網頁圖片
PDF
ePub 版

and misery certain to result on inves- ing among the rocks on the rising tide, tigation.

"Without doubt," argued good Madame Lennet, "Milette had come by that ugly wound in the breast in an affray with some of the smuggling gang to which he belonged, and who were now safely hidden in one of their dens on the coast, or, more probably still, in some English seaport. Their own nefarious traffic led them to the knowledge of many a secret asylum, and swift and sure ways of flight. Inquiry into the means by which Milette had come by his death, while it would almost certainly fail in bringing the murderers to justice, would only make certain and public the facts of the evil doings of the murdered man." And Monsieur le Curé, with his thin, white hands clasped behind him, pacing softly to and fro in his dingy little room, as was his custom when his mind was disturbed, though perplexed by the question in which human pity seemed to confront abstract justice and ecclesiastical duty, did not turn a deaf ear to the good woman's petition. He dismissed her with a promise to accede to her wishes, and with his benediction.

As time went on, the cloud was gradually lifted off the Widow Milette and her daughter, especially as Épiphanie, then growing into womanhood, became a fair and blooming, though somewhat delicate girl. Few had the heart to slight the gentle young creature, who rarely showed her downcast face and brown eyes anywhere but at church.

Jeanne Defére followed her good aunt's example, and remained a firm friend to Epiphanie, who clung to her with the natural instinct which binds the weak and timid to the strong and resolute, and in time their neighborly intimacy ripened into a close and lasting friendship. Good old Madame Lennet, likewise, as we have seen, befriended the widow, and never turned her back upon her from the time when Pierre, her son, then a young man of fiveand-twenty, had come home, and told his mother the story of the finding of the bruised and wounded body float

touching her kind heart by the picture of the two pale and trembling women who had met him at the threshold, and taken in the body in unnatural silence, but with looks of dread and terror.

Perhaps the plaintive eyes of the younger woman, then a girl of seventeen, had touched the honest heart of Pierre; he did many a good turn for the widow after that, and often, softening his boisterous tones, would seek to draw Epiphanie from her quiet corner at the village merry-makings, and make her dance among the rest.

Some people said Pierre Lennet would marry the Widow Milette's timid daughter; but years went on, Pierre went voyages and returned, and had many an unlucky turn, and Epiphanie won the heart of a well-to-do grocer from Tréport, and, after a somewhat long wooing, married him, though with a sad grace, as people thought, and more to please her mother than herself. Madame Milette went to live with her daughter and the honest grocer, in the dingy little shop on the quay at Tréport.

But within two years poor Épiphanie's ill-starred married life came to an end. A sharp fever seized her husband, who died after a few days' illness. His relations, who had always disliked the intruding wife and her mother, took possession of the little stock of goods, and the young widow and her mother returned to their old home at Verangeville, the mother, a disappointed and embittered woman; her daughter, pale and careworn beyond her years.

Épiphanie's life, however, was brightened by the presence of her baby,— the only token of the brief interlude of her wedded life brought back with her to Verangeville, and in the care of this child the whole happiness of her days centred.

During the years that had since gone by, they had lived together in the little house at the foot of the cliff, supported partly by the earnings of Epiphanie, who wrought skilfully at the ivory carving for which Dieppe is famous. She

carried in, from time to time, the little packet of thimbles, crosses, and brooches that she had made, and returned with her small earnings. This source of income helped to eke out François's gains as a fisherman. François was a young man now, twenty-three years of age, and had been at home for two years since his last voyage. He was a handsome fellow, and had done well enough as a fisherman, as any one might judge by old Defére's taking him so often in his boat, and sharing the profits of his night's work with him. Indeed, François seemed to bid fair to redeem the shattered fame of his family, and to win back respect to the name of Milette. One indiscretion he certainly had committed, and that was having given his heart to Marie Robbe, who, as we have seen, set small store by the gift.

CHAPTER VII.

"IT will be a stormy night, Jeanne, sure enough," said Epiphanie, looking to seaward, as, with the rest of the company, they journeyed across the cliffs towards Dieppe. "See how the clouds are flying, and the wind is driving hard ashore. I wish they had not started last night."

66

"So do I," said Jeanne.

