Une Vie, A Piece of String and Other Stories

The weather was most distressing. It had rained all night. The roaring

of the overflowing gutters filled the deserted streets, in which the

houses, like sponges, absorbed the humidity, which penetrating to the

interior, made the walls sweat from cellar to garret. Jeanne had left

the convent the day before, free for all time, ready to seize all the

joys of life, of which she had dreamed so long. She was afraid her

father would not set out for the new home in bad weather, and for the

hundredth time since daybreak she examined the horizon. Then she

noticed that she had omitted to put her calendar in her travelling

bag. She took from the wall the little card which bore in golden

figures the date of the current year, 1819. Then she marked with a

pencil the first four columns, drawing a line through the name of each

saint up to the 2d of May, the day that she left the convent. A voice

outside the door called "Jeannette." Jeanne replied, "Come in, papa."

And her father entered. Baron Simon-Jacques Le Perthuis des Vauds was

a gentleman of the last century, eccentric and good. An enthusiastic

disciple of Jean Jacques Rousseau, he had the tenderness of a lover

for nature, in the fields, in the woods and in the animals. Of

aristocratic birth, he hated instinctively the year 1793, but being a

philosopher by temperament and liberal by education, he execrated

tyranny with an inoffensive and declamatory hatred. His great strength

and his great weakness was his kind-heartedness, which had not arms

enough to caress, to give, to embrace; the benevolence of a god, that

gave freely, without questioning; in a word, a kindness of inertia

that became almost a vice. A man of theory, he thought out a plan of

education for his daughter, to the end that she might become happy,

good, upright and gentle. She had lived at home until the age of

twelve, when, despite the tears of her mother, she was placed in the

Convent of the Sacred Heart. He had kept her severely secluded,

cloistered, in ignorance of the secrets of life. He wished the Sisters

to restore her to him pure at seventeen years of age, so that he might

imbue her mind with a sort of rational poetry, and by means of the

fields, in the midst of the fruitful earth, unfold her soul, enlighten

her ignorance through the aspect of love in nature, through the simple

tenderness of the animals, through the placid laws of existence. She

was leaving the convent radiant, full of the joy of life, ready for

all the happiness, all the charming incidents which her mind had

pictured in her idle hours and in the long, quiet nights. She was like

a portrait by Veronese with her fair, glossy hair, which seemed to

cast a radiance on her skin, a skin with the faintest tinge of pink,

softened by a light velvety down which could be perceived when the sun

kissed her cheek. Her eyes were an opaque blue, like those of Dutch

porcelain figures. She had a tiny mole on her left nostril and another

on the right of her chin. She was tall, well developed, with willowy

figure. Her clear voice sounded at times a little too sharp, but her

frank, sincere laugh spread joy around her. Often, with a familiar

gesture, she would raise her hands to her temples as if to arrange her

hair.

She ran to her father and embraced him warmly. "Well, are we going to

start?" she said. He smiled, shook his head and said, pointing toward

the window, "How can we travel in such weather?" But she implored in a

cajoling and tender manner, "Oh, papa, do let us start. It will clear

up in the afternoon." "But your mother will never consent to it."

"Yes, I promise you that she will, I will arrange that." "If you

succeed in persuading your mother, I am perfectly willing." In a few

moments she returned from her mother's room, shouting in a voice that

could be heard all through the house, "Papa, papa, mamma is willing.

Have the horses harnessed." The rain was not abating; one might almost

have said that it was raining harder when the carriage drove up to the

door. Jeanne was ready to step in when the baroness came downstairs,

supported on one side by her husband and on the other by a tall

housemaid, strong and strapping as a boy. She was a Norman woman of

the country of Caux, who looked at least twenty, although she was but

eighteen at the most. She was treated by the family as a second

daughter, for she was Jeanne's foster sister. Her name was Rosalie,

and her chief duty lay in guiding the steps of her mistress, who had

grown enormous in the last few years and also had an affection of the

heart, which kept her complaining continually. The baroness, gasping

from over-exertion, finally reached the doorstep of the old residence,

looked at the court where the water was streaming and remarked: "It

really is not wise." Her husband, always pleasant, replied: "It was

you who desired it, Madame Adelaide." He always preceded her pompous

name of Adelaide with the title madame with an air of half respectful

mockery. Madame mounted with difficulty into the carriage, causing all

the springs to bend. The baron sat beside her, while Jeanne and

Rosalie were seated opposite, with their backs to the horses.

Ludivine, the cook, brought a heap of wraps to put over their knees

and two baskets, which were placed under the seats; then she climbed

on the box beside Father Simon, wrapping herself in a great rug which

covered her completely. The porter and his wife came to bid them

good-by as they closed the carriage door, taking the last orders about

the trunks, which were to follow in a wagon. So they started. Father

Simon, the coachman, with head bowed and back bent in the pouring

rain, was completely covered by his box coat with its triple cape. The

howling storm beat upon the carriage windows and inundated the

highway.

