Chapter XXXIX · LOUISE GAUTHIER—THE CONCLUSION
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It frequently occurs that after a day of stormy darkness—when the elements appear to have combined the whole of their power against the earth, splitting the tossed and dismantled branches of the trees from their parent trunk, beating down the produce of the fields, and deluging the valleys with a sudden and rapid inundation, whilst the fire-laden clouds obscure the sun, lighting up the heavens in his stead by lurid flashes—the wind subsides, the clouds disperse, and the calm sunset beams over the now tranquil landscape.
True it is, the vestiges of the mischief wrought remain; but their importance is diminished by the general quietude that reigns around. The foliage is fresh and green; the cleared air is breathed gratefully, and imparts its lightness to the spirits; feeding hope, and kindness, and all good aspirations. The odours of the flowers are more fragrant, and the colours of their petals brighter; and the torrent which rushed darkly in its overcharged course, reflecting only the glooming heavens above, now once more murmurs over its bed of bright pebbles, sparkling in the warm rays of eventide.
Our scene changes, and now for the last time, from the fearful Place de Grêve to the most charming district of the teeming and sunny Languedoc. It is noon; and the stillness of a summer mid-day reigns around. But everything is not hushed. Birds are singing, and the hum of bees blends pleasantly with their minstrelsy, coming in soft murmurs from the floating aviaries lying upon the surface of a glassy river, which would seem at perfect rest but for the quivering of the buds and lilies that struggle with its gentle stream, or the hanging flowers that droop from the bank to kiss the clear water. The sky is deep blue, and cloudless, and the summer foliage of the trees waves in pleasant relief against its light, causing the dancing shadows to quiver on the spangled turf below, as though even the sunbeams were sporting for very gladness.
And now and then sounds of laughter, and snatches of old Provençal melodies are heard near a cottage which forms part of a small homestead on the banks of the river. On a table at the door, and beneath the shadow of a huge chestnut-tree—of which many more are visible on the land—is spread a repast of honey, bread, cheese, and wine; and seated at this table we have little difficulty in recognising Benoit, Bathilde, and Louise Gauthier. The two first are plump and merry as ever—perhaps more so, and Louise appears to have lost some of her sadness. Her cheek is scarcely so pale as it was in Paris when Benoit first knew her, and now and then a faint smile may be detected on her lips, which it appears to be Benoit’s ceaseless endeavour to call up.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed the honest ex-keeper of the boat-mill, with the expression of one whose stomach is comfortably filled; ‘this is better than the great cities after all. To think after staying in Paris so long we should come back with less than we went!’
‘You forget Louise,’ replies Bathilde, as she takes their friend kindly by the hand.
‘Not at all,’ continues Benoit, as he rises and kisses the Languedocian with a smack that quite echoes again. ‘There ma femme, you may be jealous of that if you like, and I don’t care; nor more does Louise, as I would wager my life. Eh! Louise?’
‘You would find it a difficult task to offend me,’ replies Louise, ‘for I owe you too much kindness—even if you kiss me before Bathilde.’
‘You owe us nothing. I think the debt is on our side. Whose are these things? Whose is this bit of ground?—yours, all yours! and you shall turn us out when you like.’
‘I do not think I shall do that,’ is Louise’s answer; ‘now, we must never part again. I know I am at times but a sad companion for such kind hearts as yours; but if you will bear with me, although I cannot forget the past, yet your goodness shall do more than aught else in the world to alleviate the memory of what has been.’
THE END.