"François had little heart for the fishing, I know," said Épiphanie; "but I thought it was only because he would miss the fête to-day by being at sea. I wonder if he thought of bad weather. O Jeanne, I wish I had begged him to stay!"

"Don't trouble thyself!" said Jeanne. "It was n't that he feared bad weather; he was vexing himself because he could not go with Marie Robbe to Dieppe today; and I'll tell thee, Epiphanie, -and this is my mind on that matter, — he had much better have bad weather at sea than fair weather with Marie; a man may get to know what the worst sea means in time, and learn how to steer through it, but a false heart, — who can ever learn the shiftings of that, without breaking his own?"

Épiphanie shook her head. “She is a coquette, it is true, but-dost thou think she will not marry François after all? I know it is the desire of his heart, and in another year or two he will have saved enough to marry on. Old Robbe is well off too. She has danced with him all summer more than with any other lad; and every bourrée after the Angelus last Sunday he was her partner, and she has taken all his gifts."

"Oui dà!" said Jeanne, with contemptuous emphasis; "and she will marry him-if-she marries not some one else and, as bonne amie of François, I wish she would. It might give him a sore heart for a while, but he would learn a good lesson therefrom, that is, that a man ought to choose his wife as he would his friend, good faith, and for the good qualities God has given her, and not for this or that, her dress or her dancing, with which the bon Dieu has nothing to do."

for her

"François would take it very hardly," said Epiphanie, leaving the abstract question, with which she had no concern, and returning to the fate of her brother.

"Yes, pauvre gars," said Jeanne, sighing; "but I don't think it would hurt him so much as thou thinkest for. He would see what a false heart she had, and that he had been a fool; and to know that is to be wise sometimes. It is a bad thing to marry ill, for either man or woman, but it is worse for a man, I think. A woman is miserable if she has a bad husband, without doubt, more miserable than a man, perhaps ; but then she will think all the more of the Sainte Vierge and the saints, and consoles herself with her children; but a man who has a bad wife, for him there is but one road, c'est au diable."

-

"But she might not make so bad a wife, after all," said Épiphanie; "some girls that are foolish enough before grow wiser when they are married."

"No, no," said Jeanne, "Marie is stupid because she has a bad heart; she cannot sew, she cannot keep the house, she cannot make the best of

little troubles, she cannot give good counsel, she understands only to do one thing, to torment; in that she has wit, in that she has sense: she can torment with the patience of a saint and the fury of a devil."

"These are hard words," sighed Épiphanie.

"One ought not to mind hearing the truth," said Jeanne. "It is better to listen when they tell you the tide is going down, than shut your eyes and hope till you find your nets are stranded; for my part, I'd rather suffer thirst for a while than sicken my stomach by drinking bad cider."

"Thou speakest so strongly, Jeanne," said Épiphanie, almost bitterly. "It makes my heart heavy to think of him. I-I know what is to- to be disappointed, at least, to have to be contented with what one does not want."

Jeanne looked up at her friend; her eyes lately so fierce in denunciation, so stern in judgment, melted, softened, almost to tears. She laid her arm on

Épiphanie's waist.

[ocr errors]

Have I not pity?" she said. "O yes, I tell thee; and it is that that makes me feel and speak so hard. It is always so with me; when I feel this sorrow and pity, it grows and grows, and seems to make my heart burn, and then I speak as if I were angry. Tiens, mon amie! when I think of thee and the child, and pray God to give thee some happiness now, when thou hast had so little, when I get up from my knees, my hands ache with clasping them so tightly, so much do I desire it, and so much does thy sorrow pain me."

"Tu es bonne amie, Jeanne, I know it well; but sometimes, dost thou know? I think perhaps François and I have an evil fate that will always bring us misfortune?"

"I tell thee no," said Jeanne; "it is only because thou art so full of fears! Thou hast been a good girl always; thou hast done the will of God, thou hast never done evil to any one; if thou hast had sorrows, God sent thee them: they have not been misfortunes; we make our VOL. XXII. NO. 129.

2

own misfortunes, - voilà la différence! Le bon Dieu t'aime, and he has confidence in thee; for, behold! has he not given thee this child?" and she laid her hand on the sleeping child in Épipha

nie's arms.