They drove rapidly to the wharf and continued alongside the line of

tall-masted vessels until they reached the boulevard of Mont Riboudet.

Then they crossed the meadows, where from time to time a drowned

willow, its branches drooping limply, could be faintly distinguished

through the mist of rain. No one spoke. Their minds themselves seemed

to be saturated with moisture like the earth.

The baroness leaned her head against the cushions and closed her eyes.

The baron looked out with mournful eyes at the monotonous and drenched

landscape. Rosalie, with a parcel on her knee, was dreaming in the

dull reverie of a peasant. But Jeanne, under this downpour, felt

herself revive like a plant that has been shut up and has just been

restored to the air, and so great was her joy that, like foliage, it

sheltered her heart from sadness. Although she did not speak, she

longed to burst out singing, to reach out her hands to catch the rain

that she might drink it. She enjoyed to the full being carried along

rapidly by the horses, enjoyed gazing at the desolate landscape and

feeling herself under shelter amid this general inundation. Beneath

the pelting rain the gleaming backs of the two horses emitted a warm

steam.

Little by little the baroness fell asleep, and presently began to

snore sonorously. Her husband leaned over and placed in her hands a

little leather pocketbook.

This awakened her, and she looked at the pocket-book with the stupid,

sleepy look of one suddenly aroused. It fell off her lap and sprang

open and gold and bank bills were scattered on the floor of the

carriage. This roused her completely, and Jeanne gave vent to her

mirth in a merry peal of girlish laughter.

The baron picked up the money and placed it on her knees. "This, my

dear," he said, "is all that is left of my farm at Eletot. I have sold

it--so as to be able to repair the 'Poplars,' where we shall often

live in the future."

She counted six thousand four hundred francs and quietly put them in

her pocket. This was the ninth of thirty-one farms that they had

inherited which they had sold in this way. Nevertheless they still

possessed about twenty thousand livres income annually in land

rentals, which, with proper care, would have yielded about thirty

thousand francs a year.

Living simply as they did, this income would have sufficed had there

not been a bottomless hole always open in their house--kind-hearted

generosity. It dried up the money in their hands as the sun dries the

water in marshes. It flowed, fled, disappeared. How? No one knew.

Frequently one would say to the other, "I don't know how it happens,

but I have spent one hundred francs to-day, and I have bought nothing

of any consequence." This faculty of giving was, however, one of the

greatest pleasures of their life, and they all agreed on this point in

a superb and touching manner.

Jeanne asked her father, "Is it beautiful now, my castle?" The baron

replied, "You shall see, my little girl."

The storm began to abate. The vault of clouds seemed to rise and

heighten and suddenly, through a rift, a long ray of sunshine fell

upon the fields, and presently the clouds separated, showing the blue

firmament, and then, like the tearing of a veil, the opening grew

larger and the beautiful azure sky, clear and fathomless, spread over

the world. A fresh and gentle breeze passed over the earth like a

happy sigh, and as they passed beside gardens or woods they heard

occasionally the bright chirp of a bird as he dried his wings.

Evening was approaching. Everyone in the carriage was asleep except

Jeanne. They stopped to rest and feed the horses. The sun had set. In

the distance bells were heard. They passed a little village as the

inhabitants were lighting their lamps, and the sky became also

illuminated by myriads of stars. Suddenly they saw behind a hill,

through the branches of the fir trees, the moon rising, red and full

as if it were torpid with sleep.

The air was so soft that the windows were not closed. Jeanne,

exhausted with dreams and happy visions, was now asleep. Finally they

stopped. Some men and women were standing before the carriage door

with lanterns in their hands. They had arrived. Jeanne, suddenly

awakened, was the first to jump out. Her father and Rosalie had

practically to carry the baroness, who was groaning and continually

repeating in a weak little voice, "Oh, my God, my poor children!" She

refused all offers of refreshment, but went to bed and immediately

fell asleep.

Jeanne and her father, the baron, took supper together. They were in

perfect sympathy with each other. Later, seized with a childish joy,

they started on a tour of inspection through the restored manor. It

was one of those high and vast Norman residences that comprise both

farmhouse and castle, built of white stone which had turned gray,

large enough to contain a whole race of people.

An immense hall divided the house from front to rear and a staircase

went up at either side of the entrance, meeting in a bridge on the

first floor. The huge drawing-room was on the ground floor to the

right and was hung with tapestries representing birds and foliage. All

the furniture was covered with fine needlework tapestry illustrating

La Fontaine's fables, and Jeanne was delighted at finding a chair she

had loved as a child, which pictured the story of "The Fox and the

Stork."

