ANNE DILLON 
 -1922- 
 
 THE ] [BRARY 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Mrs. Helen A. Dillon
 
 This novel of French peasant life won the 
 Prix Concourt awarded by the Academy in 
 1920. Its success was instantaneous. Every- 
 where it was hailed as the finest interpreta- 
 tion in years of the spirit of rural France. 
 The sale of the book ran to ninety thousand 
 copies in a few months. 
 
 For American readers this beautiful and 
 authentic picture of agricultural France with 
 its simple, rugged outlines, its sectional differ- 
 ences, its mighty bonds of conservatism and 
 convention is a most impressive setting for 
 the romance, the tragedy, the maternal ten- 
 derness and passion that go to ma^e NENE 
 a work f genius.
 
 NENE 
 
 ERNEST PEROCHON 

 
 N E N E 
 
 Translated from the French of 
 
 ERNEST PEROCHON 
 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers New York
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1922, 
 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 College 
 Library 
 
 
 N E N E 
 
 PART I 
 
 A <\f~^ f -f MV~ 
 
 IvJoiXYfa
 
 NENE 
 
 PART ONE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE air was alive and young; the earth steamed. 
 Behind the plough a thousand little vapours 
 rose, individual, separate, feathery; they seemed to 
 be trying to rise high above the earth, as if glad 
 to escape from the weight of the clods. Then they 
 floated down again and settled at last, like drowsy 
 plumes. The slanting breath of the oxen kept 
 ahead of the team and, rising, covered the six 
 animals with a whiter vapour, through which 
 danced whirls of flies. 
 
 Wag-tails were fluttering from furrow to furrow; 
 those nearest looking like fussy, coquettish little 
 ladies, the others being nothing more than drifting 
 flakes of mist. You could hardly make them out 
 singly, but you were aware of great crowds of them, 
 all busily hunting for the slow-moving, awkward 
 grubs, bewildered at being turned up to the light of 
 day. At the upper end of the field a magpie stood 
 
 9
 
 10 NENE 
 
 out clear, stiff and self-important as a dapper con- 
 stable. 
 
 Above the mist the golden wonder of the sun- 
 light held sway. The upper mould-board of the 
 heavy plough gleamed bright and the colter, as it 
 caught the glint of the sun, looked like the stubby 
 sword of a dwarf knight, stocky and slow. 
 
 Two men were at work in the field; the younger, 
 a lad of seventeen or eighteen, with limbs still loose- 
 jointed and enormous hands, was spreading manure. 
 He sang as he worked. The immature voice ex- 
 ploded in heavy gusts of song which, for all that, 
 rang out, so resonant was the air. 
 
 The man at the plough did not sing, but like nis 
 companion, he felt the joy of the moment. He had 
 had a Sunday's rest and as he began the week, his 
 implement felt light to his hand. He was tall and 
 straight, with a finely chiseled head and rather long 
 legs. His round hat, stuck on the back of his 
 head, left uncovered his lean, brown, clean-shaven 
 face. His black eyes were quick and roving. 
 
 He drove his animals with a skilled hand, with- 
 out any shouting. Yet, he was breaking in two 
 young bullocks, but he had placed them in the 
 middle of the team and immediately worked them 
 so hard that they were soon under control, panting 
 and submissive. Even at the headland the bullocks 
 meekly followed their leaders. All the ploughman 
 had to do was to quietly lift his plough and turn it
 
 NENE n 
 
 back, without fear that his team would drag him 
 beyond the starting point of the new furrow. 
 
 He had expected to find the soil too dry and so 
 had harnessed three yoke for a deep ploughing. It 
 was well that he had. 
 
 He had placed his regulator at the last notch and 
 the sock bit in easily and deeply. The "heel" of 
 the plough left on the headland a trail of fresh 
 earth and the moist clods crumbled and fell apart 
 of themselves in the sun; a light harrowing, and 
 the soil would be ready, as fine as dust. 
 
 The eyes of the ploughman twinkled, because all 
 his thought was on his work and it was the sort of 
 work he liked. 
 
 As he came within ten paces of the hedge, a voice 
 asked, 
 
 "How goes the work?" 
 
 "Mighty well," he answered. 
 
 "Grand weather!" said the other. 
 
 "It's a blessing!" 
 
 He eased his plough and stopped the oxen. Be- 
 tween two hazel branches appeared the big blond 
 head of a giant of a man. 
 
 "Good morning, Trooper," said the farmer. "It's 
 you ! I didn't know your voice." 
 
 "It's me. Hello, Corbier! You have a strong 
 team there, and a fine plough." 
 
 "I've no fault to find with them," said the plough- 
 man with a touch of pride. They were silent for a
 
 12 NENE 
 
 moment, smiling at the work done, and their eyes 
 caressed the six shiny, well muscled backs and the 
 new plough lying flat on the earth, like a strong, 
 lean bird. 
 
 Then Corbier lifted his Eead and asked, 
 
 "What news?" 
 
 "Nothing you don't know. I just took my sister 
 to your house. You hired her from to-day, didn't 
 you? You don't mean to say you'd forgotten?" 
 
 "Not at all ! Only, I wasn't thinking of you in 
 that connection. It wasn't you I hired; your hands 
 are a bit large for a servant girl's." 
 
 The big fellow broke into a slow laugh that 
 showed his white teeth; and the farmer went on: 
 
 "You aren't maybe stretching out Sunday a 
 little, Trooper?" 
 
 The laugh was cut short. 
 
 "I'm not one of your town boys. A bit of a spree 
 doesn't drive me to bed, nor upset my work days. 
 And don't you forget it, Corbier!" 
 
 "No offence, I hope " 
 
 "Oh, not much I usually work on Monday. But 
 to-day is my day off. I kept out four days in the 
 year like that, for my mother, in my bargain with 
 the boss. One when it's getting on to winter, to 
 'tend to the firewood; two for the garden; and the 
 fourth for things unforeseen odd jobs, as you 
 might say." 
 
 "I know," said Corbier.
 
 NENE 13 
 
 The other, once started, ran on. 
 
 "This morning, I've been digging since dawn. I 
 wasn't playing at it, either though the soil was 
 easy. I've spaded the whole patch and spaded it 
 deep. There won't be much weeding needed, after 
 me." 
 
 Corbier nodded approval and the big fellow con- 
 tinued : 
 
 "It was like this. Madeleine came out to where 
 I was in the garden patch and said, 'You come and 
 help me/ so I carried her bundles for her and took 
 her along the road within sight of the Moulinettes. 
 Then I came back by the short cut, because I don't 
 like folks to see me on the highways on working 
 days." 
 
 "Right!" said Corbier. 
 
 "It was just to please her that I went along with 
 her. Madeleine didn't really need me to help her. 
 I don't want to boast about her, Corbier, but speak- 
 ing of a woman's strength, there aren't many 
 stronger than her in these parts. Now I'm off. 
 You've got a fine piece of land there ! Good-bye !" 
 
 As the man disappeared, Corbier righted his 
 plough and started on a new furrow. But he was 
 unable to keep his thoughts on his animals and his 
 work. Instead, they now strayed toward things dis- 
 turbing and sad. This meeting had stirred him as 
 his plough stirred the soil. A mist settled over his 
 heart, a heavy mist through which the sun did not
 
 14 NENE 
 
 shine and where no birds fluttered. Not that there 
 had ever been between him and that big fellow 
 whom he had called Trooper anything but the 
 ordinary exchange of good will; and as for this 
 Madeleine who was to be his servant now, he hardly 
 knew her. 
 
 No, these people had nothing to do with his sor- 
 row; but they brought home to him the burden he 
 had to bear. 
 
 A widower at thirty, he found himself alone with 
 a farm to manage and two babies on his hands. Of 
 course, he still had his father with him, but the old 
 man was so often crippled with rheumatism that he 
 was rather a drag than a help. There was no one 
 to lend a hand, little ready money, and no one to 
 run the house. 
 
 His worries began eleven months ago: to him it 
 seemed eleven years. At first he had hired an 
 elderly woman to keep house for him. She was 
 very good and gentle with the babies, but untidy 
 and absolutely incapable of running the house. 
 Then came his sister-in-law, efficient enough, but 
 frivolous, hard and, worst of all, obviously and 
 boldly intent on catching him. She had to go, after 
 an unpleasant scene. 
 
 Now his father had hired this Madeleine Clar- 
 andeau. 
 
 Corbier knew the family. The mother, a widow 
 on the threshold of old age, worked out by the day.
 
 NENE 15 
 
 The children, three girls and a boy, were hired by 
 the year on farms round about, and helped her with 
 a little money. The boy was said to be one of the 
 best farm hands, though rather too fond of drink 
 and, when under its influence, a dangerous chap to 
 quarrel with. The girls of the family he knew less 
 about. Least of all the eldest, Madeleine, who had 
 been working away from home, in the Vendee, for 
 several years. 
 
 Now this unknown woman was to keep house for 
 him ! A big, strong girl, her brother had said. He 
 hadn't bargained for so much physical strength. 
 Clumsy fingers were not fit to care for Lalie and 
 little Georges. A hulky person, probably, 
 exuberantly merry and insolently healthy. He had 
 agreed to pay her high wages, too; altogether, he 
 felt irritated over the whole situation. 
 
 The young bullocks, no longer feeling his eye on 
 them, suddenly drew wide. He beat them back 
 mercilessly. The young farm hand paused in his 
 work near by, a song on his lips. Corbier yelled 
 at him: 
 
 "Use your muscle, damn it! Much good your 
 fiddle-faddle's doing!" 
 
 The boy was silent for a moment, then, insolently, 
 began a loud whistling of the same tune and re- 
 sumed his work, as leisurely and gawky as ever. 
 
 Corbier felt lonely and weak, without the sup- 
 port of human sympathy. Why had Marguerite
 
 16 NENE 
 
 had to die *? He found himself mumbling words that 
 only accentuated the sadness of his mood. 
 
 "Marguerite, why did you leave me so soon"? 
 Why did you leave my house for God's house? 
 Why are you no longer on the threshold when I 
 come home from the fields'? . . . Marguerite, your 
 children are neglected by strangers. My eyes find 
 no light in the sunshine, my heart no joy under 
 Heaven." 
 
 He had come upon a stiff piece of soil, where the 
 oxen needed urging. 
 
 "Come on, Galant! Vermeil! Up, lads!" His 
 voice died away in a quaver. He drew himself up, 
 threw back his head in defiance. "Chatain ! Lamou- 
 reux! Up there! Don't let it beat you!" But 
 the words stuck in his throat. Then, beaten, he 
 drew his hat down over his eyes and let the tears 
 flow.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 MADELEINE was nearing the Corbier farm 
 known as the "Moulinettes" the "Little 
 Mills." She had never been there before, but her 
 brother had pointed out the way and besides she 
 could see the new roof of the farmhouse, bright red 
 through the trees. She stopped a moment to look. 
 From a distance the place seemed comfortable and 
 cheerful. Nevertheless she was afraid she might not 
 get to feel at home there. Until now she had been 
 only on large farms where the work was hard but 
 simple and enjoyable. She was given her orders 
 and did as she was told, with no care but to do her 
 task well. She was told to wash, and she washed 
 for twelve hours at a stretch, ate her soup and went 
 to bed. In summer she was told to go harvesting, 
 and she took her sickle and followed the men. It 
 was hard work every day, especially as she had to 
 do her woman's work as well, while the men took 
 their mid-day nap. 
 
 But no one had ever told her: "Buy and sell: 
 weigh the butter, give the thread to the weaver." 
 Above all, no one had ever ordered her to take up 
 the baby and change his diapers; to comfort him 
 when he cried; to soothe and chide and cuddle him. 
 
 17
 
 i8 NENE 
 
 She had never managed anything or any one and 
 whenever children were being discussed in her hear- 
 ing, she said : 
 
 "I don't like them hanging around my skirts; they 
 keep me from doing my work." 
 
 When old man Corbier had come to hire her, she 
 had refused, with not a moment's hesitation. But he 
 had insisted, making much of the advantages of the 
 position offered: she'd be, in a way, the mistress of 
 the house, instead of having to obey others; and 
 she'd be only a couple of miles from her mother's. 
 Besides, he himself, whose rheumatic legs kept him 
 so much indoors, would help her in little ways and 
 look after the children. Finally he offered her par- 
 ticularly good wages. So, at last, she gave in, really 
 flattered in her self-esteem as a good and capable 
 woman. 
 
 Now that she was drawing near the place, her 
 fears returned. Yet, she walked on briskly. The 
 little creatures in the hedges scattered as she passed ; 
 the lizards, hunting among the primroses and wild 
 pansies, drew back swiftly and silently. The tit- 
 mice and bulfmches rose from their nests and 
 skipped to the upper branches; the blackbirds flew 
 away suddenly with a great rustle of leaves. But 
 none of the birds went far. She felt that they re- 
 mained hidden there among the willows and holly 
 bushes, and that they were peering out at her 
 anxiously.
 
 NENE 19 
 
 "What is this stranger up to, with her bundles 
 and her noisy heels?" 
 
 But as she went straight on, they grew confident 
 again and picked up the thread of their song. 
 
 Madeleine lifted her head to the tree-tops alive 
 with birds, and she thought : 
 
 "Birds of my new home, I know you are welcom- 
 ing me. Thank you, little dears !" 
 
 Her blue eyes lighted up her sunburned face. 
 
 "Little songsters of Paradise, are you making 
 music for my wedding? Amen! But I am an old 
 maid and I have no lover. . . . What fine little 
 fiddlers you'd make and how gladly everybody 
 would join in the procession behind you !" 
 
 A start interrupted her musings. 
 
 "Bad luck!" 
 
 Before her, ten steps away, a squirrel was calmly 
 crossing the road. It was an evil omen. It took her 
 breath away. She passed on quickly, turning back 
 to look at the little animal that skipped away now 
 with diabolical agility. 
 
 She reasoned with herself. Squirrels were plenti- 
 ful in this country-side, so full of hazel and chest- 
 nuts; they must be crossing everybody's path. It 
 was just old-fashioned superstition to be afraid. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders and forced herself to 
 smile. But it seemed to her that the sparrows fell 
 silent, hiding away under the bushes. In the very
 
 20 N E N E 
 
 middle of the road a strange shadow was wavering. 
 Madeleine looked up and saw a bird of prey 
 planing high up in the air; and in the sunlight its 
 great russet wings seemed quite black.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE woman who had come in by the day had 
 gone. Madeleine was alone in the house with 
 the children. Ten o'clock struck. It was time to 
 think of getting dinner. She lighted the fire and 
 hung up the kettle. 
 
 The little girl, Lalie, seated in a corner near 
 the table, eyed her curiously. 
 
 "What is your name?" asked Madeleine. 
 
 "Lalie," answered the little one. 
 
 She was about four years old ; a pretty child, with 
 black eyes and curly locks, but dirty and dressed 
 like a little old woman in a tight waist and a wide 
 gathered skirt. 
 
 "Will you give me a kiss, Lalie?" 
 
 The child began to twist her skirt and looked 
 down, smiling. 
 
 "Won't you give me a kiss? You needn't be 
 afraid. Do you like sugar almonds, Lalie?" 
 
 Madeleine drew a small paper bag out of her 
 pocket. 
 
 "Take it! It's for you." 
 
 The child kept on twisting her skirt. 
 
 "Take it, Lalie, take it! Why, dear, here it is, 
 just waiting for you to take ! Come on !" 
 
 Lalie burst into sobs. 
 
 21
 
 22 N E N E 
 
 "There, now," thought Madeleine. "Isn't she 
 shy, though ! It is because I don't know what to say 
 to her. What can I say to the poor little thing ?" 
 
 She emptied out the almonds on the table within 
 reach of the child and turned away puzzled. 
 
 Then she went to the cradle. Drawing back the 
 curtain, she saw a little round head, two plump 
 cheeks. This one, surely, was as beautiful as an 
 Infant Jesus. On the coverlet his little hand lay 
 half curled, white on the back and rosy inside. 
 
 Madeleine bent over him and with her work- 
 hardened finger touched the delicate palm that re- 
 minded her of a very fine onion skin. There ! The 
 tiny hand closed tight. And he held on, the little 
 fellow ! He squeezed, he pulled ! How ever could 
 he squeeze as hard as that"? 
 
 Madeleine tried to free her finger, but no use! 
 Well, there she was, caught; what was she to do*? 
 If she pulled away brusquely, he would wake up. 
 
 She waited, schemed, tried to slip away slyly, 
 little by little. Ah, you would, would you? An 
 upheaval under the bed clothes, a kick. The small 
 fist was like a closed trap. You'll stay right here ! 
 
 Madeleine dared not stir. She waited awhile, 
 feeling very foolish. Her cheeks burned, her legs 
 shook. If anybody should come, he'd ask her what 
 she was doing there, leaning over the cradle. Time 
 passed; was she going to make the men wait for 
 their dinner, the very first day?
 
 N E N E 23 
 
 No! . . . The baby waked up and immediately 
 began to cry. She picked him up quickly. 
 
 He looked at her for a minute, ran his hands 
 over her unfamiliar face, and then, reassured, began 
 to babble and play. He pinched Madeleine's nose, 
 jabbed at her eyes, pulled her hair. He arched his 
 little body, threw himself forward, and plump! 
 bumped his head against her, with his baby mouth 
 agape. 
 
 Eleven o'clock ! It couldn't be so late ! 
 
 Quickly Madeleine sat the baby on a folded blan- 
 ket on the floor and ran to her work. 
 
 When Corbier came in with the farm hands, an 
 hour later, he found the two children in a happy 
 mood and the table nicely set. 
 
 Madeleine, who was kneeling beside Jo, rose to 
 her feet and stood up straight before the farmer, a 
 little flushed, and astonished to find him so young. 
 
 He spoke a few words of welcome to her and sat 
 down at the table. He thought her plain, but 
 straightforward and gentle. 
 
 "Maybe," he thought, "this one will lend her 
 arms to my house and her heart to my children." 
 
 The mere thought of it comforted him ; and, help- 
 ing himself to a plateful of soup, he ate it with great 
 relish.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THEY were of the same race, these two: 
 Michael Corbier and Madeleine Clarandeau: 
 an odd race, living in a little known corner of 
 France. 
 
 At the time of the Revolution, when the King 
 was guillotined, all the people hereabout the 
 Corbiers, the Clarandeaus, the Fantous and the 
 others, no longer all in the same politico-religious 
 camp now followed the lead of their beloved 
 priests and rose for the King, in their ignorance and 
 loyalty. 
 
 Though victorious in their first forward thrust, 
 they soon came to grips with men of their own 
 mettle. On both sides, under the leadership of 
 gentle-eyed youths or stern-souled veterans, the 
 struggle had been desperate. 
 