"Thou always puttest me in good heart, Jeanne, and I begin to think, while thou art talking, that perhaps I may be wrong about Pierre, and that it might be well for the child, too, if I married him; but then I go back again, and think I am too sad, too quiet, that I should not make him happy, and I fear lest he should not love the child. Ah, when one has beaten down one's heart once, Jeanne, and it has ached long enough, it grows heavy, and it is not hard to give up what one desires!"

"I don't know," said Jeanne, "how that may be. I think thou troublest thyself too much with these fears. When one's heart is at peace, and makes one no reproaches, one may take what is offered one, when one knows it is good; and the love of Pierre-is it not good, I ask thee?"

-

"If I did not think so much of it, I should not be so afraid to take it, I think," she said with a sigh. "It is like a dream, Jeanne, to be thinking again of Pierre after all these years, and and maybe it is n't right for me, who am a widow, to feel so towards him whom I knew before I was married. There are many things that make me afraid; but I will tell thee all, that of which I have never spoken before, and thou mayest judge for thyself, — and for me. Long ago, when he first used to come to our house, and used to make me dance, when there were all the other girls ready to dance with him, —for he was always the favorite, I used to think it was pity that made him kind, and I felt as if my body were stone and my feet lead, and I could dance no more, and speak no more, and he thought me cold. And then sometimes I thought he did not think of pity at all, and cared nothing that I was the smuggler Milette's daughter, and my heart grew warm and light as it had never done before. But he went to sea, and,

when he came back again, I thought, Perhaps he will ask me to be his wife; but he had had ill luck, he had been wrecked, and lost all he had. The night he came home, I was down at your house, and he came to supper, thou knowest, and told of his voyage; and while we sat round the fire, little Jacques Bignard ran in, crying that a man had fallen from the cliff and was near drowning; and Pierre jumped up and ran out, and thou and thy father followed him with the others, but I stayed, -I dared not see Pierre jump into the dark water among the rocks, for I knew he would be the one to do it, being so much younger than thy father. A dread like death came into my heart, that he might be drowned now, just as he had reached home. I could faintly hear the shouts below on the shore, for the night was still, the men were calling to each other about the rope that Pierre swam out with, but I thought it might be for fresh help, and I was sick with fear. I knelt down before the crucifix, and cried, 'O my God, have pity upon me, and spare his life! I offer thee this love that is the life of my life, but spare his life, which is more dear than my own!' My heart suddenly filled with a great joy and peace, and I stood up, and, behold, voices of rejoicing on the shore, and I knew that God had heard me, and that Pierre was safe. I went to the door, and held the lamp above my head to light them up the path; and I heard them coming slowly and heavily, thy father and Pierre carrying the man who seemed dead. It was just as he had brought home my father, Jeanne! They were busy with the poor drowned man. He was long in coming to himself, and then he could not speak, or at least only English, which none but Pierre could understand, and he but a little. There were others of the neighbors who had come up with them from the beach. I went out to get cider, to make into hot drink for the men who had been in the water; and as I stood in the shed by the barrel, drawing the cider, I heard Madame Robbe and Marie Bignard talking just

outside. They were talking of Pierre, — what ill luck he had had, so different from the other Lennets. 'Be sure,' Marie Bighard said, 'there's worse luck in store for him if he is fool enough to marry the smuggler Milette's daughter! Ever since he has had to do with the widow and that girl things have gone wrong with him, I have observed that!' O Jeanne, I could not help hearing those words, and my heart became as lead while I listened!"

"Malicious gossips!" said Jeanne, with indignant violence; "why shouldst thou have cared what they said, my poor Épiphanie? Madame Robbe speaks the truth but once in the month, and that is when she goes to the confessional and tells her sins; and it is time to cross one's self, and call on the good saints for protection, when Marie Bignard speaks well of one!"

