, I had a leaning to liberty, and I used mine like other young fellows, taking pleasure where I found it, without the yoke. But the excitement once over, I always came back to my beautiful cousin for gentle, virtuous, and lively companionship, which I couldn't afford to lose by sulking. She had more sense and wit than all the women and girls of the neighborhood put together. And her home was so pleasant,—always neat and well-managed, never pinched for means, and filled, during the winter evenings and on all the holidays of the year, with the nicest young folks of the parish. The girls liked to follow in my cousin's train, where there was always a rush of young fellows to choose from, and where they could pick up, now and then, a husband of their own. In fact, Brulette took advantage of the respect they all felt for her to make the lads think of the lasses who wanted their attentions; for she was generous with her lovers,—like people rich in other ways who know it is their duty to give away.

Grandfather Brulet loved his young companion, and amused her with his old-fashioned songs and the many fine tales he told her. Sometimes Mariton would drop in for a moment just to talk of her boy. She was a great woman for gossip, still fresh in appearance, and always ready to show the young girls how to make their clothes,—being well dressed herself to please her master Benoit, who thought her handsome face and finery a good advertisement of his house.

It was well-nigh a year that these amusements had been going on without other news of Joseph than by two letters, in which he told his mother he was well in health and was earning his living in the Bourbonnais. He did not give the name of the place, and the two letters were postmarked from different towns. Indeed, the second letter was none so easy to make out, though our curate was very clever at reading writing; but it appeared that Joseph was getting himself educated, and had tried, for the first time, to write himself. At last a third letter came, addressed to Brulette, which Monsieur le curé read off quite fluently, declaring that the sentences were very well turned. This letter stated that Joseph had been ill, and a friend was writing for him; it was nothing more than a spring fever, and his family were not to be uneasy about him. The letter went on to say that he was living with friends who were in the habit of travelling about; that he was then starting with them for the district of Chambérat, from which they would write again if he grew worse in spite of the great care they were taking of him.

"Good gracious!" cried Brulette, when the curate had read her all that was in the letter, "I'm afraid he is going to make himself a muleteer. I dare not tell his mother about either his illness or the trade he is taking up. Poor soul! she has troubles enough without that."

Then, glancing at the letter, she asked what the signature meant. Monsieur le curé, who had paid no attention to it, put on his glasses and soon began to laugh, declaring that he had never seen anything like it, and all he could make out, in place of a name, was the sketch of an ear and an earring with a sort of a heart stuck through it.

"Probably," said he, "it is the emblem of some fraternity. All guilds have their badges, and other people can't understand them."

But Brulette understood well enough; she seemed a little worried and carried off the letter, to examine it, I don't doubt, with a less indifferent eye than she pretended; for she took it into her head to learn to read, and very secretly she did so, by the help of a former lady's-maid in a noble family, who often came to gossip in a sociable house like my cousin's. It didn't take long for such a clever head as Brulette's to learn all she wanted, and one fine day I was amazed to find she could write songs and hymns as prettily turned as anybody's. I could not help asking her if she had learned these fine things above her station so as to correspond with Joseph, or the handsome muleteer.

"As if I cared for a common fellow with earrings!" she cried, laughing. "Do you think I am such an ill-behaved girl as to write to a perfect stranger? But if Joseph comes back educated he will have done a very good thing to get rid of his stupidity; and as for me, I shall not be sorry to be a little less of a goose than I was."

"Brulette, Brulette!" I retorted, "you are setting your thoughts outside your own country and your friends. Take care, harm will come of it! I'm not a bit less uneasy about you here than I am about Joseph down there."

"You can be easy about me, Tiennet; my head is cool, no matter what people say of me. As for our poor boy, I am troubled enough; it will soon be six months since we heard from him, and that fine muleteer who promised to send us news has never once thought of it. Mariton is miserable at Joseph's neglect of her; for she has never known of his illness, and perhaps he is dead without our suspecting it."

I assured her that in that case we should certainly have been informed of the fact, and that no news was always good news in such cases.

"You may say what you like," she replied; "I dreamed, two nights ago, that the muleteer arrived here, bringing his bagpipe and the news that José was dead. Ever since I dreamed that I have been sad at heart, and I am sorry I have let so much time go by without thinking of the poor lad or trying to write to him. But how could I have sent my letter?—for I don't even know where he is."