CHAPTER I
THE BETROTHAL
Pere Merlier's mill, one beautiful summer evening, was arranged for
a grand fete. In the courtyard were three tables, placed end to
end, which awaited the guests. Everyone knew that Francoise,
Merlier's daughter, was that night to be betrothed to Dominique, a
young man who was accused of idleness but whom the fair sex for
three leagues around gazed at with sparkling eyes, such a fine
appearance had he.
Pere Merlier's mill was pleasing to look upon. It stood exactly in
the center of Rocreuse, where the highway made an elbow. The
village had but one street, with two rows of huts, a row on each
side of the road; but at the elbow meadows spread out, and huge
trees which lined the banks of the Morelle covered the extremity of
the valley with lordly shade. There was not, in all Lorraine, a
corner of nature more adorable. To the right and to the left thick
woods, centenarian forests, towered up from gentle slopes, filling
the horizon with a sea of verdure, while toward the south the plain
stretched away, of marvelous fertility, displaying as far as the eye
could reach patches of ground divided by green hedges. But what
constituted the special charm of Rocreuse was the coolness of that
cut of verdure in the most sultry days of July and August. The
Morelle descended from the forests of Gagny and seemed to have
gathered the cold from the foliage beneath which it flowed for
leagues; it brought with it the murmuring sounds, the icy and
concentrated shade of the woods. And it was not the sole source of
coolness: all sorts of flowing streams gurgled through the forest;
at each step springs bubbled up; one felt, on following the narrow
pathways, that there must exist subterranean lakes which pierced
through beneath the moss and availed themselves of the smallest
crevices at the feet of trees or between the rocks to burst forth in
crystalline fountains. The whispering voices of these brooks were
so numerous and so loud that they drowned the song of the
bullfinches. It was like some enchanted park with cascades falling
from every portion.
Below the meadows were damp. Gigantic chestnut trees cast dark
shadows. On the borders of the meadows long hedges of poplars
exhibited in lines their rustling branches. Two avenues of enormous
plane trees stretched across the fields toward the ancient Chateau
de Gagny, then a mass of ruins. In this constantly watered district
the grass grew to an extraordinary height. It resembled a garden
between two wooded hills, a natural garden, of which the meadows
were the lawns, the giant trees marking the colossal flower beds.
When the sun's rays at noon poured straight downward the shadows
assumed a bluish tint; scorched grass slept in the heat, while an
icy shiver passed beneath the foliage.
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And there it was that Pere Merlier's mill enlivened with its
ticktack a corner of wild verdure. The structure, built of plaster
and planks, seemed as old as the world. It dipped partially in the
Morelle, which rounded at that point into a transparent basin. A
sluice had been made, and the water fell from a height of several
meters upon the mill wheel, which cracked as it turned, with the
asthmatic cough of a faithful servant grown old in the house. When
Pere Merlier was advised to change it he shook his head, saying that
a new wheel would be lazier and would not so well understand the
work, and he mended the old one with whatever he could put his hands
on: cask staves, rusty iron, zinc and lead. The wheel appeared
gayer than ever for it, with its profile grown odd, all plumed with
grass and moss. When the water beat upon it with its silvery flood
it was covered with pearls; its strange carcass wore a sparkling
attire of necklaces of mother-of-pearl.
The part of the mill which dipped in the Morelle had the air of a
barbaric arch stranded there. A full half of the structure was
built on piles. The water flowed beneath the floor, and deep places
were there, renowned throughout the district for the enormous eels
and crayfish caught in them. Below the fall the basin was as clear
as a mirror, and when the wheel did not cover it with foam schools
of huge fish could be seen swimming with the slowness of a squadron.
Broken steps led down to the river near a stake to which a boat was
moored. A wooden gallery passed above the wheel. Windows opened,
pierced irregularly. It was a pell-mell of corners, of little
walls, of constructions added too late, of beams and of roofs, which
gave the mill the aspect of an old, dismantled citadel. But ivy had
grown; all sorts of clinging plants stopped the too-wide chinks and
threw a green cloak over the ancient building. The young ladies who
passed by sketched Pere Merlier's mill in their albums.