 To the Royalists' battle-cry or the strains of the 
 Marseillaise, every town and village had been 
 taken, re-taken, sacked and burned. There had been 
 fighting in every sunken lane, in every patch of 
 broom, in every clearing. There was not a parish 
 even now, after more than a century, that did not 
 have its "battle mound," its "grave of the Blue 
 Coats" or its "Calvary of the Chouans." 
 
 24
 
 N E N E 25 
 
 In the end the peasants had been crushed. Other 
 governments had come and conciliated the priests, 
 pacified them so far that many of them had accepted 
 the new state of affairs and taken oath of allegiance 
 to the Republic. 
 
 Only the most bitter, the least politic among them 
 had kept on the war in their hearts, and their flocks 
 had followed them into their fierce isolation, into 
 their disdainful disregard of threats and excommu- 
 nications. But little by little these priests had died 
 off and their flocks had been dispersed. 
 
 Now, after 120 years, there were few of these 
 rebels, these Dissenters, left, except in the lowlands 
 of the Vendee, where they had gathered in tiny com- 
 munities buffeted, crumbling away, but still not 
 submerged by the flood tide of Catholicism. 
 
 Saint-Ambroise was the most important, compact 
 and sturdy of these. It boasted 1,500 Dissenters. 
 They had held their own, because they were a crowd 
 living close together, and because they had the back- 
 ing of the Protestants. 
 
 There was another hardy and vigorous sect, these 
 Protestants. They had come from the country 
 around Fontenay, where their ancestors had been 
 among the first to accept Calvin's message. In those 
 far-off days they had been numerous; sometimes a 
 band of ruffians, and then again a meek and humble 
 flock. 
 
 They had been ill treated under the kings, and
 
 26 N E N E 
 
 the Vendean Royalists had harried them too. They 
 had hidden, scattered; yet here they were again, 
 now hardly more than a thousand strong, settled 
 partly at Saint-Ambroise, partly at Chantepie and 
 Chateau-Blanc. 
 
 Now that they were no longer persecuted, they 
 took to bickering among themselves. Eager for 
 knowledge, they discussed the latest ideas and their 
 own beliefs; following and outstripping their most 
 advanced pastors, many of them drifted gradually 
 toward irreligion. Some of them, however, from 
 time to time, impelled by a wave of mysticism, 
 reached toward primitive narrowness, toward 
 anathemas, mortification of the flesh and the min- 
 atory texts of the Bible. 
 
 It was a strange countryside, with its two rival 
 Protestant churches and its Dissenters' chapel, 
 hemmed in by the arrogant chimes of the Catholic 
 churches. All kinds of ancient traditions clashed 
 here, and, although the years had mellowed many 
 hard feelings, at times hate shot forth again into 
 flame. The manner of speech varied from one 
 household to another, as did the manner of dress, 
 of food and of household arrangements, the games, 
 the songs and amusements of the young. The Dis- 
 senters excited the liveliest curiosity; but they felt 
 their souls were apart from the others, and, being 
 afraid they might be laughed at, they kept much 
 to themselves.
 
 N E N E 27 
 
 One time some gentlemen had come from town, 
 perhaps from Paris itself who had cleverly over- 
 come their reticence. Soon after, they had been 
 written up in a newspaper. Their chapel was de- 
 scribed as a big barn of a building, full of tin Saints 
 and plaster Virgins. The writer had spoken not 
 unpleasantly, but without due reverence, of their 
 holy-water basin and their "museum," two things 
 the Dissenters held very dear. Their holy-water 
 basin was like all those that one sees in the Catholic 
 churches, but with this difference, that it was never 
 emptied. The water had been blessed by their last 
 priest and that had been a long time ago. Since 
 then, every day, a few drops of plain water were 
 added, so that it should remain at the same level. 
 
 As for their "museum," it was a collection of little 
 white animals, carved out of meat bones with a 
 pocket knife by an old peasant who was famed for 
 his piety. Granted, they were not as beautiful as 
 the great statues they had in the city churches; still, 
 they had "nothing like them in the churches of Saint 
 Ambroise or Chantepie; and the very people who 
 made fun of them would have been incapable of 
 fashioning anything like them. Anyway, when you 
 are invited into a house and made welcome there, 
 you don't say, on leaving, that the fire smoked and 
 the seats are rickety. 
 
 After this experience the chapel was closed to 
 strangers. The Dissenters bent all their energies
 
 28 N E N E 
 
 against being swamped by the Catholics. The last 
 of their priests had gone and they scorned new 
 priests as they would scorn traitors; so they con- 
 ducted their services themselves. Perhaps from 
 pride, or from a dim fear of erring on the wrong side, 
 they accentuated their piety, kept all the Saints' 
 days, doubled their days of fasting, observed Lent 
 inexorably. And thus, forgotten heresies, and even 
 ancient superstitions from the buried past, flourished 
 on this rigid Christian faith as wall-flowers and St. 
 John's wart sprout from the sides of an old wall. 
 The women conducted the prayers, the young girls 
 teaching the catechising. Faith in the healing power 
 of mistletoe was revived and trees and springs were 
 revered again. 
 
 The Dissenters rarely married outside their own 
 group. They did not care to win over a Catholic 
 by marriage, as such mixed marriages would only 
 produce religious bastards, ready to betray them. 
 But when one of themselves was baptised in the 
 Catholic church, they mourned for him in their 
 hearts. 
 
 It rarely happened that a girl thus renounced her 
 faith, but there were always a number of lovestruck 
 young men who allowed themselves to slip into the 
 Catholic tide which never gave them up again. 
 There had been such conversions in the Corbier 
 family a proud and rugged clan, in truth, but 
 easily ruled by their passions. In the Clarandeau
 
 NENE 29 
 
 family, such a thing had never yet happened, but 
 there was danger of it now. The son, the big chap 
 who from childhood had been nicknamed Trooper 
 because of his size and strength, was madly in love 
 with a young dressmaker of Chantepie, one of the 
 standard bearers of the "Children of Mary." True, 
 he had promised his mother and Madeleine never to 
 "change himself," but still they were not easy in 
 their minds, knowing men to be weak and easily 
 swayed.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 IT was the season when the days are longest. The 
 men rushed from one task to another: the beets 
 had to be planted, the hay taken in, the fields pre- 
 pared for the winter cabbage. They would never 
 be done with all this in time for the harvest. The 
 oat fields were ripening fast, too fast,-r-fairly 
 roasted by a hot week in June. 
 
 For the women, it was the season for looking 
 after the young poultry with particular vigilance; 
 the critical period when the year's first broods of 
 chicks and goslings were making up their minds 
 whether to drop out or grow up. Things must be 
 made ready, too, for the late broods, and the little 
 pigs born in the spring had to be weaned all of 
 which demanded care and attention. Especially for 
 the cooks was this a dreaded time, preparing four 
 meals a day, four copious meals on account of the 
 hard out-door work, with nothing but a few vege- 
 tables and a little salt pork. 
 
 Madeleine got up early. On the stroke of three 
 her wooden shoes began to clatter about on the brick 
 floor of the kitchen: click-clack! Time to get up! 
 Quickly she lighted the fire, picked the vegetables, 
 hurried to the pork barrel. Four o'clock: prayers, 
 
 30
 
 NENE 31 
 
 which Madeleine conducted, with old man Corbier 
 giving the responses and the others listening, even 
 the farm hands, one of whom was a Catholic and the 
 other a Protestant. 
 
 Half-past four: the table has to be set, the cows 
 milked, the cream separated, the dishes washed 
 the chicks, the ducklings, the babies a thousand 
 things ! 
 
 By nine o'clock at night she was done, sometimes 
 not till ten, when the men were fast asleep. 
 
 She knew everything that ought to be done in a 
 house for the comfort of man and beast, but she 
 lacked the experience for proper co-ordination. 
 
 Nor was she particularly quick and clever about 
 doing things. For instance, she didn't know how to 
 make the goslings eat from her hand, coax them to 
 swallow their feed prepared of bran and chopped 
 nettles. When showers threatened she ran to the 
 threshing floor to call in her chickens, waving her 
 handkerchief in one hand and her apron in the other : 
 
 "Come in out of the rain, little chicks!" 
 
 But she went after them too directly and too fast. 
 The chicks gave frightened peeps and scattered 
 around the haystacks; the mother hens puffed out 
 their feathers angrily. Madeleine grew angry, too, 
 and then the rain was on them. 
 
 Just then Lalie appeared in the doorway. 
 
 "Jo is crying!" Madeleine wouldn't listen. 
 
 "Jo is crying, so there ! Lalie didn't hit him !"
 
 32 NENE 
 
 Madeleine thought: 
 "You just wait!" And she said: 
 "Let him cry, it's good for his voice." 
 The little girl went back into the house, but in a 
 minute she reappeared. 
 
 "Jo is crying, there's a pin sticking in his tummy." 
 Madeleine came back quickly, abandoning her 
 chickens. She knew well enough that Jo had no 
 pin sticking in his tummy, but this familiar com- 
 plaint always quite upset her. 
 
 One evening, while hurriedly changing the baby, 
 she had pricked him with her clumsy fingers. Not 
 seriously, but enough to draw the smallest bead of 
 blood. The child had uttered a quick cry, quite 
 different from his cries of temper, and Madeleine 
 had started, gasping- truly shaken to the depths 
 of her being. For nearly an hour she had rocked 
 the little fellow in her arms. Gladly would she 
 have inflicted some torture on herself, in expiation. 
 When night came, she had taken the baby with her 
 to the bed she shared with Lalie, and held him close, 
 close. 
 
 "Jo has a pin sticking in his tummy !" Ten times 
 a day, since then, Lalie made cold shivers run down 
 her back. 
 
 Already she had begun to love the children. 
 They occupied her thoughts more than anything else. 
 They made more work for her, too. Lalie poked her 
 little fingers into everything, and Jo wanted to fol*
 
 N E N E 33 
 
 low her example. He was beginning to walk and 
 took a tumble every few minutes. Being quick tem- 
 pered, he yelled and stamped his foot all day long. 
 
 Madeleine ventured to think: "If I were their 
 mother, I would hire a girl who'd take some of the 
 outside work off my hands, and I'd give more care 
 to the children. As it is, I never have time for 
 them. They are the losers; they play without me, 
 and I haven't had a chance to make them love me, 
 even if they've made me love them." 
 
 Old man Corbier, who was to have helped her so 
 much about the house, just now was made young 
 again by the sunny weather and was never indoors. 
 So she was kept very busy and always seemed to be 
 in a hurry. 
 
 "Our hired girl," said the old man, "doesn't keep 
 her two feet in the same shoe." 
 
 Indeed not; and it was a good thing she didn't. 
 
 When she had come to the Moulinettes, she had 
 asked herself anxiously if she ever would get used 
 to things there. Two months had gone by and she 
 had never since had the time to ask herself this 
 question again. 
 
 At the other farms where she had been hired, she 
 often thought, while working, of her mother, her 
 sisters, or of her home village, or of her old friends, 
 or of the things one or other young man had said 
 to her. Now, she was always worrying about the 
 animals or the household, and her thoughts no
 
 34 N E N E 
 
 longer strayed afield and lost themselves in the dis- 
 tance, like wisps of smoke. She had hardly seen 
 anything of the farm beyond her own workaday 
 domain. She who had been so glad in advance that 
 there was such a fine pond at the Moulinettes, with 
 great pines and oaks all round it, had never taken 
 time to go near it. She had merely said to herself: 
 
 "If only the children don't take to going down 
 there!" 
 
 As for the house, she had grown familiar with 
 every nook and corner of it. She liked it because 
 it was comfortable, and because all the appoint- 
 ments were to her taste. There were two large 
 rooms, divided by a corridor, with a place for keep- 
 ing the wine and a dairy at the rear. All the floors 
 were neatly bricked in the old-fashioned way. 
 
 One of the rooms was furnished with two prettily 
 speckled ash-wood wardrobes and two tall and beau- 
 tiful four-post beds, in which Michael Corbier and 
 his father slept. The other room, the one they 
 liked to show off to their visitors, held a mixture 
 of furniture. Side by side with an old brown side- 
 board, a big brown chest and a grandfather's clock 
 in a black case, there were a modern bed and a 
 clothes press of bright, beautifully finished cherry- 
 wood. This bed and the clothes press had been 
 bought by the young couple. They took on an air 
 of extreme youthfulness in this old house, but as
 
 N E N E 35 
 
 they were good pieces of furniture, simply and care- 
 fully fashioned, their newness was attractive rather 
 than disturbing. 
 
 To Madeleine the old chimney place was the 
 most interesting thing of all at the Corbiers'. She 
 wasn't surprised at the images of Saints nor at the 
 rosary of enormous boxwood beads, which undoubt- 
 edly had never been used for prayers: these were 
 common enough in the Dissenters' homes. But no- 
 where had she seen firearms like these, nor such a 
 queer old document so nicely framed. 
 
 The weapons were two long pistols. A hundred 
 and twenty years ago, the youngest chief of the 
 Catholic Army had given them as a token of friend- 
 ship to one of the Corbiers, who had been his 
 closest companion. 
 
 The framed document was a piece of parchment, 
 on which had been inscribed an event of the war : an 
 adventurous scion of the Corbier family had forced 
 an entrance into a vigorously defended town, along 
 with his Commander. At the bottom, a fat signa- 
 ture that of the Commander. To the left, the 
 writer, who must have been an expert with his pen, 
 had drawn the picture of a towering wall, with two 
 ladders against it, at the top of which stood two 
 men with drawn swords. 
 
 To tell the truth, the picture was slightly blurred, 
 but the Corbiers could explain all the details
 
 36 N E N E 
 
 minutely when asked about them; they took great 
 pride in it. 
 
 The old man had told Madeleine on her first 
 day at the farm not to touch the pistols nor the 
 framed document. This prohibition had vexed her, 
 for she considered herself a careful and capable 
 housewife. 
 
 Sometimes, of an evening, when the men were in 
 bed, she was tempted to take down and burnish 
 those old pieces. With the turn of her hand she 
 could have made them as bright and shiny as the 
 candlesticks and the snuffers. She never dared, 
 though, held back from touching these ancient things 
 by a vague dread of committing a sin. 
 
 When she was thus alone, with no one around to 
 bother her, she worked quickly and noiselessly. 
 Feeling free to move about as she chose, she was at 
 her best. She put things to rights and made every- 
 thing ready for the next day's work. Every other 
 day she took her dust cloths and polished the furni- 
 ture. It was her pride to thus uphold her reputation 
 as an exceptionally able servant. 
 
 When she had finished, she drew up the baby's 
 cradle close to her bed and slipped in gently beside 
 little Lalie. The first few nights she had not slept 
 well. Lalie cuddled up close, with her head against 
 Madeleine's neck, like a forlorn little chick. Accus- 
 tomed to sleeping alone, Madeleine had not rested 
 well with the tickling, disturbing little breath right
 
 NENE 37 
 
 on her. But now she was used to it. When the 
 child slipped down, Madeleine never failed to waken 
 enough to raise the little head and cuddle it against 
 her breast.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 ON this July Sunday, Michael Corbier was at 
 St.^Ambroise and Madeleine was in charge of 
 the house. She was saying prayers alone with the 
 children. 
 
 Boiseriot, the Catholic farm-hand, came in. This 
 was also his Sunday on duty. He sat down at the 
 table and called out: 
 
 "Where's the soup?" 
 
 Madeleine paid no attention, for this was the hour 
 of prayer. 
 
 "The soup ! The soup !" 
 
 He began to bang on the table with the handle 
 of his knife. Before his employers he would never 
 have dared to show his impatience at such a time. 
 Madeleine got up, still holding her rosary, and 
 silently placed the tureen before him; then, as he 
 looked at her with a leering smile, she turned her 
 back on him. 
 
 She disliked this man. He was a bachelor around 
 thirty-five, of small build and ordinary appearance. 
 He was a good farm-hand, though, stronger than he 
 looked, but not much of a talker, rather sly and 
 underhanded. Madeleine distrusted him, not be- 
 cause he was a Catholic, but because he looked at 
 her with wicked, glittering eyes. 
 
 38
 
 N E N E 39 
 
 At twenty-seven, after fourteen years of farm 
 labour, she had often enough, run against the in- 
 herent roughness of the male. She had always 
 known how to defend herself laughingly. A little 
 teasing didn't frighten her and, when necessary, she 
 knew how to use her fists. But she did not know 
 how to deal with these silent fellows with the bold 
 eyes. 
 
 When Boiseriot had finished eating, he remained 
 sitting at his place, watching her move about. She 
 felt relieved when at last he went away. 
 
 That evening, when the baby was asleep, she went 
 out into the front yard; and then she remembered 
 that the men's beds had not been made. The farm- 
 hands slept in a lean-to at the end of the grange, 
 and there is where she went now. As she was pass- 
 ing through the stables she saw Boiseriot stretched 
 out there on a bunch of fresh straw. Seeing her 
 come, he sat up and caught her by the leg. She 
 pulled away and passed on, when suddenly he 
 jumped up and threw himself at her like a lecherous 
 beast. She reached out and gave him a blow that 
 stunned him; but not enough to stop him, so she 
 faced him squarely and gave him another blow. 
 
 "You dirty beast ! Wait till I tell the master !" 
 
 "You pockfaced fiend!" he growled. "You 
 aren't so touchy with other people !" 
 
 "Boiseriot, I don't hear you right !" 
 
 "Well, I can see right enough! You'll tell the
 
 40 N E N E 
 
 master, eh? I wouldn't be surprised! I'll get the 
 boot, that's a sure thing. You're already the boss 
 in this house, but I'll go and tell everybody what I 
 know." 
 
 "What will you tell, Boiseriot?' 
 
 "I'll tell them ! And I'll sic the whole neighbour- 
 hood on you! And we'll come and raise the devil 
 at your door while . . ." 
 
 Madeleine bent over, listening to his shameless 
 talk. Indignation shook her from head to foot. 
 
 "Oh, you devil ! Take that !" 
 
 Madeleine struck out with closed fists, like a man. 
 
 "Take that, you dog! and that, you snake! 
 Ah! I've got you groggy! You poor runt, I'd 
 grind you under my heel if it weren't for Christian 
 mercy !" 
 
 To keep from striking him any more, Madeleine 
 ran off to the men's quarters, where she relieved her 
 nerves by shaking the feather mattresses. 
 
 Behind her, Boiseriot picked himself up and 
 brushed off his soiled clothes. With an evil gleam 
 in his eye, he threatened : 
 
 "You pockmarked devil ! I'll sic the neighbours 
 on you !"
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THAT same evening, little Jo was taken with 
 colic. 
 