"But they say the dead and listeners hear the truth about themselves," said Epiphanie, smiling sadly. "No, Jeanne, when I heard that, I knew how it would all be. The Lennets were honorable people, and had all married well. I was the smuggler's daughter; it could never be otherwise. I could not make myself what I was not, however I might try; I remembered my vow. God required it of me, I knew that: it was not because the women that loved me not had said this, but because God had let me hear them say this. And I knew what people would say of Pierre, and that it would be like a disgrace to him, and so ill luck would, as they said, stick to him. I hid myself from Pierre all the time he was at home, nor danced, nor went out much at all, and went quickly away from church; but told no one, - neither my mother nor thee, Jeanne, for fear I might be shaken in my purpose. And I walked on in a sort of dream. And one day they told me that Pierre was going; his ship was ordered to sail suddenly at a few hours' warning. I knew he would come that evening to say good by, and I ran down to the shore, and hid myself in an empty boat; I saw him come down the path on the cliff, and I knew he had been to

[ocr errors]

our house, and was going; I shut my eyes till he had passed, and then I went home. They said it would be a short voyage, but it was nearly two years before he came back.

"Mais donc, Épiphanie! how couldst thou do it?" said Jeanne, looking with eyes full of tender pity, almost awe, at her friend. "If it had but been for religion, thou wouldst have been a martyr."

[ocr errors]

Épiphanie crossed herself. "Hush, Jeanne!" she said; "my heart was weak as a reed; but God aided me, I think." After a pause, she continued: My mother was sick all that winter and the spring, François was away, thou wast with thy aunt at the Vallée d'Allon, and I had no friend beside. It was then Coutelenq came, and was kind to my mother, and helped her in many ways. My mother talked always of Coutelenq, but I thought of Pierre night and day. And,' I said to myself, 'if I can make enough money to keep us this winter, when François comes home he will have his wages, and can pay Coutelenq his debt.' So I worked on, sometimes at night, and sometimes early in the morning; but I was sad and sick, and the strength seemed gone from my hands. I set off one day, early in the morning, to take my ivory work into Dieppe, and hoped I might bring back the money with me; but the man at the shop said the work was bad, and he could not give me the full price for it, and two pieces he would not take at all. I cried as I came home. I felt as if the bon Dieu himself had thrust me from him. Then I thought, it is because I have forgotten my vow, and think always of Pierre, and desire to be his wife. For some there must always be pain, and thou art one,' I said."

"O Épiphanie, Épiphanie! that was too hard!" burst out Jeanne, full of pity and impatience at the same time. "God is good, and does not sell us what we desire, but gives it us through love, and that we may love him in return. He could not desire to make thee so miserable!"

"I don't know; Jeanne, I did my

best. My mother was ill; I could not forget her. Coutelenq said, "If thou wilt marry me, Épiphanie, thy mother shalt have no more care; there is room at Tréport for her also." Epiphanie paused. "Thou knowest the rest, Jeanne," she said.

"Yes," said Jeanne, "I know."

"I was better in health at Tréport," continued Épiphanie, "after the child came, for I had him to think of and care for. O mon ange! mon petit marmot! mon seul bonheur !" she cried, suddenly, holding the child closer to her bosom, and pressing kiss after kiss upon his rosy face.

She had told her story hitherto with unaltering tones; her voice now was eager, broken with sudden tenderness. Jeanne, with instinctive sagacity, perceived the omnipotent thought of Épiphanie's heart: in the child her life now centred; her love, her conscience, vibrated to this tender touch with unalterable loyalty; through him all things approached her heart; he was at once the key that opened and the door that barred.

-

"Épiphanie," said Jeanne," thou hast told me all thy story, and I will tell thee what I think. Thou hast been as good as an angel, but now I say - and I say it with a good conscience that thou shouldst not say 'no' to Pierre any more. Thou hast done thy duty without thinking of thy own will; thou hast been good wife, good daughter, good mother, yes, I say, — let me go on," as Epiphanie appeared about to say something, "I don't say it is always good to give a child a step-father, but thou and Pierre are different from most people. If thou and thy mother were to die, who would be so ready as Pierre to provide for the boy? and whom couldst thou trust so well? I tell thee, Pierre's heart is deep, large as the sea; he loves thee and all things that belong to thee, thy mother, thy child. He has loved thee at home, at sea, in evil fortune and in good; he loved thee then, he loves thee now, and he has loved thee seven long years! No, I have not finished yet, thou wouldst

[ocr errors]

--

« 上一頁繼續 »