On the side facing the highway the structure was more solid. A
stone gateway opened upon the wide courtyard, which was bordered to
the right and to the left by sheds and stables. Beside a well an
immense elm covered half the courtyard with its shadow. In the
background the building displayed the four windows of its second
story, surmounted by a pigeon house. Pere Merlier's sole vanity was
to have this front plastered every ten years. It had just received
a new coating and dazzled the village when the sun shone on it at
noon.
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For twenty years Pere Merlier had been mayor of Rocreuse. He was
esteemed for the fortune he had acquired. His wealth was estimated
at something like eighty thousand francs, amassed sou by sou. When
he married Madeleine Guillard, who brought him the mill as her
dowry, he possessed only his two arms. But Madeleine never repented
of her choice, so briskly did he manage the business. Now his wife
was dead, and he remained a widower with his daughter Francoise.
Certainly he might have rested, allowed the mill wheel to slumber in
the moss, but that would have been too dull for him, and in his eyes
the building would have seemed dead. He toiled on for pleasure.
Pere Merlier was a tall old man with a long, still face, who never
laughed but who possessed, notwithstanding, a very gay heart. He
had been chosen mayor because of his money and also on account of
the imposing air he could assume during a marriage ceremony.
Francoise Merlier was just eighteen. She did not pass for one of
the handsome girls of the district, as she was not robust. Up to
her fifteenth year she had been even ugly.
The Rocreuse people had not been able to understand why the daughter
of Pere and Mere Merlier, both of whom had always enjoyed excellent
health, grew ill and with an air of regret. But at fifteen, though
yet delicate, her little face became one of the prettiest in the
world. She had black hair, black eyes, and was as rosy as a peach;
her lips constantly wore a smile; there were dimples in her cheeks,
and her fair forehead seemed crowned with sunlight. Although not
considered robust in the district, she was far from thin; the idea
was simply that she could not lift a sack of grain, but she would
become plump as she grew older--she would eventually be as round and
dainty as a quail. Her father's long periods of silence had made
her thoughtful very young. If she smiled constantly it was to
please others. By nature she was serious.
Of course all the young men of the district paid court to her, more
on account of her ecus than her pretty ways. At last she made a
choice which scandalized the community.
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On the opposite bank of the Morelle lived a tall youth named
Dominique Penquer. He did not belong to Rocreuse. Ten years before
he had arrived from Belgium as the heir of his uncle, who had left
him a small property upon the very border of the forest of Gagny,
just opposite the mill, a few gunshots distant. He had come to sell
this property, he said, and return home. But the district charmed
him, it appeared, for he did not quit it. He was seen cultivating
his little field, gathering a few vegetables upon which he
subsisted. He fished and hunted; many times the forest guards
nearly caught him and were on the point of drawing up proces-verbaux
against him. This free existence, the resources of which the
peasants could not clearly discover, at length gave him a bad
reputation. He was vaguely styled a poacher. At any rate, he was
lazy, for he was often found asleep on the grass when he should have
been at work. The hut he inhabited beneath the last trees on the
edge of the forest did not seem at all like the dwelling of an
honest young fellow. If he had had dealings with the wolves of the
ruins of Gagny the old women would not have been the least bit
surprised. Nevertheless, the young girls sometimes risked defending
him, for this doubtful man was superb; supple and tall as a poplar,
he had a very white skin, with flaxen hair and beard which gleamed
like gold in the sun.
One fine morning Francoise declared to Pere Merlier that she loved
Dominique and would never wed any other man.
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It may well be imagined what a blow this was to Pere Merlier. He
said nothing, according to his custom, but his face grew thoughtful
and his internal gaiety no longer sparkled in his eyes. He looked
gruff for a week. Francoise also was exceedingly grave. What
tormented Pere Merlier was to find out how this rogue of a poacher
had managed to fascinate his daughter. Dominique had never visited
the mill. The miller watched and saw the gallant on the other side
of the Morelle, stretched out upon the grass and feigning to be
asleep. Francoise could see him from her chamber window.
Everything was plain: they had fallen in love by casting sheep's
eyes at each other over the mill wheel.