 Every one was asleep except Madeleine, when the 
 child began to toss about and moan. Madeleine 
 rocked the cradle; still half asleep, she began hum- 
 ming a lullaby in cadence with the ticking of the 
 clock. But the child cried out sharply and flung 
 himself about. Madeleine jumped out of bed, 
 slipped on her petticoat and lighted a candle. 
 
 The baby's cries grew worse from minute to 
 minute, and yet there was nothing that could have 
 injured him. He must be sick, taken with some bad 
 illness perhaps, since it had come on so suddenly. 
 She began to walk the floor, rocking him in her arms, 
 but as he would not quiet down, she opened the 
 hall door and called out : 
 
 "Corbier! Corbier! The baby is sick! I don't 
 know what's the trouble. I am worried!" 
 
 He came out at once, he too in his night shirt 
 and bare-footed, having only just stopped to put on 
 his trousers. Madeleine held the child up a little 
 in her arms, and both of them looked anxiously at 
 the small bit of humanity in pain. 
 
 "We ought to have a fire," said Madeleine. 
 
 41
 
 42 N E N E 
 
 "I'll go," said Corbier. 
 
 He went out and returned with some wood and 
 kindling. He was so upset that he blew into the 
 ashes. She had to kneel down beside him to help 
 him start the fire. At last it flamed up. Madeleine 
 sat down and held the baby out toward the warmth. 
 
 "If we could give him some tisane " she said. 
 
 So he set about preparing an infusion of marsh- 
 mallow flowers. Madeleine gave it to the child, 
 who, strangely, had just stopped crying. Appar- 
 ently all right again, he kicked his little legs toward 
 the fire. Cheeks still wet with tears, he laughed 
 aloud while his father waved a burning twig which 
 made a pretty, luminous ribbon in the air before his 
 baby eyes. 
 
 How foolish they had been to work themselves 
 up so! They looked at each other, sharing the ten- 
 derness they both felt for the baby. 
 
 Suddenly Madeleine blushed red hot. In her 
 excitement she had hardly covered her body. Her 
 unbuttoned underwaist left her throat uncovered 
 and her chemise gaped over her great white bosom. 
 
 Boiseriot's evil words rang in her ears: 
 
 "You aren't so touchy with other people !" 
 
 Thanking Corbier, she rose quickly and put the 
 baby back in his cradle. 
 
 The baby had fallen asleep again. Corbier had 
 gone back to bed, and Madeleine sat up thinking, 
 ashamed of having been so careless, and quite upset
 
 N E N E 43 
 
 by notions that had never troubled her before. She 
 was not in love with Corbier. She could not have 
 fallen in love with him so quickly! Like all girls 
 of her age, she had had suitors. She had rejected 
 several proposals; at other times, it was she who had 
 been jilted. She had been a little annoyed over 
 those incidents, but had got over them easily enough. 
 No, she was not a girl to lose her head all of a sud- 
 den, just like that. 
 
 She was not hi love with Corbier; she loved the 
 children, and her love for them was sweet and held 
 no danger. No doubt, he was a good-looking man, 
 this young master, and later, if he begged for her 
 love honestly one had heard of stranger happen- 
 ings would she say Yes or No*? 
 
 To the muffled ticking of the grandfather's clock, 
 the night sped away, and Madeleine lay there with 
 a fever in her veins and her eyes wide open, staring 
 into the darkness of the room.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 OLD man Corbier had time and again warned 
 Gideon, the younger of the two farm-hands: 
 
 "Don't tease Giant; he's bad tempered and you'll 
 end by making him kick over the traces." 
 
 Usually, when this subject came up at table, a 
 long discussion followed, with apologies and ex- 
 planations. 
 
 Giant was a descendant of a cow named Mar- 
 jolee that the old man had bought twenty years be- 
 fore at a Twelfth Night Fair, during one of those 
 very severe winters that we don't get any more. 
 This Marjolee came from Nantes and was beautiful 
 above, superb below, well built, and a great pro- 
 ducer of butter. Try to find cows like her nowa- 
 days ! There had been Griselle out of her, Fariniere 
 out of Griselle, and out of Fariniere there were 
 Pomponne and Giant, the gray bull with the black 
 collar. 
 
 A powerful strain, unequalled for labour and 
 fairly quick to fatten. Unfortunately they were too 
 frisky. The cows were domineering with their stable 
 companions. They broke down the hedges, jumped 
 over the fences. As for the bulls, they had to be 
 broken in very young, otherwise they were likely 
 
 44
 
 N E N E 45 
 
 to become dangerous. The breaking in of Giant had 
 been delayed too long, because he was so handsome. 
 
 "Giant will tickle your ribs," said the old man. 
 The two farm-hands and the young master shrugged 
 their shoulders, used as they were to living with 
 cattle. 
 
 Gideon never came near the bull without teasing 
 him. The bull responded, clanking his chain, lower- 
 ing his head with a long, threatening bellow which 
 rumbled in his giant throat. Gideon mocked him : 
 
 "Moo-oo, Boo-oo. . . . Come on, Giant." 
 
 Sometimes he grasped the bull by the horns and 
 the bull, entering into the game, pushed hard. 
 
 Little by little things grew bad, but the boy did 
 not leave off, for whenever he was alone he took a 
 keen pleasure in trying his young strength to the 
 point of danger. He really fought with the beast, 
 kicking it with his wooden shoes, and evading the 
 still uncertain thrust of the horns. 
 
 One day, at last, things became ugly. Giant 
 started the fray and went into it with all his might. 
 The young man had only just time to jump out of 
 the stall, dropping his armful of fodder. 
 
 "What's the trouble?" asked Michael Corbier, 
 coming on the scene. 
 
 "It's Giant, sir. If I hadn't got out, he would 
 have butted me into the rack." 
 
 Michael took it badly. 
 
 "If you'd only leave him alone! Why tease the
 
 46 N E N E 
 
 animals and spoil their tempers, especially when you 
 are a coward yourself?" 
 
 The lad straightened. 
 
 "A coward*? No more of a coward than the next 
 one, I'll have you know ! Animals are just animals, 
 and I don't want to be trampled on." 
 
 "Very well then. Get out ! I'll give him his feed 
 myself." 
 
 "Look out for him, I warn you." 
 
 Corbier shrugged his shoulders and went to get 
 an armful of feed. The bull had never been un- 
 friendly with him. 
 
 "Turn around, Giant." 
 
 He threw his armful and found that some of the 
 hay had fallen under the animal's hoofs. 
 
 "You rascal, wasting the feed I give you !" 
 
 He stooped down, picked up a few large fistfuls 
 and was straightening up again, when the bull went 
 at him with his head. He rolled over on the floor, 
 tried to shout, but could not find his voice. He suc- 
 ceeded, however, in partly raising himself and slip- 
 ping into the manger. Fortunately Gideon had not 
 gone far. With a bravery and promptness one 
 would not have expected of him, he jumped at the 
 bull's head. 
 
 "Help! Boiseriot, help!" 
 
 The bull hurled himself at the crossbar, a solid 
 oak beam, snorting and growling and wild-eyed. 
 Boiseriot came running from the grange with a heavy
 
 NENE 47 
 
 iron bar. Madeleine came running, too; at the first 
 cry she had jumped up from her milking stool, over- 
 turning the stool and spilling her pail of new milk. 
 She attacked the bull from behind, trying to tie his 
 hind legs and throw him. He gave her a kick and 
 she rolled over on the straw. 
 
 Boiseriot struck with his iron bar, but in vain, 
 hindered by Gideon, who was hanging on to the 
 horn and the muzzle. Corbier at last managed to 
 shout : 
 
 "A rope!" 
 
 Madeleine had already thought of that. She ran 
 to the grange and came back with a leather strap. 
 The bull was gathering himself up for a final effort. 
 Seeing him draw his hind legs together, she quickly 
 fastened the strap around them and threw herself 
 backward. 
 
 "Boiseriot!" 
 
 The man turned to her. 
 
 "Get to his side," she said. "I am going to throw 
 him." 
 
 A brief gleam flickered in his evil eyes. She was 
 struck by it. 
 
 "Hurry up !" she cried in a colorless voice. 
 
 He put his shoulder against the bull's flank and, 
 Madeleine pulling sharply, the bull fell. 
 
 Corbier scrambled out by way of the rack. He 
 wasn't much hurt, and he forced himself to laugh, 
 though still pale and breathless. The farm-hands
 
 48 N E N E 
 
 were laughing too. Gideon wiped his right hand, 
 which was bloody from the bull's nostrils. Boiseriot 
 looked at Madeleine, who was trembling so hard 
 now that she had to lean against the wall for sup- 
 port. Michael said, when it was all over : 
 
 "Thank you, all of you. I can't talk. I'm going 
 to get a drop of brandy." 
 
 He left the stable and Madeleine followed him. 
 After a bit she came back. 
 
 "Well," said Gideon, "all right now?' 
 
 "Yes, he's better since he had a drink. But I 
 I can't seem to pull myself together." 
 
 She picked up her milking stool and resumed her 
 work. Boiseriot, who was bringing in an armful of 
 feed, kept his eye on her. Noticing that in her 
 agitation she was trying absent-mindedly to milk a 
 cow she had already milked, he sneered as he brushed 
 past her : 
 
 "You were afraid for him, weren't you? . . * 
 Devil take you, I'll sic the boys on you yet!"
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 WHO said that?" asked Trooper of his mother. 
 Madame Clarandeau replied : 
 
 "I don't know. ... I only know that people are 
 talking about it and it worries me." 
 
 "Who told you that people are talking about it?" 
 
 The old woman grew nervous. 
 
 "Never mind about that, boy. I can attend to 
 such things better than you; there must be no fuss 
 over this." 
 
 She knew her son. Gentle and sensible when 
 sober, he became quarrelsome after drinking; and 
 with his enormous strength, an accident was always 
 possible. . . . 
 
 She insisted: 
 
 "If you take a hand in this, you will only make 
 things worse." 
 
 He shook his great head. 
 
 "Mother, I haven't been drinking, you can look 
 at me. ... I swear to you there'll be no drink until 
 I have ploughed this furrow. So you needn't be 
 afraid. Who said that Madeleine was living in sin 
 with Michael Corbier, of the Moulinettes?" 
 
 "What'll you do to him if you get to know?" 
 
 "I'll talk to him. I know how. All you need 
 
 49
 
 50 N E N E 
 
 to do to stop a slanderer's tongue is to talk to him 
 in the right way." 
 
 "Supposing it's a woman?" 
 
 "Oh, well ... if it's a woman, you can deal 
 with her, but if it's a man, you leave him to me. 
 Who told you about this slander?" 
 
 Madame Clarandeau had to give in. 
 
 "Who told me about it? Marie Fantou, this 
 morning before the rosary prayers, and it seems that 
 it came from a farm-hand at the Moulinettes, a fel- 
 low named Boiseriot, a Catholic." 
 
 "Boiseriot, you say? All right. Good-bye, 
 mother. I'll see you again next Sunday." 
 
 "Good-bye, and keep cool, whatever you do !" 
 
 Upon the threshold he turned around. 
 
 "Don't worry. I haven't been drinking and I 
 shan't go to the inn. Good-bye." 
 
 From Coudray to St. Ambroise, Trooper almost 
 ran. He was thinking. 
 
 "Boiseriot! I don't know him, but he must be 
 from Chantepie. Violette was telling me one day 
 about a fellow of that name. It's Sunday to-day 
 Bet you I'll find that mass-hound at St. Ambroise." 
 
 When he had reached the village, he said to him- 
 self: 
 
 "Mother was right: Better not make a fuss. I 
 don't know him. I might question these fellows who 
 are playing bowls, but they might suspect something. 
 I'm not so simple !"
 
 NENE 51 
 
 He entered a tobacco shop, bought a cigar and 
 dawdled over lighting it, leaning against the door 
 and muttering, 
 
 "Well, well!" 
 
 The storekeeper asked: 
 
 "What are you looking at, Mr. Clarandeau?" 
 
 "Nothing. I thought that was Boiseriot, that 
 fellow passing by." 
 
 "Boiseriot?' 
 
 "Yes, the farm-hand at the Moulinettes." 
 
 The wife of the storekeeper explained to her hu.s- 
 band: 
 
 "Yes, you know, the little one who chews. . . . 
 He was here only a minute ago. He just left." 
 
 "Thank you very much," said Trooper. 
 
 He went out quickly and up the street. 
 
 "You wait, you dog, with your quid! Ah, there 
 you are ! You weren't far off. I'll give you some- 
 thing to think of on the way !" 
 
 Having caught up with the man, Trooper said to 
 him: 
 
 "Is your name Boiseriot?" 
 
 "At your service." 
 
 "Then I've a few things to say to you that won't 
 take long." 
 
 Boiseriot' s eyes wavered uncertainly. 
 
 "What's the matter with you*?" said he. 
 
 "I was just going to tell you. You don't know 
 me, do you?"
 
 52 NENE 
 
 "Oh, yes; you are a Clarandeau, the one whom 
 they call Trooper. You have a girl at Chantepie 
 Violette, the seamstress?" 
 
 "Boiseriot, that is none of your business." 
 
 "Pardon me, Violette is my god-child." 
 
 Trooper gave a start, which did not escape his 
 companion's notice. They walked on a little, and 
 then: 
 
 "Boiseriot, you've been talking about my sister 
 and the man she works for. And I am angry. I 
 heard of it only to-day. If I were drunk, I'd be 
 likely to make trouble for you." 
 
 The other, realizing the effort he was making to 
 control himself, faced about. 
 
 "I'm not afraid of any man." 
 
 "You can say that! You're not big enough for 
 me to take you on. If I had been drinking, I 
 wouldn't say when I'm lit, I don't always look so 
 close who happens to get under my fists." 
 
 "Does that happen often*?" 
 
 "No oftener than I can help; sometimes, just the 
 same, I get into bad company." 
 
 "Does Violette know about your ways?" 
 
 Boiseriot glanced up sideways, waiting for an 
 answer. Trooper shook his big body and let the 
 words come fast : 
 
 "Never mind about that ! You have Some- 
 body has talked about my sister. For this once, let 
 it pass! If it happens again, I'll get hold of the
 
 NENE 53 
 
 slanderer, whether he be Peter or Paul, Dissenter or 
 Catholic or Protestant, friend or stranger or enemy 
 and I'll knock him down and drag him through 
 the streets till his head cracks ! Good-bye !" 
 
 Boiseriot began to laugh. 
 
 "You're strong but stupid. Why should I talk 
 about your sister, when you are almost my god-son? 
 And do you think I would want to make trouble with 
 my boss? Go and ask him if we ever had a word of 
 difference between us." 
 
 "What I've said I've said; and you may tell every- 
 body else. Good-bye !" 
 
 "So long ! Take the trouble to find out who your 
 friends are." 
 
 They parted, Boiseriot, entirely over his fright, 
 smiled in an ugly fashion, and Trooper walked 
 slowly without turning around, his heart in a tur- 
 moil.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 ANOTHER Sunday; a Sunday in August, at the 
 quiet hour of siesta. 
 
 Michael Corbier had thrown himself down on his 
 barn floor, hat over eyes. The flies had kept him 
 awake at first with their persistent noisy buzzing; 
 now that he had fallen asleep they were busier than 
 ever about him, but he had taken the precaution of 
 burying his head in an armful of straw, so that only 
 his hands remained exposed, and there the skin was 
 hardened and almost insensible. 
 
 The sun was beating straight down ; the two rows 
 of piled sheaves were like the walls of an over- 
 heated passage. All that great heap of straw 
 crackled, so ripe, so dry and baked it was. The 
 sleeper gasped for air, oppressed by this furnace 
 heat. 
 
 "Good God!" 
 
 He had wakened with a sudden nervous start. He 
 did not stop to stretch himself; his eyes were wide 
 open all at once. 
 
 "Good God! This is awful!" 
 
 He mumbled to himself, cross and upset, his 
 mouth feeling dry and bitter. 
 
 Every time he took a nap in the heat of noon, it 
 
 54
 
 N E N E 55 
 
 was the same thing. Could he never again defend 
 himself against these dreams'? Would he never 
 again enjoy the sound sleep of a tired man? 
 
 No sooner did he lie down on that floor now, than 
 he felt a strange softness flooding his veins. 
 
 At first vague forms came passing before his eyes, 
 beings and objects that he could not have named: 
 elfin forms swirling in satanic rounds; sarabands, 
 wafting into his face an air charged with a hot, 
 loathsome redolence that made his senses reel. 
 Then, at last, he "saw clear." He did not see some- 
 times one thing, sometimes another; he always saw 
 the same blue eyes, deep as sin, and then a whiteness 
 that took shape, became a woman's throat, an 
 amorous woman's throat, throbbing, swelling, grow- 
 ing growing till it filled his whole vision with its 
 vast, triumphant whiteness. 
 
 Then desire rose within him like a storm fiend. 
 
 Bolt upright, both shoulders freed of the straw, he 
 took count of his shame. His grief over the death 
 of his wife filled his heart. 
 
 "Marguerite, you know it isn't that I've forgotten 
 you! You are with me when I work; your hand is 
 still in mine, softer than the hands of all living 
 women." 
 
 He crinkled his eyelids as if to fix more clearly 
 the elusive visions of his happiness, to which he 
 wanted to cling. 
 
 But other intruding thoughts besieged his brain.
 
 56 N E N E 
 
 Vainly he tried to drive them off like annoying flies. 
 They kept buzzing around in his head, vivid, ob- 
 stinate, cruel. 
 
 He was glad when his father got up at the other 
 end of the barn and came toward him. His father 
 talked often and willingly of the time, not so long 
 past, when life lay before Michael like a flowery 
 path. 
 
 "Did you sleep, father?' 
 
 The old man sat down on the straw beside him. 
 
 "Not much: the flies are terrible. Did you?" 
 
 Oh! I! " 
 
 The phrase remained suspended and the father 
 knew that the old heart-wound was again open. He 
 did not stir, but his eyelids twitched. 
 
 There had never been any unpleasantness between 
 father and son and they felt for each other a true, 
 manly affection, a tenderness which, though silent, 
 was watchful and deep. 
 
 The father was thoughtful for a moment, groping 
 for words of comfort. Finding none that would 
 satisfy him, he ended by saying : 
 
 "Better not borrow! Sell your harvest right 
 away. The market is low, but it's better to sell than 
 to borrow." 
 
 "What were you saying, father?" 
 
 "I say it'll give you cash in hand at least two 
 hundred pistoles. You can do a lot with a sum like 
 that."
 
 N E N E 57 
 
 Michael made a gesture of disillusioned indiffer- 
 ence. He was so far from all that ! He thought : 
 
 "My purse is empty: why isn't my heart like my 
 purse? Why is it bulging with worthless coin*?" 
 