Beside the drawing-room were the library, full of old books, and two

unused rooms; at the left was the dining-room, the laundry, the

kitchen, etc.

A corridor divided the whole first floor, the doors of ten rooms

opening into it. At the end, on the right, was Jeanne's room. She and

her father went in. He had had it all newly done over, using the

furniture and draperies that had been in the storeroom.

There were some very old Flemish tapestries, with their peculiar

looking figures. At sight of her bed, the young girl uttered a scream

of joy. Four large birds carved in oak, black from age and highly

polished, bore up the bed and seemed to be its protectors. On the

sides were carved two wide garlands of flowers and fruit, and four

finely fluted columns, terminating in Corinthian capitals, supported a

cornice of cupids with roses intertwined. The tester and the coverlet

were of antique blue silk, embroidered in gold fleur de lys. When

Jeanne had sufficiently admired it, she lifted up the candle to

examine the tapestries and the allegories they represented. They were

mostly conventional subjects, but the last hanging represented a

drama. Near a rabbit, which was still nibbling, a young man lay

stretched out, apparently dead. A young girl, gazing at him, was

plunging a sword into her bosom, and the fruit of the tree had turned

black. Jeanne gave up trying to divine the meaning underlying this

picture, when she saw in the corner a tiny little animal which the

rabbit, had he lived, could have swallowed like a blade of grass; and

yet it was a lion. Then she recognized the story of "Pyramus and

Thisbe," and though she smiled at the simplicity of the design, she

felt happy to have in her room this love adventure which would

continually speak to her of her cherished hopes, and every night this

legendary love would hover about her dreams.

It struck eleven and the baron kissed Jeanne goodnight and retired to

his room. Before retiring, Jeanne cast a last glance round her room

and then regretfully extinguished the candle. Through her window she

could see the bright moonlight bathing the trees and the wonderful

landscape. Presently she arose, opened a window and looked out. The

night was so clear that one could see as plainly as by daylight. She

looked across the park with its two long avenues of very tall poplars

that gave its name to the chateau and separated it from the two farms

that belonged to it, one occupied by the Couillard family, the other

by the Martins. Beyond the enclosure stretched a long, uncultivated

plain, thickly overgrown with rushes, where the breeze whistled day

and night. The land ended abruptly in a steep white cliff three

hundred feet high, with its base in the ocean waves.

Jeanne looked out over the long, undulating surface that seemed to

slumber beneath the heavens. All the fragrance of the earth was in the

night air. The odor of jasmine rose from the lower windows, and light

whiffs of briny air and of seaweed were wafted from the ocean.

Merely to breathe was enough for Jeanne, and the restful calm of the

country was like a soothing bath. She felt as though her heart was

expanding and she began dreaming of love. What was it? She did not

know. She only knew that she would adore him with all her soul

and that he would cherish her with all his strength. They would walk

hand in hand on nights like this, hearing the beating of their hearts,

mingling their love with the sweet simplicity of the summer nights in

such close communion of thought that by the sole power of their

tenderness they would easily penetrate each other's most secret

thoughts. This would continue forever in the calm of an enduring

affection. It seemed to her that she felt him there beside her.

And an unusual sensation came over her. She remained long musing thus,

when suddenly she thought she heard a footstep behind the house. "If

it were he." But it passed on and she felt as if she had been

deceived. The air became cooler. The day broke. Slowly bursting aside

the gleaming clouds, touching with fire the trees, the plains, the

ocean, all the horizon, the great flaming orb of the sun appeared.

Jeanne felt herself becoming mad with happiness. A delirious joy,

an infinite tenderness at the splendor of nature overcame her

fluttering heart. It was her sun, her dawn! The beginning

of her life! Thoroughly fatigued at last, she flung herself down

and slept till her father called her at eight o'clock. He walked into

the room and proposed to show her the improvements of the castle, of

her castle. The road, called the parish road, connecting the

farms, joined the high road between Havre and Fécamp, a mile and a

half further on.

Jeanne and the baron inspected everything and returned home for

breakfast. When the meal was over, as the baroness had decided that

she would rest, the baron proposed to Jeanne that they should go down

to Yport. They started, and passing through the hamlet of Etouvent,

where the poplars were, and going through the wooded slope by a

winding valley leading down to the sea, they presently perceived the

village of Yport. Women sat in their doorways mending linen; brown

fish-nets were hanging against the doors of the huts, where an entire

family lived in one room. It was a typical little French fishing

village, with all its concomitant odors. To Jeanne it was all like a

scene in a play. On turning a corner they saw before them the

limitless blue ocean. They bought a brill from a fisherman and another

sailor offered to take them out sailing, repeating his name,

"Lastique, Joséphin Lastique," several times, that they might not

forget it, and the baron promised to remember. They walked home,

chattering like two children, carrying the big fish between them,

Jeanne having pushed her father's walking cane through its gills.