Another week went by. Francoise became more and more grave. Pere
Merlier still said nothing. Then one evening he himself silently
brought in Dominique. Francoise at that moment was setting the
table. She did not seem astonished; she contented herself with
putting on an additional plate, knife and fork, but the little
dimples were again seen in her cheeks, and her smile reappeared.
That morning Pere Merlier had sought out Dominique in his hut on the
border of the wood.
There the two men had talked for three hours with doors and windows
closed. What was the purport of their conversation no one ever
knew. Certain it was, however, that Pere Merlier, on taking his
departure, already called Dominique his son-in-law. Without doubt
the old man had found the youth he had gone to seek a worthy youth
in the lazy fellow who stretched himself out upon the grass to make
the girls fall in love with him.
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All Rocreuse clamored. The women at the doors had plenty to say on
the subject of the folly of Pere Merlier, who had thus introduced a
reprobate into his house. The miller let people talk on. Perhaps
he remembered his own marriage. He was without a sou when he wedded
Madeleine and her mill; this, however, had not prevented him from
making a good husband. Besides, Dominique cut short the gossip by
going so vigorously to work that all the district was amazed. The
miller's assistant had just been drawn to serve as a soldier, and
Dominique would not suffer another to be engaged. He carried the
sacks, drove the cart, fought with the old mill wheel when it
refused to turn, and all this with such good will that people came
to see him out of curiosity. Pere Merlier had his silent laugh. He
was excessively proud of having formed a correct estimate of this
youth. There is nothing like love to give courage to young folks.
Amid all these heavy labors Francoise and Dominique adored each
other. They did not indulge in lovers' talks, but there was a
smiling gentleness in their glances.
Up to that time Pere Merlier had not spoken a single word on the
subject of marriage, and they respected this silence, awaiting the
old man's will. Finally one day toward the middle of July he caused
three tables to be placed in the courtyard, beneath the great elm,
and invited his friends of Rocreuse to come in the evening and drink
a glass of wine with him.
When the courtyard was full and all had their glasses in their
hands, Pere Merlier raised his very high and said:
"I have the pleasure to announce to you that Francoise will wed this
young fellow here in a month, on Saint Louis's Day."
Then they drank noisily. Everybody smiled. But Pere Merlier, again
lifting his voice, exclaimed:
"Dominique, embrace your fiancee. It is your right."
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They embraced, blushing to the tips of their ears, while all the
guests laughed joyously. It was a genuine fete. They emptied a
small cask of wine. Then when all were gone but intimate friends
the conversation was carried on without noise. The night had
fallen, a starry and cloudless night. Dominique and Francoise,
seated side by side on a bench, said nothing.
An old peasant spoke of the war the emperor had declared against
Prussia. All the village lads had already departed. On the
preceding day troops had again passed through the place. There was
going to be hard fighting.
"Bah!" said Pere Merlier with the selfishness of a happy man.
"Dominique is a foreigner; he will not go to the war. And if the
Prussians come here he will be on hand to defend his wife!"
The idea that the Prussians might come there seemed a good joke.
They were going to receive a sound whipping, and the affair would
soon be over.
"I have afready seen them; I have already seen them," repeated the
old peasant in a hollow voice.
There was silence. Then they drank again. Francoise and Dominique
had heard nothing; they had gently taken each other by the hand
behind the bench, so that nobody could see them, and it seemed so
delightful that they remained where they were, their eyes plunged
into the depths of the shadows.
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What a warm and superb night it was! The village slumbered on both
edges of the white highway in infantile quietude. From time to time
was heard the crowing of some chanticleer aroused too soon. From
the huge wood near by came long breaths, which passed over the roofs
like caresses. The meadows, with their dark shadows, assumed a
mysterious and dreamy majesty, while all the springs, all the
flowing waters which gurgled in the darkness, seemed to be the cool
and rhythmical respiration of the sleeping country. Occasionally
the ancient mill wheel, lost in a doze, appeared to dream like those
old watchdogs that bark while snoring; it cracked; it talked to
itself, rocked by the fall of the Morelle, the surface of which gave
forth the musical and continuous sound of an organ pipe. Never had
more profound peace descended upon a happier corner of nature.
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