 "Well, now!" exclaimed the father, who misun- 
 derstood the gesture. "Well, now! Two thou- 
 sand francs, for certain, at least! It's a pretty 
 penny. You're another one of those fellows that 
 cry before they're hurt/' 
 
 Michael let him talk on, glad to have his mind 
 brought back to these simple, homely cares. 
 
 Work-a-day troubles were a known enemy that 
 you were used to wrestle with. 
 
 He began to do some counting, in an instinctive 
 effort to get away from himself. 
 
 "Two thousand francs, that's at least three hun- 
 dred less than the harvest is worth, and even so, 
 it wouldn't be enough to make ends meet: there's 
 1,400 francs for the leasehold, 870 for the two 
 hands; and how about the cost of threshing 1 ? And 
 the hired girl?" 
 
 "Don't borrow; debts are the ruination of any 
 farm!" 
 
 "Then what can we do? Sell something?" 
 
 That roused the old man. 
 
 "Sell! Not while I'm alive, you won't! The 
 Chestnut Hill land has been in our family, time out 
 of mind, the way the gentry have theirs. As for the 
 two other parcels, your mother and I bought them.
 
 58 N E N E 
 
 And how we toiled and sweated to get those few 
 
 acres !' ; 
 
 "I toil and sweat too, father. I, too, break my 
 back working the soil, oftener than I walk about 
 with my head in the clouds. And all I see ahead is 
 trouble, because I have no longer anyone but you 
 who cares, and no hand to help me." 
 
 Beneath the gently spoken words, rebellion rang 
 out clear. The father was moved to say: 
 
 "Poor boy, you're in hard luck, for certain. But 
 it's no use being rebellious about it. A man can't 
 rise up against it, nor yet lie down under it : he can 
 only keep going that's all." 
 
 "Well, I keep going, don't I!" 
 
 They fell silent, sitting quite still with their heads 
 bowed, as proud men do to hide their emotion. 
 
 Then the father spoke again, falteringly, dis- 
 creetly feeling his way. 
 
 "Sure enough, you're in bad luck and you are a 
 good fellow you deserve better. If you didn't have 
 to pay the wages of a hired girl a first rate girl, 
 too things would be easier, maybe. Though, 
 speaking of her, you're in luck there: your house 
 isn't kept just any old way like some houses I could 
 mention." 
 
 "Pshaw ! It's kept the same as other houses !" 
 
 "Now, let's be fair! That girl you wouldn't 
 find her like, I tell you. I see how things go I'm 
 a good deal around the house. Well, I couldn't fail
 
 NENE 59 
 
 to notice how much trouble she's taking. Look 
 around ! Everything is neat and tidy Look at the 
 stock, look at her dairy. And besides, there's 
 another reason why she's better than the others. 
 She makes your children as comfortable and cosy as 
 two kittens in the sun. I'm telling you just what I 
 see, my boy." 
 
 "Maybe so, but a servant is a servant : You pay 
 her wages and she quits. That kind of paid help 
 can never be like the other." 
 
 "All right, I don't say But see here now, boy* 
 when you're over your grief " 
 
 "I'll never get over it." 
 
 "You say that. And it's true, one never does get 
 over it quite. But a man argues himself out of 
 it, bye and bye. Do you mind if I speak out, 
 Michael?" 
 
 "Of course not!" the young man said expectantly. 
 "You, father, you can say anything at all to me." 
 
 "Well, son, you ought to marry again. Don't let 
 that hurt you now ! I don't say this year or next 
 you understand? but when time has soothed you a 
 bit. All the same, the sooner the better, for your 
 house and for your children. You've got a good 
 housekeeper, but as you say, she might leave any 
 day." 
 
 "And must I marry her, then, to make her stay?" 
 
 Michael threw out the words quickly, angrily. 
 
 "I'm not speaking for her nor for any other
 
 60 NENE 
 
 woman I know. That's your affair. All I want to 
 say, if you don't mind, is that you need someone like 
 her : yes, that kind, sure enough a good housewife 
 who'll be kind to the children and who'll go with 
 them to our chapel." 
 
 "Father, don't let's talk about it any more, 
 please !" 
 
 He rose to his feet with a quick twist of his shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 "There, now! I've made you angry!" mumbled 
 the father. 
 
 "Angry? Not at all! I'm just going over there 
 walk a little. My legs are all numb." 
 
 He went toward the farm buildings and around 
 them, passing through the goat pasture in the rear. 
 Everything neat and tidy, his father had said. He 
 was forced to admit that so it was. Some wash was 
 drying on the hedge, all carefully spread out. He 
 noticed some dishcloths mere rags, but washed very 
 white. Why had she taken so much trouble over 
 them? Did she think she might still make some use 
 of them? 
 
 He took the path to the pond. On fine Sundays 
 like this, he used to stroll along it with Marguerite 
 and Lalie. In the shade of a big oak at the edge 
 of the shimmering water, he had lived the tenderest 
 hours of his life. 
 
 He reached the meadow, found it as soft and 
 springy as ever under his tread. He walked along
 
 NENE 61 
 
 the border hedge : as in other days, the hazel nuts 
 were ripening in their little yellow cups, just like 
 the nuts he had held out to Marguerite at the tips 
 of bent branches and that she had cracked between 
 her pretty teeth. As in other days, there was the 
 wagon gap in the hedge, beside a rowan-tree from 
 which the blackbirds scurried; from that point you 
 could see the pond and, leaning forward a little, the 
 round top of that same oak in the shadow of 
 which 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 He stood still. 
 
 In the shadow of that great oak, at the edge of 
 the shimmering water, a young woman in Sunday 
 finery was playing with a little child as in other 
 days!
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 ALL through the week Lalie had begged Made- 
 leine to take her nut-gathering, and this very 
 Sunday Madeleine had at last given in. 
 
 As the weather was fine, she had dressed the chil- 
 dren in their prettiest. That very morning, she had 
 purchased, with her own money, a small bottle of 
 scent for them. She had sprinkled it lavishly over 
 their hair, and the baby in her arms was fragrant 
 as a nosegay. 
 
 In the hedge by the meadow how beautiful the 
 meadow was! she had picked hazel nuts. And 
 then she had strolled down to the pond, behind Jo 
 who had trotted ahead, darting to right and left. 
 How shiny the pond was ! 
 
 In the shade of an oak she sat down and cracked 
 the nuts. Using her best pocket knife, that she kept 
 for wedding feasts and such great occasions, she 
 opened the brown shells, while two little greedy 
 mouths watched for the kernels. 
 
 Down where my garden flowers twine. 
 On air I go, heart of mine, 
 To pluck the rose and columbine; 
 The air is light as wine/ 
 
 There she was, actually singing ! What made her 
 
 heart so light? Perhaps the pretty pearl-handled 
 
 62
 
 NENE 63 
 
 knife, so dainty that she hardly felt it in her hand, 
 was a lover's gift? Not so. All it recalled to her 
 mind was feasting no memory of courtship, noth- 
 ing that touched her heart. Was it then because 
 the meadow was so lovely"? Because the pond shim- 
 mered so"? Because the children were laughing and 
 smelled sweet as aromatic herbs? 
 
 No, no none of these was a reason 
 
 A thrush comes winging from a vine; 
 On air I go, heart of mine! 
 
 Jo wanted to sing, too; Lalie shouted: 
 "Yoo! Yoo-oo!" 
 
 And greets me with his merry line: 
 "The air is light as wine. 1 " 
 
 A softness had come over Madeleine, like the 
 touch of a hand. She felt her bosom throbbing with 
 a great, groundless joy that was all pervading and 
 yet fragile. When she was eighteen, of a festive 
 morning when the young people were preparing for 
 a party, she had felt like this as light as a sparrow. 
 
 "What a foolish thing I am! Poor bee in the 
 rain ! November swallow !" 
 
 The air is light as winef" 
 
 The little ones hung about her neck with shouts 
 and pummelings and peals of laughter and strenuous, 
 awkward wrestlings. She let herself tumble over, 
 surrendered her head to them, played with them foe
 
 64 NENE 
 
 a while, forgetful of all else and overwhelmed with 
 tenderness. 
 
 "Madeleine ! Come here ! Madeleine !" 
 
 Lalie, who quickly tired of any game, had gone 
 close to the railing at the edge of "the pond. At first 
 she had thrown pebbles into the water. Now that 
 she had exhausted the supply, she was throwing in 
 some belladonna berries. 
 
 "Madeleine, see the fish!" 
 
 Madeleine came close with the baby. The water, 
 looking black from a distance, was on the contrary 
 wonderfully limpid. When a berry touched the sur- 
 face, the fish rose to it from below. They were 
 small but very lively roach ; their yellow eyes, their 
 round mouths and pink, lacy fins were clearly visible. 
 They snapped up the berries so quickly, you hardly 
 saw them swallow. 
 
 "Snap! Snap! There's another The greedy 
 things!" 
 
 "Lalie, you mustn't lean over so far. Come, 
 Lalie!" 
 
 Madeleine took the children back under the oak. 
 She had been afraid of the water ever since child- 
 hood. A half-witted old aunt had told her so many 
 stories about bad fairies and black water witches 
 that she always felt a kind of mysterious, fearsome 
 fascination in the sleepy waters of a pond. 
 
 "You mustn't go too near, do you hear me, dear?
 
 N E N E 65 
 
 The water is full of wicked creatures, that pull little 
 children in by the feet!" 
 
 "Let's play, Madeleine !" said Lalie without list- 
 ening. "I'll be a peddlar woman, I'll be selling pins; 
 Jo'll be a little boy and you'll be his mamma. 
 You're inside your house. You see? These little 
 sticks are my pins. I'll knock at your door 'Any- 
 body at home 1 ?' You'll say, 'How do you do, 
 Ma'am, I want some pins to pin my little boj;'s 
 didies' do you hear, Madeleine? Jo is a little boy, 
 you are his mamma! If you'd rather, I could be 
 selling sugar almonds. Jo'll say, 'Mama, I want 
 some candy' " 
 
 "Silly! Don't you know he can't talk yet? Just 
 listen to him !" 
 
 "Ma ma ma !" babbled Jo. 
 
 "We must teach him, Madeleine! Jojo, say 
 'Mam-ma, I want ' ' 
 
 "Ma ma ma Ooh !" 
 
 "You don't know how to play, Jo," said his sis- 
 ter; "Lalie is going to play all by herself." 
 
 Madeleine, with a sudden flush, had picked up 
 the baby; she held him up before her, her face close 
 to his. 
 
 "Jo, my little Jojo, say 'mam-ma, mam-ma* " 
 
 She raised pleading eyes. Her tender emotion 
 of the afternoon was sweeping her on to this strange, 
 unknown passion of feeling Falling in love must 
 be like that ! She was carried away unashamed.
 
 66 N E N E 
 
 "Jo! Listen! Mam-ma! Mam-ma!" 
 
 "Madeleine!" 
 
 Her shoulders sank together, the blood rushed to 
 her heart. Corbier was standing behind the hedge, 
 a few steps away. 
 
 For one instant Madeleine's eyes were wide and 
 radiant; for one instant a great brightness flooded 
 her soul Then everything went dark. Corbier, 
 white-faced, raised his hand as if to hurl the words 
 at her: 
 
 "Madeleine! This is mortal sin! I forbid you 
 this abomination!"
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 FOR three days they said no word to each other. 
 At meal times Madeleine fed the children and 
 took her own meals standing by the fireplace, with- 
 out a word. 
 
 Corbier spoke to his father or to the hands with- 
 out ever turning his head toward his housekeeper. 
 Contrary to his habit, Boiseriot grew facetious. 
 From under his peak cap his wolfish eyes glistened 
 with malicious glee. 
 
 On the second day, in the barn, Michael had an- 
 swered a question of his father in a vague way, 
 turning pale: 
 
 "There's nothing wrong but, after you, I'm the 
 only master here." 
 
 The master ! yes the one who gave orders to the 
 farm-hands, who planned for the plowing and the 
 sowing, the buying and selling; but he was not mas- 
 ter of his own imaginings. In truth, he did not 
 know what was in his heart, whether love or hate, 
 kindness or anger. There was pride, for a certainty, 
 the pride of resisting the surge of his strong young 
 blood; the pride, too, of not going back on a too 
 harsh word. 
 
 It was much the same with Madeleine. She had 
 
 67
 
 68 N E N E 
 
 cried with shame; cried with the pain, too, of an 
 unexpected, brutal and secret wound. The un- 
 acknowledged dream that had sprung up and flow- 
 ered in her like a white bush hidden under denser 
 foliage had been hacked down, pulled out by the 
 roots. The hurt was too cruel. Whack ! One great 
 blow of the axe at a fragrant hawthorn one 
 thrust of the spade in the middle of a flowerbed ! 
 
 All for a bit of playfulness! for it was all in 
 play, really ! Lalie had started the game he might 
 have inquired, first then he would have under- 
 stood ! Such awful words, to her ! Loving the 
 children was no reason why she should be thinking 
 of anything wrong. She did love the children, 
 very, very much she had indeed quite lost her 
 heart to them! and why not? Why shouldn't she 
 show it," too? 
 
 " 'Mortal sin !' Perhaps you are thinking things, 
 Michael? because you are good to look at! My 
 Lord, you are not the only one !" 
 
 It had come to Wednesday evening, and Made- 
 leine was feverishly clearing the table. The men 
 had gone to their rooms; the children were asleep. 
 
 "I'll go away. I can't stay on after what he said. 
 I'd grown used to the place, but all I care about is 
 the children truly! I'll miss them, the darl- 
 ings, but none of the others! I'll go to a big 
 farm, like last year; I'll have more freedom there. 
 They are getting me all muddled between them,
 
 N E N E 69 
 
 those I like and those I don't like. In the end, I 
 don't know which way to turn. And work all the 
 time, from sun-up to sun-down, and 'way into the 
 night, and before dawn sometimes, too. Nobody to 
 lay out the work for you, and no thanks to you ! 
 I ought to have left right away. When I see him 
 come in and sit with the others, never looking at me, 
 it's it's humiliating! He is angry, of course; 
 but if he'd only speak out, as before, his anger would 
 pass, maybe. But he won't ! All right, then ! I 
 quit, Michael Corbier ! You can hire somebody else, 
 one that's better looking. You can marry her, for 
 all I care." 
 
 Madeleine threw down the cloth she used for nib- 
 bing the furniture; but she picked it up again, think- 
 ing: 
 
 "I'll quit, but I won't have the blame put on me ! 
 I'll do my work to the end and he'll have no fault to 
 find with me. To-morrow he's got to pick a quarrel 
 with me. I'll get angry and then, good-bye ! How 
 could I manage it"? Ah ! I've got it !" 
 
 She jumped on a chair and took down the pistols. 
 Then she went to fetch a large piece of emery paper 
 and started to rub and polish. 
 
 "Ah, you old popguns, you ! I'm going to make 
 you shine like the candlesticks in the chapel." 
 
 Madeleine ! Mortal sin ! 
 
 "B-rr! Do you think it is"? Just because you've 
 served to kill enemies with*?"
 
 70 N E N E 
 
 Madeleine, I forbid you this abomination ! 
 
 "Or maybe women too, and robbers perhaps, in 
 the time when people were worse than savages? 
 Say that again, Corbier, that it was an abomina- 
 tion " 
 
 A scene would now be inevitable ; she would leave 
 on the spot. 
 
 That very night she would get her belongings to- 
 gether, so that she could pack them up at a minute's 
 notice. She opened her clothes-press, folded up her 
 skirts, looked about for her handkerchiefs. 
 
 The children's things were mixed up with hers. 
 Angry as she was, it wrung her heart to pick them out 
 and lay them away separately. 
 
 She took her bottle of scent and set it on the top 
 shelf, right in the centre. She had bought it for 
 them and she'd leave it to them. But the girl who'd 
 take her place would probably use it for herself. 
 Ah, not that ! Certainly not ! 
 
 Then she took out the little vests and stockings, 
 the baby's bibs, and Lalie's pinafores and hair rib- 
 bons. When she had them all spread out on the 
 table, she emptied her bottle on them, drop by drop, 
 as if she were sprinkling holy water. 
 
 "My little darlings may it bring you happi- 
 
 ness!' 3 
 
 She wanted to do something more for them, but 
 it was late ; and so that she might not call attention
 
 NENE 71 
 
 to her doings, she stepped out of her wooden shoes 
 and went about the room noiselessly. 
 
 She found holes in Jo's stockings and mended 
 them. Lalie was growing fast; her Sunday pina- 
 fore had become too short. She'd soon have nothing 
 nice to put on of a Sunday, and she wouldn't look 
 as neat and pretty as the other little girls, who 
 hadn't lost their mothers. 
 
 Madeleine had an apron of old print, with a red 
 flower pattern; she cut it up and, with a skill that 
 astonished even herself, she made a flounce of it to 
 lengthen the pinafore, and a new belt, too. 
 
 It was almost midnight; she worked on with 
 painstaking slowness. 
 
 When the pinafore was made as good as new, she 
 looked about to see what else she could do. Noth- 
 ing. All the poor little clothes were mended and 
 clean and neat. 
 
 Her work all done, Madeleine broke down and 
 cried. 
 
 In what state would everything be in a couple 
 of weeks'? Who would be taking care of Jo? 
 Would anyone think of him, except to stuff him with 
 thick soup? He was still used to getting his bottle 
 when he was put to bed. Twice a day he got a 
 new-laid egg, boiled very soft, and it took some 
 patience to feed it to him in little spoonfuls. 
 
 "My poor babies! But after all, it's not impos- 
 sible that the woman your father will get in my
 
 72 N E N E 
 
 place will be good to you. You'll love her, you'll 
 forget Madeleine, and when you've grown up you 
 won't even remember me." 
 
 Her tears trickled on the garments as she laid 
 them away again in the clothes-press. 
 
 "But I can't stay on. Your father is wicked I 
 am wicked people grow wicked when they grow 
 up. They don't know how to forgive things. We 
 aren't any better than they were in the old time 
 when they kept fighting each other." 
 
 Madeleine wept as she looked at the cradle and 
 at her shiny new-fashioned bed, where Lalie was 
 sleeping. 
 
 She had a box where she kept some ribbons, a 
 ring, a pin and a little silver necklace. She slipped 
 the necklace around Lalie's neck, under the hair. 
 As for Jo, she had nothing to give him that would 
 be suitable to his age. And during the four months 
 she had been at the Moulinettes she had not thought 
 of buying a single trifle for him to remember her by. 
 
 But then, she had never thought of leaving so 
 soon! 
 
 At any rate she'd keep him close to her as long 
 as she could. As soon as she had undressed she 
 lifted the baby out of his cradle and took him with 
 her to bed. 
 
 The baby half awoke and grumbled because he 
 had lost the nipple that he was used to go to sleep 
 with. His two little hands fumbled about Made-
 
 NENE 73 
 
 leine's bosom; he bumped his head into it, lips 
 parted and searching. 
 
 Madeleine had stopped crying. She was not 
 quite asleep yet, but her thoughts were wandering 
 away, escaping her to whence she could not call them 
 back. The baby had nestled against her, and as she 
 slipped away into dreamland she still felt the solace 
 of the moist little mouth against her breast. 
 
 Ding! ding! ding! 
 
 With a gurgle like running water the old clock 
 in the corner warned that it was three. 
 
 Madeleine jumped out of bed. In her bare feet, 
 without stopping to clothe herself, she ran to the 
 fireplace and tried to smudge the shining pistols with 
 a greasy cloth, stealthily, like someone doing some- 
 thing wrong. 
 
 No use! At breakfast everybody noticed the 
 harm that had been done. Michael said nothing, 
 but his father flared up angrily : 
 
 "Madeleine, I told you not to do that !" 
 
 Madeleine turned very red and apologised, pre- 
 tending she had forgotten. And, before them all, 
 she humbly let the old man scold her like a silly 
 schoolgirl.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 AS usual, the Corbiers and the Danis, of Chest- 
 nut Hill, had joined forces for the threshing. 
 This year, they were the last of the neighbourhood 
 to thresh. As it was late in the season, they were 
 able to hire the machine and crew cheap; but they 
 saved little because of the usual feasting that termi- 
 nates the year's threshing time. 
 
 It was Saturday, a fast day for the Dissenters but 
 a meat day for the Catholics. So there were two 
 tables set up at the Corbiers' for fear of a row among 
 the tipsy yokels. 
 
 All had gone well at breakfast. The Corbiers had 
 thirty-five men working for them, men of all ages 
 and of various faiths. But as they had been thresh- 
 ing side by side now for more than a month around 
 the countryside, they were used to one another and 
 rarely quarrelled. 
 
 Trooper had been let by his employer, a farmer 
 named Rivard, down the valley. He hadn't 
 touched wine during the whole threshing season. 
 Madeleine, who was afraid he might weaken on this 
 last day, stopped him in the passage : 
 
 "See here, now! No foolishness! I wouldn't 
 like it " 
 
 74
 
 N E N E 75 
 
 He had replied: 
 
 *Tm feeding the threshing machine and I 
 wouldn't like to be fed to it !" 
 
 And since they were alone and he was very fond 
 of this older sister of his, he had gone on frankly : 
 
 "Besides, just to see you helps to keep me straight, 
 big sister. If you'd like, I'll sit beside Samuel the 
 Salvationist at the dinner table, and you can put 
 a pitcher of water between us." 
 
 The tables were set up in the barn to the left of 
 the farm buildings. Madeleine had her kitchen to 
 herself. She had hired for the day an elderly woman 
 to help her, a Dissenter who followed the threshing 
 machine from one farm to another, washing the 
 dishes and carrying wine to the workers, toward eve- 
 ning, when the men began to get a little too forward 
 with the girls. 
 
 Madeleine's two younger sisters had come to help 
 her also: Tiennette and Fridoline; the last more of 
 a red-head than Madeleine, and Tiennette as young 
 and fresh and full of laughter as a shepherdess out 
 of a book. 
 
 Madeleine looked after the children and managed 
 everything. Fridoline took charge of the fasters* 
 table, where there was a great supply of food. She 
 was a good cook and the men didn't bother her much 
 because she didn't have much use for their pleasant- 
 ries; also, perhaps, because she was not particularly 
 good-looking.
 
 76 N E N E 
 
 Tiennette and the old woman had charge of the 
 meat table, which needed much less care; two or 
 three great platters of meat, cooked hit or miss, 
 with water, butter and salt, without measuring or 
 tasting, of course. The old woman hung over the 
 pots, looking like a sourceress who would throw in 
 salt and maledictions together. 
 
 Tiennette had plenty of time and to spare. The 
 kitchen work bothered her far less than the men's 
 teasing. There were six of them who carried the 
 grain sacks ; not all of them good looking, but all as 
 young as herself six boys of eighteen years, who 
 trotted in single file through the passage and up to 
 the loft. Gideon, who was one of them, gave him- 
 self airs of importance because he was one of the 
 household. He showed the others where to empty 
 their sacks and, in passing, stepped into the kitchen 
 to say: 
 
 "The Dathel field has grown big ears all right, 
 but some of the husks are empty." 
 
 "That's too bad," said Madeleine, listening to the 
 wheat running from the sacks up there in the loft, 
 which meant the wealth of the farm. 
 
 Sometimes the lad would tear down stairs breath- 
 lessly and shout in : 
 
 "I'm all done up ! Tiennette ! Tiennette ! Come 
 and help me !" 
 
 "Stupid!" the girl would reply, "if you put your 
 dirty fingers on my collar I'll box your ears."
 
 N E N E 77 
 
 Nevertheless she managed to be standing in the 
 hall, waiting for him to pass by again, with a little 
 air of expectancy. 
 
 "Tiennette, give me a drink." "Tiennette, some- 
 thing's burning in your pots!'* 
 
 "It'll be good enough for you! What table are 
 you going to sit at, you bad boy of a Protestant*?" 
 
 "Me*? At the one where you serve the soup." 
 
 "Of course ! At the meat table, you villain of 
 a Protestant !" 
 
 "Tiennette, day after Carnival I'll eat your 
 cheeks!" 
 
 He teased her with such simple pleasantries, and 
 she pretended to be angry. When they happened 
 to be alone, he kissed her without any ado on her 
 part. 
 
 The other five were scarcely less noisy. They, 
 too, teased Tiennette, but she drove them away with 
 loud protests, and as they were all very young, they 
 did not dare to touch her with their soiled hands. 
 
 Besides, they had their work, and a minute of fool- 
 ing meant five minutes of rushing. 
 
 Time was short. The threshing machine had to 
 swallow some six thousands sheaves that day, and 
 although she was a great eater, there must be no 
 loitering if the work was to be finished before night. 
 
 The feeders at the machine, standing on the nar- 
 row footholds at her sides, pushed the ears in care- 
 fully. Sometimes they threw in whole sheaves,
 
 78 N E N E 
 
 which she ate up with a pleased bark; a short second, 
 and there came from the depths of her long black 
 jaws a rattle of extraordinary satisfaction; then, in- 
 stantly, she began all over again to snarl, to rumble 
 and roar. 
 
 Six men were serving the machine: two who cut 
 the bands and prepared the sheaves, and four feed- 
 ers, who threw the grain into the hopper, each in his 
 turn. In all there were some fifty men. 
 
 The younger men climbed on top of the stack and 
 flung down the sheaves; the strongest among them 
 were at the sacks ; the older men took the slower and 
 more particular work, raking and sorting the broken 
 ears, or were employed at such work as the young 
 fellows avoided on account of the dust. 
 
 To build up the straw stacks there were seven or 
 eight husky lads, proud of their strength. The tos- 
 sers prepared enormous forkfuls for them and when 
 they stuck their forks in and lifted up the load, they 
 were completely hidden under the straw, which 
 seemed to be slowly moving up of its own accord 
 along the long ladders. 
 
 One of them, a tall, dark fellow with a very fine 
 voice, sang uninterruptedly an interminable song of 
 almost similar couplets. The others tried to sing 
 with him, but their voices could not follow his. 
 They preferred to howl a sort of accompaniment 
 from the ladder tops, stopping now and then to 
 shout :
 
 N E N E 79 
 
 "Give us a drink ! A drink !" 
 
 Then Tiennette came and poured out wine for 
 them, and they all found her good to look at, even 
 those whose affections were already engaged. 
 
 It was a great day for drinking. Even the elderly 
 straw-tossers welcomed the bottle and, glass in hand, 
 they told funny stories. Tiennette went from one 
 to the other, gliding between the pitchforks and 
 climbing over the straw, light and nimble as a 
 young white goat. Coming up to the machine, she 
 held up the bottle. 
 
 "Hey there, feeders!" 
 
 But they didn't hear, so absorbed were they in 
 their strenuous task; or else they shook their heads 
 quickly, as much as to say : 
 
 "No, no! Not now!" 
 
 The second time Tiennette came around, Boiseriot 
 and Trooper, whose turn it was to rest, called to 
 her. But Trooper took nothing but a drink of 
 water, and Boiseriot remarked on it : 
 
 "Water? Are you afraid of a glass of wine to- 
 day a man like you*?" 
 
 "I know myself, you see," said Trooper. 
 "After the second glass, I'm inclined to do wild 
 things. When the job's done, I can drink as much 
 as I want. Anyway," he added, pointing at the 
 others, "there'll be enough of them lit up pretty soon, 
 without me." 
 
 When Corbier's crew gathered in the bam for
 
 8o NENE 
 
 the mid-day meal, their joking became at once noisy 
 and rough. The heavy wine flowed fast : Tiennette 
 was kept running to the house for more. 
 
 From the end of the meat table a Gideon called for 
 her ten times oftener than anybody else, and she 
 never failed to hear his voice above the others. 
 
 "Tiennette, listen!" 
 
 Once he leaned over and said something in her 
 ear. At that moment Samuel, the one whom they 
 called the Salvationist, a man in the forties, who sat 
 opposite at the other table, touched Tiennette's arm 
 and said in a low, very polite voice : 
 
 "Mademoiselle, will you be good enough to fill 
 this pitcher with water*?" 
 
 Irritated, she repeated loudly : 
 
 "Fill this pitcher with water ! hey, here's one of a 
 new kind ! He wants water !" 
 
 Everybody laughed and Gideon shouted: 
 
 "He isn't a man; he's a duck!" 
 
 Samuel turned scarlet. 
 
 "You're insulting, young man," said he. "I in- 
 sult nobody. I'm merely living up to my convic- 
 tions Besides, if your education hadn't been 
 neglected, you'd know that wine " 
 
 Heedless of his surroundings, he turned his feeble 
 frame around on the bench and launched an address, 
 punctuated by lean gestures a sermon such as are 
 heard at temperance meetings. 
 
 At first there was silence, as they didn't know
 
 NENE 81 
 
 what to make of his talk; but soon they began to 
 jeer at him. 
 
 Another one of those queer fellows this Samuel, 
 they thought. Wasn't he trying to tell them that 
 it was a sin to drink wine"? 
 
 Gideon shouted again, delighted with his joke : 
 
 "He's a duck !" And when Tiennette brought the 
 pitcher of water he took it excitedly out of her hand 
 and, pouring a glassful, said: "There, duckling! 
 Stick your bill in that !" 
 
 Taking no notice of the insolence, Samuel raised 
 his glass: 
 
 "I drink the water of Redemption " 
 
 Gusts of laughter drowned the rest of his speech. 
 Gideon, still holding the water-pitcher, yelled: 
 
 "Don't spare it, old man, if it does you any 
 good!" 
 
 At the Dissenter's table, some one disapproved of 
 the boy's behaviour. Corbier motioned to him to 
 keep still. 
 
 Samuel kept on talking. Above the general noise, 
 bits of sentences, fragments of Bible quotations 
 stood out : 
 
 "There are those who shall weep. They have 
 eyes but they see not. Verily I say unto 
 you " 
 
 At the meat table, a Protestant argued : 
 
 "That doesn't make sense. It is not what enters 
 the body that sullies the soul."
 
 82 N E N E 
 
 "That's your idea," Boiseriot answered, "but 
 everybody isn't of your faith." 
 
 "No," added another Catholic, "a man's a Chris- 
 tian or he isn't. We have priests to lead us, and 
 all we have to do is follow them. Some folks live 
 like the animals " 
 
 The Protestant shrugged his shoulders and cut off 
 a slice of pork; he had ceased to believe very deeply 
 in anything, so these discussions seemed silly to him. 
 But the reply came like a shot from the Dissenters' 
 table. 
 
 "That's it ! Just follow the shepherd, even if he 
 leads you to a rotten pasture ! Who lives like the 
 animals'?" 
 
 Immediately the two sides stared at each other 
 with eyes full of hate, the old men as well as the 
 young. The meal ended in a row. The Dissenter 
 who had spoken shouted to Boiseriot and his com- 
 panion : 
 
 "Will you come outside?" 
 
 The women had come running toward the barn 
 and stood at the entrance, trembling with apprehen- 
 sion. Fortunately no one was drunk yet ; so it didn't 
 come to anything worse than words, so far. 
 
 Trooper was one of the calmest of the lot. He 
 argued quietly: 
 
 "The Salvationist is right he stands up for his 
 ideas. Everybody's free to do as he likes. If he 
 wants to drink water, let him. Wine is both good
 
 N E N E 83 
 
 and bad. It warms a man, and then it burns him. 
 He says he doesn't want to poison himself; I agree 
 with him!" 
 
 While arguing thus, he poured down several 
 bumpers and little by little the wine whipped up his 
 nerves. Madeleine kept her eyes on him, but she 
 did not want to warn him in the presence of the 
 other men. She was watching Michael also, for she 
 knew he was headstrong, very proud, and harsh in 
 religious discussions. He said not a word, because 
 they were at his house, but he was pale and his jaws 
 were set. 
 
 "They're sure to come to blows!" said the old 
 serving woman. 
 
 And as she was familiar with this sort of scene, 
 she went along between the two tables, calling to 
 this one and that: 
 
 "Keep still, you fool! Eat your meat, there, 
 and then drink!" 
 
 At his end of the table Samuel, with eyes aflame, 
 kept on preaching. He had stood up to make him- 
 self better heard, flinging anathemas right and left, 
 mixing up everything: the curse of alcohol and the 
 blood of Christ, Babylon and the distillers. 
 
 The old serving woman gripped his hands, hold- 
 ing them down: 
 
 "Keep still ! you're a bigger fool than the rest of 
 them, do you hear^" 
 
 But nothing could stop him; and Gideon, who at
 
 84 N E N E 
 
 first had laughed at him to the point of tears, being 
 one of those who always laugh at such things, now 
 became angry and threatened to stop the preacher's 
 mouth with his fist. Hadn't he spoken of the loose- 
 ness of youth, pointing his finger at him and Tien- 
 nette? 
 
 At last the engineer, seeing the turn things were 
 taking, hurried out, and an imperious whistle pierced 
 the bedlam. 
 
 Suddenly calmed, they went out and followed the 
 machine to Chestnut Hill. 
 
 On the little threshing floor at Daru's place, 
 ringed about by the farm buildings, the heat became 
 intolerable. There was not a breath of air; a thick 
 dust settled on the men. Samuel, whose job it was 
 to receive the grain behind the winnowing machine, 
 had disappeared from sight in a cloud of dust. 
 
 One of the feeders, a tall, lean youth, fell in a 
 faint; he was carried out into the shade and the 
 feeders whose turn of rest it was threw water in 
 his face. 
 
 The work was progressing slowly and in silence 
 now; only that devil of a straw passer kept on sing- 
 ing. 
 
 Then Daru made the round with an armful of bot- 
 tles, shouting: 
 
 "Come on, fellows, have some muscadet !" 
 
 Behind him came the women with more of the 
 wine. Daru went on:
 
 N E N E 85 
 
 "Taste it; this isnt dealer's wine! My brother- 
 in-law sends it to me from the Vendee. But go light 
 on it: it's tricky!" 
 
 The workers, stupid with the heat, poured down 
 this delightful little white wine as if it were tenth 
 rate claret. Dam took alarm and cautioned the 
 women : 
 
 "That's enough, take it away, or they won't finish 
 their work." 
 
 The women went away, taking along the half 
 emptied bottles. They passed through the barn 
 where Boiseriot and Trooper, exhausted and black 
 of face, were lolling on the cool earthen floor. Bois- 
 eriot tasted the wine. 
 
 "Here," said he, "that's the right stuff!" 
 
 The women left them a full bottle. Trooper 
 drank and smacked his lips. 
 
 "Yes ! it picks a fellow up, this does !" 
 
 His head was hot and he laughed with content- 
 ment, bottle in hand, instantly rested. 
 
 "By golly, Boiseriot ! Samuel is a poor specimen 
 of a liar; wine is better than water! I've a good 
 mind to finish the bottle." 
 
 The man looked at him sideways with his guileful 
 eyes: 
 
 "Finish the bottle! You're not up to it! It 
 would knock you over." 
 
 Trooper fell into the trap; he couldn't pass by 
 such a challenge from a Catholic !
 
 86 N E N E 
 
 "Go along!" he said, disdainfully, "I'm not a 
 weakling, I could drink ten bottles . . . like this, 
 see!" 
 
 He stretched himself flat on his back and, hold- 
 ing the bottle high, let the wine gurgle slowly down 
 his throat. 
 
 "Oof! It's gone! Did you see?" 
 
 Boiseriot got on his feet. Being called back to 
 the machine just then, they returned to their posts. 
 
 The noise had begun again. The straw passers 
 howled boisterously. Others were calling to each 
 other in harsh tones. Two of the older men were 
 having a quarrel : it had started with a religious dis- 
 cussion, and now they were digging up old and 
 buried differences. They hurled insults at each other 
 and would have come to blows if there had been 
 time. 
 
 At the feeding shelf Trooper was handling the 
 sheaves with quick movements. The fumes of the 
 wine had begun to muddle his head. He had thrown 
 away his cap; the sun, beating down on his head, 
 finished the confusion of his brain. 
 
 The machine stopped, choked off. Trooper had 
 thrown two tangled sheaves into it, at one thrust. 
 
 All around mocking laughter arose, and shouts of 
 derision. Trooper, busy cleaning the maws of the 
 thresher, straightened with an oath, ready for a 
 quarrel. Seeing this, the others mocked him only 
 the louder, using their hands as megaphones.
 
 N E N E 87 
 
 "It's the big one ! Booh ! Booh !" 
 
 Four Catholics called down from above, to egg 
 him on : 
 
 "Trooper, you're losing your belt! Trooper, 
 you're wanted in the kitchen! Go and wipe the 
 kids' noses ! That's all you're fit for !" 
 
 Boiseriot laughed as he pulled out the final fist- 
 fuls of straw. At last the thresher began to turn 
 again. 
 
 Trooper was white with rage. He had heard some 
 one say, near the winnower : "The little fellow feeds 
 better!" and to his muddled mind this calm state- 
 ment was a greater insult than the mockery of the 
 men up there, stacking the straw. 
 
 "I don't think so : the big one can put it all over 
 him, shoving in the straw." 
 
 All around the winnower they were now discussing 
 the work of these two. The discussion soon involved 
 everybody and the old rivalry came to the fore again, 
 the Catholics supporting Boiseriot, the Dissenters 
 Trooper. 
 
 The two men, hearing all this, no longer looked at 
 each other. Bent over the feeding shelf, they worked 
 furiously. Boiseriot was the more skilful ; he threw 
 out his hands with the agility of a cat. Every one 
 of his thrusts was precise, sent the straw just far 
 enough so it could be caught by the machine. He 
 wasn't even sweating; with his cap drawn over his 
 ears, he did not seem to be at all aware of the heat.
 
 88 N E N E 
 
 Trooper worked as if he were fighting. Rage 
 dominated him, the drunken rage of his nights of 
 dissipation. The blood had rushed to his head, 
 driving out all his normal instincts, which were gen- 
 tle and sensible. His jaw set, his eyes wild, he 
 shook all over with an uncontrolled fury against 
 Boiseriot, against the Catholics, against the machine, 
 against the straw, against everything ! Throwing his 
 whole weight forward, he swept the shelf with 
 wrathful arms. 
 
 "The little fellow feeds better! By golly, I'll 
 show them ! Damn them !" 
 
 He shouted: 
 
 "Bring on the sheaves ! Bring 'em on !" 
 
 The band cutters pushed the sheaves toward him, 
 and he, with every ounce of his strength, thrust his 
 great arms at the gaping maw 
 
 "Ha-a-a!" 
 
 There was a cracking of bones. The engineer 
 jumped wild-eyed to the control lever to stop the 
 machine. All the workers, whether singing or quar- 
 relling, those on the stacks, those on the ladders, 
 those at the sheaves, all stood stock still, hands 
 raised high, a cry of terror strangled in their throats. 
 
 On the hopper shelf lay Trooper, face down; the 
 machine had bitten off one of his arms.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THEY had taken him to the hospital where they 
 had cut away all that the machine had left of 
 his right arm. When he had recovered consciousness 
 he had said to the doctors : 
 
 VYou'd have done better to finish me off You 
 don't think I'm going to go on living like this*?" 
 
 For three days after, he had led them a terrible 
 dance, yelling savagely and without once stopping: 
 
 "I'll kill myself ! I'll kill myself !" 
 
 But these evil thoughts left him when his tem~ 
 perature came down ; now he was a very meek, very 
 gentle patient, who wasn't getting well quickly, how- 
 ever, because his spirits were so crushed. The fright- 
 ful wound had almost drained him of his blood. He 
 lay there, as white as the sheets, and when he raised 
 his head his blue eyes rolled in their sockets from 
 weakness. 
 
 His mother had come to see him, as had his sister 
 Fridoline, and his employer, Rivard. But these first 
 visits had so exhausted him that the doctors had 
 given orders to admit no one else. However, on the 
 second Saturday they let Madeleine pass in and a 
 nurse led her along the corridors whose unbroken 
 whiteness sent a chill through her. Madeleine 
 stepped softly behind the silent nurse and mumbled : 
 
 89
 
 90 N E N E 
 
 "It's a house of death Poor big brother, how 
 I wish you were out of here !" 
 
 When the nurse had shown her into the patient's 
 room, she felt on the point of fainting. He had 
 quickly drawn up the sheet to hide his mutilated 
 shoulder and his eyes tried to smile at her from out 
 his bloodless face. 
 
 She kissed him and for a long moment they looked 
 at each other in silence. Then, in an effort to keep 
 down the wave of feeling that threatened to over- 
 come her, she said: 
 
 "I think you're looking fine, considering You'll 
 soon be all right again, Trooper." 
 
 He repeated very gently : 
 
 "Sister, call me John. Ever since I was a little 
 shaver I've been called by that boastful nickname 
 because I was so big and strong; but now my strength 
 is gone and it'll never come back. I'm not complain- 
 ing; it's my own fault." 
 
 "Not at all ! It isn't your fault. What is to be 
 will be things are written a long time ahead." 
 
 "Yes you're a good soul. You are the best of 
 them all If you could stay here I'd get well 
 sooner." 
 
 With his left hand, which had grown white and 
 thin, he took one of hers and played with her fingers. 
 
 A little colour came into his cheeks; he looked as 
 if he were hunting for the right words to frame a 
 daring request.
 
 NENE 91 
 
 "Madeleine, I want to tell you something I've 
 been waiting for you so impatiently and I'm glad 
 you came just to-day There's something I want 
 to say to you that I couldn't say to anybody else 
 Madeleine, at Chantepie there's a girl whom I've 
 loved with all my heart for a long time." 
 
 "Violette, the dressmaker? Were you thinking I 
 didn't know it?" 
 
 "Yes, Violette a tall girl, with eyes just the re- 
 verse of yours." 
 
 Madeleine laughed. 
 
 "A pretty girl, then! But you needn't tell me 
 what she's like; I know her. I saw her two years 
 ago, at the Chantepie fair." 
 
 He fell back into despondency. 
 
 "It's two years to-morrow, as you say since I 
 spoke to her for the first time. I was to go there 
 again this year, to the fair, and she was to look for 
 me. She loves me a lot, and I know she's worrying 
 herself sick about me now. Madeleine, I want her 
 to know how much I've been thinking of her on my 
 bed of pain." 
 
 "But don't you see, I couldn't possibly manage 
 to go to Chantepie, on account of the children at 
 home." 
 
 "I've thought of that I've asked the nurse 
 politely for a sheet of note paper and she gave me 
 one. Here it is."
 
 92 N E N E 
 
 He hunted under his bolster and handed to Made- 
 leine a pencil and a crumpled envelop. 
 
 "Please put it down that she's not to worry that 
 if I could only know that she's in good health and 
 spirits, it would be balm to my heart." 
 
 Madeleine had taken the pencil, but she turned 
 her eyes away so that her brother might not see the 
 pity that had welled up in them. 
 
 Poor fellow! How he loved this Catholic girl 
 whom Madeleine and her mother distrusted! She 
 was far from worrying! She hadn't even once in- 
 quired about him, and if the accident to her be- 
 trothed had given her a shock, she certainly hadn't 
 shown it. 
 
 As if this mutilation wasn't enough, nor the 
 wretchedness against which he would now have to 
 struggle all his life long! On top of all he'd 
 have to carry a heavy heart, too! How difficult 
 life was! 
 
 "Poor big brother ! You ought not to tire your- 
 self thinking such things . . . Wait a few days 
 When you're stronger." 
 
 But he said with a pleading look : 
 
 "No, Madeleine! right away, please! Here, 
 take this tray to write on, so I can watch you do 
 it." 
 
 She placed the paper where he wanted it and 
 began, submitting every sentence to him. 
 
 "My dear Violette :
 
 N E N E 93 
 
 "I cannot write you with my own hand oil account 
 of the calamity which has fallen on me. I am hav- 
 ing these words set down for me by a serious person 
 from whom we need not fear any gossip. Violette, 
 I have suffered very much, but I have always had 
 you before my eyes, even when it was worst." 
 
 "Say that I'm counting on us getting married 
 soon. The Insurance Company will pay me an in- 
 come that's what the doctor says and as soon as 
 I'm on my feet again I'll get a Government job." 
 
 "Oh! That's good news," said Madeleine; "I'm 
 right glad. Then I'll put down : 'I think we'll have 
 a-plenty for getting our household things with 
 what ' " 
 
 "No! no! don't say that! I don't want you to 
 tell her Just say that I haven't changed my mind." 
 
 So she wrote : 
 
 "My intentions toward you are the same, for my 
 heart will never change. If you like, we can be 
 married right soon " 
 
 She added, however: 
 
 " as soon as I am able to earn my own living 
 and yours, which will not be long, you may hope 
 and trust." 
 
 They finished the letter with this : 
 
 "My dear Violette, I don't want you to grieve on 
 my account. To-morrow is the day of the Chantepie 
 Fair : I want you to go out as usual. If I could know 
 that you were laughing and having a good time with
 
 94 N E N E 
 
 the other girls of your age, I should be very glad. 
 
 "My dear Violette, you can write to me by the 
 name of John Clarandeau, at the hospital. I kiss 
 you in thought as I kissed you the first time, two 
 years ago to-morrow, the day of the Fair at your 
 place. And I sign myself " 
 
 He took the pencil and traced his name labour- 
 iously, stopping at each letter. Then his head fell 
 back on the pillow, still paler for the exertion. 
 
 Madeleine wrote the address: 
 
 "To Mademoiselle, 
 Mademoiselle Violette Ouvrard, 
 
 Dressmaker at Chantepie." 
 
 "Put 'personal' so that the postman won't give it 
 to anybody else That's right . . . Thank you. 
 Now don't forget to put it in the box right away. 
 I'm real glad you came to-day!" 
 
 The nurse opened the door : 
 
 "There's too much talking in here; that's enough 
 for to-day." 
 
 "You're right," said Madeleine, "I'm going. I'll 
 come again." 
 
 As she went out he called to her again, his whole 
 being in upheaval: 
 
 "Don't forget now! as soon as you're out- 
 side " 
 
 Madeleine mailed the poor letter without delay 
 and it got to Chantepie on Sunday morning, as it 
 should.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 VIOLETTE was sewing at her mother's house. 
 She was making a waist to wear at the Fair, 
 with the model before her, in a catalogue from 
 Paris. 
 
 This year, the city fashion demanded a rather low 
 neckline; and Violette was trying to impose it on 
 the village of Chantepie, where some of the girls 
 were very dressy. 
 
 For herself she had chosen an extreme model, cut 
 in a low point in front. Still, she hesitated to cut 
 so boldly into the goods. 
 
 The postman opened the door: 
 
 "Mademoiselle Violette! 'personal/ A love let- 
 ter, my pretty !" 
 
 She did not reply, merely looking at the curious 
 address, penciled in a strange handwriting. 
 
 As soon as the postman had gone she tore the 
 envelope open. At the first lines, something like pity 
 came into her eyes for the handsome young fellow 
 whose love had flattered her vanity and who was now 
 damaged forever. 
 
 But it was only a flicker. Behind her red lip a 
 sharp tooth gleamed. Would she go out? Would 
 she go to the Fair with the other girls'? Really now, 
 
 95
 
 96 NENE 
 
 what a fool he was ! It was getting to be ridiculous ! 
 She shook her brown head, bristling with curl 
 papers, and mumbled: 
 
 "For one that's lost there'll be two found." 
 And as, at the age of twenty, she was experienced \ 
 in the ways of men and knew full well what bait 
 they liked best, she bent over the basted blouse and, 
 with two strokes of the scissors, cut a deeper V than . 
 the one in the catalogue.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 AT the Moulinettes, the accident on threshing 
 day had spread a veil of sadness over every- 
 body. When Madeleine gave news of her brother 
 to the farm folk and the neighbours who came to in- 
 quire, a deep pity rang through the words they 
 exchanged. 
 
 Even Boiseriot turned pale at such times, and 
 although he had witnessed the accident he disliked 
 to tell about it. But he was too fundamentally evil 
 to have a clean heart about it ; his pity was nothing 
 more than a skein of thread tangled all over a thorn 
 bush. Perhaps he felt a vague remorse, or rather 
 the fear of having committed a sin so grievous that 
 no amount of penance could free him of it; hi any 
 case there was a sense of satisfied vengeance mingled 
 with the other. 
 
 The doctor still encouraged Trooper's hopes about 
 the Insurance Company's payment to him and the 
 Government job he would get when he would be 
 on his feet again. Madeleine never doubted that 
 these promises were on the point of fulfillment and 
 talked freely about it. But Michael struck a note 
 of skepticism very gently and cautiously, so as not 
 to sadden her prematurely. 
 
 97
 
 98 N E N E 
 
 "He drank a whole bottle just before going back 
 to the machine. It's a known fact and they'll 
 make the most of it. As for a Government job " 
 
 He made a vague motion of the hand, not wishing 
 to speak out before Boiseriot who, being on the 
 priests' side, did not vote for Michael's side at elec- 
 tions. 
 
 Madeleine listened, surprised at the unusual gen- 
 tleness of his manner and speech. She felt instinc- 
 tively that he talked to her in this way so as to avoid 
 shocking her sorrow, and she was grateful to him 
 for it. 
 
 She was grateful, too, for his considerateness, his 
 eagerness to arrange for her trips to the hospital hi 
 town. He had said to her : 
 
 "Any time you feel like going to see your brother, 
 just go and never mind about the work." 
 
 Michael was no longer the moody young master 
 with the hard and restless eyes. His passionate out- 
 burst had quite passed over and he talked now like 
 a good, sensible comrade with a calm, even temper. 
 
 Madeleine liked him better this way. And in 
 spite of his words that she could not forget, there 
 still lived in her heart a quiet hope that fanned it 
 like a lazy summer breeze following after a devastat- 
 ing storm. Later who could tell 1 ? the thing she 
 must not even think of for the present might come to 
 pass, bit by bit. 
 
 She said to herself:
 
 N E N E 99 
 
 "And to think that I was going to leave like a 
 stubborn fool ! If I'd run off like that, right away, 
 without thinking, where would I be now*? What 
 would I do without Lalie and Jo*? I'm sure I 
 couldn't get used to doing without them." 
 
 Her affection for the children had, indee3, grown 
 wonderfully vigilant. 
 
 She was fond of her mother, of her sister, of 
 Michael she was quite overcome by her brother's 
 calamity. On the other hand there were those 
 whom she detested or distrusted. Pictures sweet or 
 sad came to her mind and passed away, following 
 each other like travellers at an inn. But for Lalie 
 and Jo the table was always set. Theirs was the 
 softest, warmest corner, stuffed with fine wool, 
 and never, never should they leave it ! 
 
 She herself was amazed at it. 
 
 "My darlings, you give me a lot of trouble and 
 yet there's none but you !" 
 
 Whether she was in the house with them, or at her 
 washing, or at chapel, her mind was always busy 
 thinking up things for them. 
 
 "I'll put a blue ribbon in Lalie's hair . . . She's 
 pale; she's growing too fast; I'll make some rust- 
 water to pick her up. Jo likes to hit me on the 
 head. I'll play with him a quarter of an hour 
 every morning . . . I'll just get up a little 
 earlier." 
 
 She wanted them to be as happy as if their
 
 ioo NENE 
 
 mother were alive. Her love for them made her 
 clever and ingenious. She who could only do coarse 
 knitting had learned a pretty crochet stitch and made 
 for each of them a warm sweater of blue wool, for 
 winter. 
 
 On Sundays she dressed Lalie's doll and made 
 whips of braided strips of birchbark for the baby, or 
 else little rush chairs. She also taught Lalie her 
 prayers and the names of the days and counting on 
 her fingers. 
 
 The little girl never left her any more than her 
 own shadow. Jo, too, tried his best to follow her 
 around; if she left him behind in the barnyard or 
 in the garden, he caught up with her on the door- 
 step and jumped at her skirts with a yell that he 
 meant to scare her. 
 
 He was a little slow in learning to talk. He was 
 always trying to say everything at once and when 
 he came to a difficult word, he got all mixed up, 
 either bursting out laughing or stamping his feet in 
 a temper, just as he happened to feel. 
 
 He could say 'papa' and 'Lalie,' but 'Madeleine' 
 was too long for him even to attempt. But one day 
 he began to call out: "Nene Nene Nene!" 
 
 Madeleine lifted him to the height of her face in 
 a burst of gladness. And then, all at once, a thought 
 came to her; a cruel thought that drove the blood 
 from her heart. Nene ! It was indeed the abbrevia-
 
 NENE 101 
 
 tion of her name, but it was also an abbreviation of 
 another name to which she was not entitled. 
 
 At Chantepie as at Saint-Ambroise and all about, 
 "Nene" was short for marraine, or godmother. It 
 was the everyday word, used by young and old alike. 
 
 Jo's real 'Nene' was Georgette, Michael's sister- 
 in-law, whose name was never mentioned in the 
 house and whose place Madeleine had taken. 
 
 "Nene! Nene!" 
 
 The name stirred Madeleine as did that other 
 name that was too sweet and forbidden. It gave her 
 the same rapture, and she hugged the child to her 
 breast passionately. 
 
 "I don't know, my baby Jo, if I ought to let you 
 say that." 
 
 That very evening she spoke to old Corbier, not 
 daring to speak about it to Michael. 
 
 'There's something on my mind it's about the 
 baby. He's calling me 'Nene,' the darling. ... I 
 don't know if you'll like it, nor his father either. 
 ... If you don't maybe I can make him say my 
 name some other way." 
 
 She was sitting in a dark corner and the old man 
 could not see her anxious face nor her eyes brim- 
 ming with tears; but he felt the quaver in her voice 
 and answered soothingly : 
 
 "You're worrying over a trifle, my dear girl. 
 What does it matter whether you're 'Nene' or 
 'Madeleine"? If you are good to him that's all that
 
 102 N E N E 
 
 matters, and when he's grown he'll know how you 
 took the place of the other two." 
 
 "That's my highest hope I'm not asking for 
 more!" she said, and ran away. 
 
 From that day on she was Nene for Jo, and for 
 Lalie too. 
 
 All day long the name rang out, and it brought 
 a breath of sweetness into the house. The baby 
 lips gave it a caressing sound, like the twitter of a 
 bird. They called it out in joy as in trouble. It 
 grew to be the last resort and appeal to a protector 
 who was infinitely strong and infinitely kind. 
 
 Michael had made no objection; he even fell into 
 saying, when Lalie pestered him with questions: 
 
 "Don't bother me; ask Nene." 
 
 For this Madeleine forgave him quite all of his 
 past harshness. 
 
 She felt that she wasn't treated as a servant, hum- 
 ble girl that she was, used to hiring out her arms here 
 and there, as need befell, among the tillers of the 
 soil. By the grace of the children she had become 
 the active soul of the house, the one who watched 
 and held all together. 
 
 Michael no longer thought of protesting. Though 
 the picture of Marguerite was always within him, 
 alive and unconquered, another picture was there 
 too now, and growing from day to day, so that he 
 felt himself held in a grip that was at once firm and 
 gentle.
 
 N E N E 103 
 
 Winter had come with its long, empty evenings. 
 Boiseriot went to bed early, and Gideon was gad- 
 ding about at the young people's parties in the vil- 
 lages round about. 
 
 Old man Corbier went to sleep in his arm chair 
 right after supper, so that Michael was left to sit 
 up alone with his housekeeper. 
 
 His physical agitation had quieted down and 
 those bad dreams were no more troubling him. He 
 looked with calmness at Madeleine as she sat sew- 
 ing under the lamp, with the light full on the blonde 
 nape of her neck. Sometimes she worked away at 
 the spinning wheel, after lowering the lamp, for 
 economy. They talked very little ; no sound but the 
 hum of the spindle. Now and then Madeleine got 
 up and tip-toed to the cradle. And in a minute the 
 wheel was turning again. 
 
 Michael thought: 
 
 "Women, nowadays, whether mistress or maid, 
 don't find time for spinning. Maybe they don't 
 want to. They aren't brave as they used to be; my 
 father says they aren't, and so do the other old fel- 
 lows. That's their way of getting back at the young 
 ones, but perhaps they are right, all the same. A 
 thrifty woman means a good deal to a household 
 everything to mine. She's like a spring shower on 
 a dry meadow. If my house had remained disorgan- 
 ised as it was, before long my children would have 
 gone to ruin. I must consider them. . . . They're
 
 104 NENE 
 
 as sheltered as chicks in a warming pan. . . . It's 
 got to keep on like this. Life isn't just the pleasures 
 of youth. I'm past thirty; and that's the age of 
 reason. 
 
 "If I were to make up my mind, it wouldn't be 
 anything like the first time. Then I was twenty-four 
 and the world shone like a lighted chapel . . . Now 
 all the candles are out! Still, a man must go 
 trudging on. You can't always have a brush fire^ 
 to warm your hands by a little heap of embersy 
 helps to pass the evening. If I were to make up my 
 mind I might be doing a right and sensible thing."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 AT Christmas Boiseriot went to confession. He 
 went to the parish priest at St.-Ambroise who 
 was known to lead in the fight against the Dissent- 
 ers. After confessing the ordinary trifles, he came 
 to the things that really mattered ; but, for prudence, 
 he poured them all out in a bunch, very quickly, 
 without details. The priest did not press him. 
 
 He wasn't a bad man, this parish priest, but 
 overzealous and too eager to bring back to the fold 
 all these Dissenters who were, after all, only the very 
 best strayed sheep. 
 
 His penitent, who accused himself of wanting to 
 marry a Dissenter for he was careful to say 
 "marry" did not seem to him very guilty. It 
 might mean another one won over, another one to be 
 baptised solemnly, one Sunday in the month of 
 Mary. As for having been a little quarrelsome, for 
 the glory of the Church, on threshing day, and hav- 
 ing wished evil on one of her detractors, that showed 
 hotheadedness, no doubt, but also a fine, firm faith. 
 
 So Boiseriot left the confessional all straightened 
 out, and went back to the Moulinettes as ha'ppy as 
 a first communicant. 
 
 Madeleine had also gone to St.-Ambroise that day 
 105
 
 io6 NENE 
 
 She had brought back, for Lalie and Jo, a couple of 
 oranges and a loaf of baker's bread. Coming in, 
 Boiseriot saw the basket standing open on the table ; 
 impudently, he cornered Madeleine in the hall : 
 
 "Stupid, save your pennies, anyhow ! You could 
 buy a whole bushel of oranges and a bagful of short- 
 bread for his kids, that wouldn't get him to make 
 you the real mistress of the house in the eyes of the 
 world! Listen! If you'd only " 
 
 She cut him short by pushing him out of doors. 
 But he came back to his point on the following days. 
 He found ways of cornering her in the barn, in the 
 lean-to, even in the house; and more than once she 
 was thankful for being so strong that she had noth- 
 ing to fear from a weakling like him. 
 
 One Sunday in January he met her on the road to 
 St.-Ambroise and walked along with her. The road 
 was straight and dotted with people on their way 
 to mass or to rosary prayers. She did not want to 
 push him out of her way in sight of so many neigh- 
 bours and therefore had to listen to his vile pro- 
 posals and his threats. She'd yield to him or he'd 
 set all the young fellows of the countryside on her 
 ajid who'd defend her now that her brother was 
 crippled? 
 
 As soon as they were out of sight of the others 
 along the road, she drove him away, throwing stones 
 at him. 
 
 From that day on he cooked up his revenge.
 
 N E N E 107 
 
 He thought Gideon would be a perfect tool for 
 his evil work and he began moulding the boy's mind 
 to his purpose, furbishing it, whetting it like a prun- 
 ing hook. 
 
 Gideon, like himself, was hired up to the first of 
 March. Boiseriot had agreed to stay on another 
 year, but the boy had not yet renewed his contract 
 with Corbier and likely he'd be leaving in a few 
 weeks. He wanted a hundred francs increase for 
 the coming year and Michael was not disposed 
 to give him as much as that. Gideon was 
 neither very handy nor, above all, very biddable. 
 While he did what he was told to do, he was never 
 in a hurry about it and his first impulse was to do 
 the reverse of what he was told. Moreover, while 
 he wasn't exactly lazy, still he lost a lot of time 
 dawdling, his youthful mind finding a thousand 
 things of interest by the wayside. 
 
 Boiseriot began to rouse him against Michael hi 
 a round-about way, so the boy wouldn't see his 
 purpose. 
 
 When Michael grumbled because some piece of 
 work was badly done, Boiseriot would say to 
 Gideon : 
 
 "Let him do it himself he'll see if it is easy!" 
 or "Aren't you getting sick of it yet? For my part, 
 I've never let anybody pester me about the way I do 
 my work. You don't like it? All right! Good-
 
 io8 N E N E 
 
 bye ! If I were you I'd get out of here the minute 
 my time was up." 
 
 Gideon had received many a worse scolding with- 
 out bearing Corbier any grudge for it; but, feeling 
 the lash of the whip, he burst out : 
 
 "Gosh darn it ! sure, I'm going to get out ! And 
 I'll be jiggered if I'm ever sorry I quit!" 
 
 Boiseriot nodded approvingly: 
 
 "And it's saying no more than the truth, poor 
 boy he's led you a pretty rotten life !" 
 
 When he was satisfied that Gideon had quite made 
 up his mind to leave, he began to talk about Made- 
 leine. 
 
 "With Lent coming, when the beasts are better fed 
 than the men, it's a good idea to change cooks. This 
 one here, she eats the pork and leaves us the cab- 
 bage." 
 
 He made the boy laugh with funny remarks about 
 her. With that big bosom of hers, she must have 
 smothered all her lovers . . . 
 
 "No ... not all, though! . . . She's still got 
 one left . . ." 
 
 "And who's that*?" asked the boy, turning from 
 his work the better to listen. 
 
 "Well, now ... I guess you're too young to 
 hear such things." 
 
 Between his teeth he added, pretending to be 
 scandalised :
 
 NENE 109 
 
 "It's a shame and a disgrace . . . such goings- 
 on! . . ." 
 
 But Gideon couldn't be set against Madeleine so 
 easily, for several reasons. 
 
 When Boiseriot at last spat out the worst of his 
 insinuations, the lad protested loudly : 
 
 "No! That isn't true! You're trying to be 
 funny!" 
 
 "It isn't just hearsay I've seen it myself, I tell 
 you!" 
 
 It took him several days to convince the boy. 
 Finally, one afternoon, Boiseriot thought he had 
 him where he wanted him. 
 
 They had been hard at work all day and, this 
 being a fast day, the soup was very thin. Moreover, 
 Michael had stormed at Gideon while they were at 
 table. When the two farm-hands went back to their 
 work of cutting down a thorny hedge, Gideon began 
 to voice his resentment more loudly than usual. 
 
 Boiseriot let him go on and then launched his 
 scheme. First he recounted everything, Corbier's 
 reprimands, the long weeks of Lenten fasting, the 
 sinful goings-on in the house, ending up, with a 
 laugh : 
 
 "Really now they deserve to have the neigh- 
 bours sicced on them !" 
 
 "I'm for it, damn it all ! I'm game if you are." 
 
 The boy's words were mere bravado; but the man 
 took him up instantly:
 
 no NENE 
 
 "Oh, I'm too old for that kind of fun." 
 
 That put Gideon, who was by no means slow- 
 witted, on his guard. Boiseriot continued in a low 
 voice, without looking up : 
 
 "Besides, I'm going to stay here while you're 
 going away in ten days or so. All you need to do is 
 tell the boys of your age what's going on here ; they'll 
 jump at the chance of having some fun, now that 
 the season for your evening parties is over. When 
 I was your age I took part in a great mobbing once. 
 That was at Chantepie: a cobbler who'd played 
 truant with another man's wife. Ten or twelve of 
 us got around to his door every evening and raised 
 a devil of a racket with old kettles, tin pans, buckets, 
 anything. We forced him out of the neighborhood, 
 all right! I never laughed so much in my life! 
 Everybody was on our side. It'll be just the same 
 here. It's wrong to let such doings pass without 
 punishment, and it's up to you young fellows to 
 stop them." 
 
 Gideon shook his head: 
 
 "No, no, it's none of my business. Besides, 
 there's the family to think of " 
 
 "What family? The Clarandeaus? Fine family 
 that is! Don't you know anything at all? The 
 youngest girl who was here for the threshing last 
 year haven't you heard what's being said *? She's 
 even worse than her sister here, though she's nothing 
 but a kid in years "
 
 NENE 111 
 
 Gideon, who had been hacking away at a haw- 
 thorn with his priming-hook, stopped stock still: 
 
 "That's a lie!" 
 
 So anxious was Boiseriot to clinch the matter that 
 he took no notice of the boy's angry tone and ges- 
 ture, but went on: 
 
 "A lie*? Ask the boys at St.-Ambroise who 
 trailed her into the Beaufrene woods, a week ago 
 last Sunday " 
 
 "What's that you say, Boiseriot? Just you say 
 that again " 
 
 Carried away by the flood of his hate, Boiseriot 
 could not stop. 
 
 "Yes, in the Beaufrene woods! and again last 
 Sunday, at the same place, there were four of them 
 with her! Hey, there! what's come over you, 
 idiot?" 
 
 For Gideon had thrown away his pruning-hook 
 and jumped at him. 
 
 "You damn cur, you! I'll teach you to invent 
 such lies! Tiennette, eh? Both those Sundays, 
 after prayers, she went a little way out on the Val- 
 ley road and sat down by the roadside, and I was 
 there with her, if you want to know !" 
 
 Boiseriot tried to get away, but Gideon pushed 
 him backward into the hedge. Holding him down 
 with one hand, he belaboured him with the other, 
 on which he was wearing a heavy leather glove; all 
 the while yelling, with tears of wrath :
 
 112 NENE 
 
 "Take that and that! So much for your 
 dirty lies! Is that so*? Tiennettee was in the 
 Beaufrene woods, was she, you filthy liar*? The 
 master lives in sin with his housekeeper, does he? 
 And what's that to you*? Take that, you liar! 
 I'm to sic the boys on them, am I"? I'll sic them 
 on you ! damn your filthy hide !" 
 
 When they scrambled to their feet again, Michael 
 was standing behind them. He said : 
 
 "Well, are you through*?" and to Boiseriot he 
 added : "Come up to the house, you !" 
 
 Boiseriot made a gesture of rage, but Michael 
 went on: 
 
 "March ahead of me right now!" 
 
 His tone was so cutting that Boiseriot obeyed, for 
 fear of another trouncing. 
 
 When he had been paid off and had packed his 
 belongings, he left the farm-hands' lean-to and 
 snooped back toward the house. Seeing that Michael 
 had gone out, he went up to the threshold and hissed 
 between clenched teeth: 
 
 "I'm going Good-bye ! You've bitten me, 
 but I'll rend your flesh!"
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 pond of the Moulinettes was to be cleared 
 JL that year. According to the terms of the land 
 lease, the water was drawn off every third year and 
 the fish sold. Half of the profits went to the farmer, 
 the other half to the owner, who was likewise en- 
 titled to a fine of six carp, to be chosen, of course, 
 from among the largest. 
 
 On Shrove Monday the sluice weir was opened. 
 The water ran out through a cemented vent at the 
 base of a higft embarkment and flowed in a small 
 stream to spread itself over the meadows below. By 
 Monday evening the water had not gone down much, 
 but by Tuesday morning a ring of mud had become 
 visible and the fish that lived around the edge of the 
 pond were swimming about nervously and beating 
 the water frantically with their tails. 
 
 On Wednesday morning they began to catch the 
 fish. At peep of dawn a caterer from Saint- Am- 
 broise arrived at the pond with his paraphernalia. 
 
 Soon after him the youngsters of the neighbour- 
 hood began to come; first two, then another two, 
 then ten or twelve, until there were some thirty of 
 them, boys and girls, all bundled up any old way, 
 and their noses red from the morning chill. 
 
 "3
 
 114 NENE 
 
 The fish were coming out now. The flow of the 
 water carried them into the "pan," a small, shallow 
 reservoir that was barred at the outlet by a rather 
 fine wire netting. The first to reach the "pan" were 
 white bait ; they came on quickly in big schools, and 
 no sooner were they in the already troubled waters 
 of the "pan" than they seemed to realise that they 
 had taken the wrong way and bent all their efforts 
 on dashing back through the water gate. But the 
 strong current carried them down and they began to 
 dart about desperately. After them came the roach, 
 then the bream. The "pan" was wonderfully alive 
 and a-stir. Innumerable little brown streaks cut the 
 surface and from time to time a big bream would 
 come up from the bottom and, making a sharp turn, 
 show as wide and bright as a pewter platter. 
 
 At nine o'clock they started catching. Gideon and 
 Alexis, the new hand, had big nets. Standing on the 
 brink of the "pan," they kept plunging them in and 
 heaving them up, while a man behind them took the 
 fish they brought up and dumped them into some 
 water-filled holes in the ground that had been fixed 
 up to receive them. 
 
 Never had the catch been so plenteous; evem 
 Michael was astonished. The reason was, probably, 
 that they had succeeded in getting out all the pike 
 at the last draining. 
 
 The youngsters that were hanging over the wire 
 netting shouted: "There's some of 'em getting
 
 NENE 115 
 
 away! The little ones slip through." Or again 
 "Hey, boss! Didn't you see 1 ? There were two of 
 'em jumped right out of the net. And there's a dead 
 one, floating." 
 
 When a fine bream leaped out of Gideon's net and 
 plunged into the water beyond the wire, a fat, red- 
 faced boy of ten made up his mind all at once, shout- 
 ing: 
 
 "Wait a minute ! I'll show you !" 
 
 He got hold of a basket, rolled up his trouser legs 
 and jumped into the stream. At the first sweep he 
 caught the bream and half a dozen white bait. 
 
 "Good boy!" cried Michael; "here, catch!" 
 
 Across the wire he emptied the last of a netful 
 some ten or twelve white bait that dropped into the 
 water like sparks from a rocket. 
 
 Then another lad got into the game, and still 
 another, and all of them, or almost all. Every once 
 in a while Michael threw them some fish and they 
 waded about with much shouting, struggling with 
 their baskets and battling for the best positions. 
 
 One little fellow, who had been pushed back, was 
 in the water to his belly and shivering with cold; 
 he was going to climb out in despair, when he caught 
 an enormous bream. Scrambling out, he threw it on 
 the grass like a quoit. 
 
 "How are you going to carry it?" asked Michael. 
 
 "Inside my shirt! I've got some more see?" 
 
 He opened his shirt and showed two white bait
 
 ii6 NENE 
 
 and three or four heads of roach that he had snatched 
 through the wire. Slipping the bream over his 
 stomach, he added: "It's like a pancake, only it 
 isn't hot!" 
 
 From the road by the pond a woman called: 
 
 "Federi!" 
 
 It cut the boy's breath short : 
 
 "Oh, the devil! There's Mamma!" 
 
 The mothers were, in fact, coming down, bringing 
 sandwiches and clean jumpers and neckties; for the 
 boys had run off as soon as they were out of bed, 
 without taking the trouble of eating breakfast or 
 dressing themselves up. 
 
 When they got sight of their youngsters, there was 
 a chorus of recrimination, but all the children were 
 so absorbed in their fun that they paid no attention; 
 they just stuck, resigned to a future boxing of ears. 
 
 About eleven o'clock the real "gallery" came 
 along. 
 
 The first one was a big fellow with a red face, 
 whose coming surprised no one. He had been nick- 
 named "the Otter," because he came to every pond 
 draining, sometimes walking over ten miles to it, 
 just to eat fresh fish. 
 
 But how he did eat ! He was such an extraordin- 
 ary glutton that the people round about were proud 
 of his prowess. He stayed at table for six hours at 
 a stretch, without speaking, without once turning
 
 NENE 117 
 
 his head, without even stirring the tip of his toes 
 just eating, eating, eating. 
 
 Lots of people would sit down opposite him, just 
 to see him do away with the fish. The ordinary glut- 
 tons hadn't a patch on him when it came to eating 
 fish. He could outsit four or five relays of them. 
 
 He came straight to the "pan" and enquired : 
 
 "Are the tench out yet?" 
 
 "Not yet," answered Michael, "they are just 
 beginning to come." 
 
 "So much the better." 
 
 Without delay he carried the news to the caterer. 
 
 "There are tench coming out . . . You'd better 
 keep an eye on them !" 
 
 The man was all smiles and courtesy: 
 
 "I'll get them ! . . . But first of all, let me find 
 you a nice place at table . . . Here, won't you take 
 this one, right in the centre"? . . . that's where the 
 platter is put. And listen: you know what's real 
 eating, you do ... you give the others an appe- 
 tite ... I'll let you have all you can eat . . . for 
 nothing, you understand! All I ask you is to eat, 
 eat, eat!" 
 
 "I'll do my best," the Otter replied with an honest 
 look. 
 
 He had hardly sat down when three villagers from 
 Saint-Ambroise settled themselves across the table 
 from him and ordered a panful of small fry. 
 
 The crowd on the embankment was thickening.
 
 ii8 NENE 
 
 All the young people of the countryside were there. 
 It was like at the first fair of the year. Fish dealers 
 had come out and carried off the smaller fish and 
 farmers' wives had to hurry to get a panful cheap. 
 
 Michael acted as auctioneer. He didn't weigh 
 the fish but sold them by the bulk. The women 
 crowded about and tried all kinds of ways to be 
 served before their turn. An old woman, among 
 the last to arrive, sneaked up to the front and when 
 Michael brought out a fine lot she pushed aside the 
 baskets of her neighbours and held out her own with 
 the lid open, saying: 
 
 "Here ! put it here, darlin' !" 
 
 And the boys on the embankment took up the 
 name and laughed as they cried out : 
 
 "Darlin' ! Darlin' ! put it here, darlin' !" 
 
 Michael raised his head. Just above him was a 
 group of girls and one of them, tall and very pretty, 
 with flashing teeth, was looking at him boldly. 
 
 "Darlin'! Darlin'!" 
 
 He was ashamed of being so badly dressed. 
 
 Now the pond was nearly empty. There remained 
 nothing but a big black basin, fifteen acres of mud 
 through which wound a stream of shiny water. The 
 big fish were coming out, enormous carp that had 
 to be taken one at a time. The two farm-hands had 
 got into the "pan" where they were paddling about, 
 with mud to their ears, but enjoying their unusual 
 occupation.
 
 NENE 119 
 
 The eels were beginning to slip through the mouth 
 of the sluice, one after the other ; but they shot right 
 down into the mud, and catch them there if you can ! 
 Anyway, the biggest of them remained in the basin; 
 you could see some enormous fellows lying in the 
 mud almost anywhere. There must be some very 
 old ones among them that had never been caught in 
 previous drainings. 
 
 The watchers pointed out a huge one lying not 
 very far from the edge, and one of the boys boasted : 
 
 "I could get him all right !" 
 
 When someone dared him, he made a bet. 
 
 "If you get him," said Michael, "you can keep 
 him, and I'll give you a franc piece to boot." 
 
 So the lad got out of his clothes, slipped on an old 
 pair of trousers and waded into the mud. Very soon 
 he was in up to his waist; and, as he wouldn't turn 
 back, egged on by the laughing crowd, he finally fell 
 flat on his belly, unable to scramble up again. 
 
 The girls started teasing him: 
 
 "Turn to the right ! . . . Turn to the left ! . . . 
 He's caught like a fly in a jug of cream!" 
 
 They had to throw a rope to him and dragjiim 
 back over the mud like a log. He ran down the 
 meadow to wash up in the stream, with all the young- 
 sters trailing him. 
 
 "Here's a photographer!" 
 
 The shout rallied everybody instantly. There was 
 a man coming on a tandem bicycle with a lady who
 
 120 NENE 
 
 was wearing a hat. He set up his camera and tripod 
 in the meadow, took a peep under his black cloth, 
 made signs that he wanted to speak, and the crowd 
 hushed. 
 
 "Would you like me to take a picture*?" 
 
 "Yes ! yes ! go ahead !" 
 
 "Well, then, you'll have to group yourselves a 
 little : some of you up on the embankment ond others 
 lower in the meadow, behind the fish catchers." 
 
 They formed groups in a flurry of excitement and 
 held their poses. But they didn't suit the photo- 
 grapher, who came to arrange the groups himself. 
 
 "Here, you ! Come here, little fellow, get to the 
 front. Now, don't anybody move !" 
 
 They were too closely huddled; so the photo- 
 grapher spaced them deftly, like a man sorting 
 apples. 
 
 "We don't want to be in it," said Michael. 
 
 "Oh yes, you do, my good man just as you are; 
 I'll send you a copy or two." 
 
 "All the same, we're ashamed," said Michael. 
 "We're too dirty to be taken right in the front of 
 a picture of all these fine folk." 
 
 He turned to look at the people behind him. 
 There were some hundred of them, all standing stiff 
 and trying to look pleasant. The mothers' eyes 
 searched about for their children in the forefront. 
 The young girls were hanging on the arms of the 
 young men as the photographer had paired them,
 
 NENE 121 
 
 according to size and dress, without bothering which 
 fellow was courting which girl. But nobody dared 
 to protest for fear of making the whole thing go 
 wrong. 
 
 Standing in front of the rest, about three steps 
 behind him, Michael saw the fine-looking girl who 
 had looked at him so boldly a few minutes before. 
 The photographer had linked her arm in that of the 
 baker from Saint-Ambroise, but she had calmly 
 withdrawn it and placed herself where she wanted, 
 right in the foreground. 
 
 She was tall, with narrow lips and a rounded 
 bosom. Her face showed milky white under her 
 black hair; but her eyes were her most remarkable 
 feature, very large and very black, but full of light 
 and fire, as sparkling as the stars hi a clear winter 
 night. 
 
 Michael felt the blood surging through his veins. 
 
 'Til be ^ blot in the picture, standing so near 
 you, Mademoiselle. You ought to be beside one of 
 those fellows who' re dressed up hi their Sunday 
 clothes." 
 
 She answered with frank directness: 
 
 "I don't agree with you. You are at work: it'll 
 show plain enough in the picture !" 
 
 She added with a sidewise glance through her long 
 lashes : 
 
 "You're lucky he told you he'd give you some pic- 
 tures I wish I could get one !"
 
 122 NENE 
 
 "All ready!" called the photographer. "Every- 
 body stand still now!" 
 
 She looked up and, with a quick movement, threw 
 back her shawl; through the sheer net of her waist 
 her bosom showed very white. 
 
 The photographer raised his hand. 
 
 "Now, I'll count. One!" 
 
 Michael had hardly time to turn his head to face 
 the camera. 
 
 "Two three ! Thank you." 
 
 There was clearing of throats and laughter, and 
 the youngsters returned to their gambols. 
 
 Michael turned around at once, but the girl was 
 already off. He wanted to go after her, but then 
 he did not dare. With his eyes he followed her 
 lithe figure wending its way through the crowd of 
 rather heavy-built peasants dressed in old-fashioned 
 finery. At a little distance, at the top of the incline, 
 she stopped ; her glance fluttered back across the mea- 
 dow, and meeting Michael's eye, she gave him a 
 long, smiling look. Then, right away, she passed 
 over the embankment and vanished. 
 
 Michael grew impatient. There remained only 
 two or three purchasers who bothered him with de- 
 mands for this kind of fish rather than that, or 
 complained that they were being robbed, and 
 weren't they free to bargain if they liked! 
 
 "Certainly! Certainly you're free and so am 
 I!"
 
 N E N E 123 
 
 He flung down the fish he was holding : 
 
 "You'll have to wait a while for me; I'm going 
 up to the house." 
 
 He washed his hands and, leaving Gideon to watch 
 the fish, he walked away. The embankment and 
 the lane to the farm buildings were crowded with 
 merrymakers, but the girl he was looking for was not 
 among them. He retraced his steps, walked down 
 through the meadow, and once more turned back to 
 the house. The caterer had set up his tables in the 
 barn ; there was a crowd at the door. Michael went 
 to look inside, but there was only "the Otter" eating 
 his tench in the midst of half-drunk young fellows. 
 He shrugged his shoulders in disgust and turned on 
 his heel. 
 
 Where could she be*? 
 
 On his way back to the pond he saw her coming 
 toward him. She was alone, walking slowly, rolling 
 her hips, so absorbed in thought that she started 
 when he spoke to her : 
 
 "Has your young man deserted you that I find 
 you walking all by yourself?" 
 
 "Oh ! You startled me ... I didn't see you." 
 
 He repeated his question foolishly: 
 
 "Has your young man deserted you*?" 
 
 "I have no young man." 
 
 "That's too bad!" 
 
 She looked at him with head bent down a little,
 
 124 NENE 
 
 and her eyes were soft as velvet between the half- 
 closed lashes. 
 
 "You're not from these parts, are you^ I've 
 never met you anywhere." 
 
 Instead of answering she questioned back: 
 
 "And you, are you the son of the house*?" 
 
 "I'm the son of the house and the master too. 
 That's why you saw me haggling with the farmers' 
 wives, and that's why I'm wearing wooden shoes and 
 my work clothes." 
 
 She looked at him steadily, playing with her 
 shawl. He went on: 
 
 "I've spoken to the photographer he told me 
 again he'd try to send me two pictures. I'm glad I 
 happened across you, because I wanted to tell you 
 that there'll be one for you." 
 
 "It'll be a nice remembrance. Thanks !" 
 
 "You're entitled to one. If the picture is pretty 
 to look at, it'll be because you're in it." 
 
 She raised her shoulders a little so that the shawl 
 slipped down, and began to smile. 
 
 "You know how to pay compliments." 
 
 "I say as I think. It'll be a gift to the belle of 
 the party, and I'll not lose by it, since he is sending 
 me two. But I'll have to ask you where you live 
 and who you are." 
 
 She paused a moment, then: 
 
 "Oh, you'll find out if you want to ! But what if 
 you get only one picture 1 ?"
 
 N E N E 125 
 
 The shawl had slipped quite down, uncovering 
 her handsome shoulders and shapely throat. A 
 heady scent enfolded Michael and his ears rang like 
 Easter bells. 
 
 "If he should send you just one, you'd be in a 
 fix Would you give it up for me?" 
 
 "Fd be only too glad! But won't you tell 
 me your name*?" 
 
 She drew herself up very close to him, her shining 
 eyes darting fire : 
 
 "I hope he'll send just one," she said and ran 
 away. 
 
 From the barn a man was calling Michael. He 
 was a young mason of Saint-Ambroise who wanted 
 to pay him a small sum he owed. They sat down 
 at a table with two other villagers. The mason had 
 been drinking; in a loud voice and with great show 
 of affection he recalled to Michael the good old 
 days when they were schoolboys together. After 
 a while he interrupted himself, saying reproach- 
 fully: 
 
 "Hey there, darn you ! you aren't even listening!" 
 
 Michael flushed hotly: 
 
 "I was . . . watching 'the Otter.' ' 
 
 The mason, who was now quite befuddled, 
 shouted : 
 
 "Hey there, Otter! Nice little Otter! Is your 
 gullet in working order?" 
 
 The guzzler raised his purple face a little from the
 
 126 NENE 
 
 table and answered simply, without pride or malice : 
 
 "It's getting there, thank you. The bit I've swal- 
 lowed so far has widened the gap. Pretty soon I'll 
 have worked up an appetite." 
 
 Everyone in hearing exclaimed at this, and even 
 Michael couldn't help but laugK. 
 
 "He's a bearcat!" 
 
 "He must have eaten ten pounds already!" 
 
 "Ten ! . . . Better say fifteen ! And not a bite 
 of bread!" 
 
 He had been at it for fully four hours, and during 
 that time more than a hundred people had come to 
 sit around him, nibble a bit of white bait and shove 
 the rest of their platefuls over to him. 
 
 There were still about twenty men around him, 
 young farm-hands and villagers who had wagered 
 they would make him stop or choke. They all 
 threw their fishbones under the table, where he, too, 
 was disposing of his. They made a heap high 
 enough to bury their wooden shoes. 
 
 The caterer had told the cook: 
 
 "Go light on the butter but heavy on the pep- 
 per." 
 
 The stratagem worked. A fifteen-gallon barrel of 
 wine was set on the table and emptied in no time, 
 regardless of expense, while eyes grew round, 
 palates hot and tempers high. 
 
 The mason, who had forgotten all about the pay- 
 ment he wanted to make to Michael, started to sing
 
 NENE 127 
 
 with them and Michael hurried away. He wanted 
 to be alone and give himself up to his thoughts. 
 
 It was getting toward evening; the pond party 
 was over. He went to his room, and it was only 
 then the thought struck him that he ought to have 
 asked Madeleine to bring the children down and 
 pose in the group picture. 
 
 However, it soon passed out of his mind again. 
 From his window he watched the crowd going home 
 to Saint-Ambroise or Chantepie and said to him- 
 self: 
 
 "And I don't even know which way she went."
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 HER coming again, on the following Saturday, 
 was like a great burst of light before his eyes. 
 Such a gust of youth swelled his breast that for a 
 moment he felt faint. 
 
 He was in the meadow, near the water-holes 
 where the fish were kept; she was alone, coming 
 along the road from Saint-Ambroise with a basket 
 over her arm. When she reached the embankment 
 she made him a pretty curtsy and strolled down 
 toward him, listlessly, her shoulders swaying as if 
 poised for a dance. 
 
 "Good evening, Monsieur Corbier! I passed by 
 to see if you still had some fish to sell. Are there 
 any nice ones left?" 
 
 He did not hear what she said, his thoughts in 
 a turmoil. 
 
 "Tell me your name, since you know mine. The 
 other day you ran off without telling me." 
 
 "My name? Don't you sell fish to people unless 
 you know their names'? My name is Violette, and 
 I'm a dressmaker at Chantepie." 
 
 "Violette, you're the prettiest dressmaker in all 
 the world!" 
 
 She gave a low laugh, with her head thrown back 
 
 a little, like a strutting pigeon. 
 
 128
 
 NENE 129 
 
 He went on, pointing to the road : 
 
 "You say you are from Chantepie, but you came 
 from the other direction " 
 
 "That's because I've got two new customers at 
 Saint-Ambroise. I went there Wednesday evening; 
 now my work is done and I'm on my way home. 
 Passing by your place, I thought I'd buy some fish 
 for mamma, who isn't very well." 
 
 She drawled the last words sweetly and sadly and 
 it gladdened Michael's heart to find that she was 
 as good as she was beautiful. He spoke quickly : 
 
 "There are very few fish left; every day people 
 from all around have been coming for some. But 
 here are some tench, and here a few bream; and oh, 
 yes, here are the carp, but they're the landlord's fine 
 and I can't sell them." 
 
 She seemed annoyed at that and muttered: 
 
 "I'm sorry, I'd have bought one." 
 
 Immediately he plunged his net into the water- 
 hole and brought up two enormous carp. 
 
 "Pick out the best of them. I'd rather give it to 
 you than to the landlord. He'll have to be satis- 
 fied with the remaining five." 
 
 Seeing him bent over the net, she laughed silently 
 in triumph ; then she exclaimed : 
 
 "What big fellows! I'd have never thought they 
 were as big as that ! Thank you, but I don't want it. 
 My basket is too small, and besides it would be too 
 heavy for me to carry all the way to Chantepie."
 
 130 N E N E 
 
 Michael threw the carp back into the water and 
 selected the best of the tench, filling her basket, and 
 when she offered to pay for it, he refused indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 "Not at all! You'd hurt me dreadfully!" 
 
 Her fine black eyes moved lazily under the caress- 
 ing lids. 
 
 "Monsieur Corbier, I appreciate this very much 
 and I won't forget it but you'll know nothing 
 about it because you never come to Chantepie. It 
 may be ten years before we see each other again." 
 
 He took her up quickly: 
 
 "Ten years! I hope not! If you'd said ten 
 days, I'd have still found it too long " 
 
 As he had come close to her and spoken very low, 
 she stepped back and broke in on his speech : 
 
 "Oh, who is that woman up there at your house? 
 [Your hired girl, I suppose?" 
 
 Away up near the house Madeleine was just then 
 heard calling Lalie. 
 
 "Yes," said Michael. "She's my housekeeper." 
 
 "Oh! And Lalie, who's she?" 
 
 "She's my little girl; she's five years old." After 
 a moment's hesitation, he added : "She has a little 
 brother who's younger. I'm a widower." 
 
 "I know. I've heard all about it. She's a Claran- 
 deau, isn't she your hired girl?" 
 
 "Yes, the sister of a young fellow who lost his 
 arm last year at the threshing."
 
 NENE 131 
 
 "Wait a minute I believe I know her. A big 
 woman, with pockmarks on her face still, not too 
 terribly homely, isn't she 1 ?" 
 
 She looked at him squarely and boldly: 
 
 "Am I right? A girl of about your own age 
 and not exactly homely*?" 
 
 There was a trace of annoyance in his answer: 
 
 "What do I know? Why don't you listen to 
 me?" 
 
 "Because I'm in a hurry. Thank you very much, 
 and now I'll say good-bye, hoping you'll give me a 
 chance to repay you some time for your kindness." 
 
 She turned on her heel, flicking her skirts, and 
 nimbly ran up the meadow slope and back to the 
 road. 
 
 When she had gone a little way she halted for a 
 minute. Her basket was heavy; she set it down 
 and lifted the lid; it was so full that some of the 
 fish were spilled on the road. 
 
 An insolent smile passed over her face; it still 
 remained beautiful, but the lines of it were quite 
 changed. Her sharp teeth glittered as if made to 
 bite into living, bleeding flesh, like the teeth of a 
 wild animal. The red, curled lip showed cruel wile 
 and perhaps also a little contempt for the too easy 
 prey. 
 
 "Oh men! One more I can twist round my 
 little finger. If he doesn't come to-morrow, he'll
 
 132 N E N E 
 
 come running in a week. I'll have to manage to be 
 alone." 
 
 Back at the pond, Michael stood, all reason swept 
 from his brain, following her with his eyes as far 
 as he could, drinking in exultantly the strong spring 
 air that was still charged with the fragrance of her. 
 
 "My youth is not gone, since the loveliest of them 
 all does not repulse me !" 
 
 Leaning motionless and wide eyed against the 
 railing of the pond, he stood lost in dreams of a mar- 
 vellous adventure.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 QHORTLY before Easter, old man Corbier died. 
 O One evening, as he was going to bed, he felt ill. 
 Right away he lost consciousness, and the next morn- 
 ing at cock crow he passed away. 
 
 Madeleine took the children to the neighbours at 
 Chestnut Hill and Gideon made the rounds, carry- 
 ing the news to family, friends and neighbours, all 
 the Dissenters. 
 
 The praying women began to come as early as 
 eight o'clock. The first of them came from the 
 nearby hamlets. Then came those from the outlying 
 farmsteads and at last those from Le Coudray who 
 stayed for the wake. The next day there were many 
 of them : from Saint-Ambroise, from Chateau-Blanc, 
 f roin all the villages round about wherever there was 
 a family of Dissenters. 
 
 As they came into the house they went down on 
 their knees silently, in a circle around the one who 
 recited the prayers. When one of the group rose to 
 go away, another immediately took her place. 
 
 The funeral took place on the third day, at Saint- 
 Ambroise, in the Dissenters' burial ground. Prayers 
 prayers prayers! Prayers on the way between 
 the flowering hedges; prayers in the gloomy chapel; 
 
 133
 
 134 N E N E 
 
 long prayers at the burial grounds while the coffin 
 was set on the flat stone over the grave of the last 
 priest; prayers again when the coffin was lowered 
 into the grave and the handfuls of earth thrown on 
 it. 
 
 Neither Catholics nor Protestants had come, but 
 all the Dissenters' families had sent someone. The 
 poor soul going away alone, without viaticum, 
 should at least have all the prayers of those near him 
 to speed him on his way. 
 
 After the burial, Madeleine passed by Chestnut 
 Hill to fetch the children. When she reached the 
 Moulinettes, she found the family gathered there: 
 two brothers-in-law of Michael, his uncle, several 
 cousins and also his parents-in-law with Georgette, 
 his sister-in-law, who had come too, brazenly. 
 
 All these people were discussing family affairs; 
 when Madeleine entered, they fell silent, and the 
 looks of some were hostile. So she left her mourning 
 hood and went out into the garden with a troubled 
 heart because, all at once, she had felt herself a 
 stranger. She went to the barn and, passing to the 
 lean-to of the hands, she began to arrange things so 
 that Gideon could come to sleep in the master's 
 room that evening. 
 
 As she came back, she saw that Georgette had 
 seated herself on a bench by the doorway, with Jo 
 on her lap. She was playing with him, teasing him, 
 tossing him up and then cradling him in her arms.
 
 NENE 135 
 
 Madeleine came up to them, smitten with jeal- 
 ousy. The little tot held out his arms to her, call- 
 ing: "Nene! Nene!" But Georgette said point- 
 edly: 
 
 "I'm your Nene, darling. Kiss your Nene ! You 
 must not call that girl 'Nene !' ' 
 
 In a flash Madeleine was upon her, bristling with 
 anger; without a word she tore away the other 
 woman's hands and, holding the baby close to her 
 bosom, she went into the house.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 ON Violette's name day Boiseriot presented him- 
 self at Chantepie with a little gift box that 
 held a silver thimble and a pair of scissors. Vio- 
 lette was politely pleased, and her mother kept Bois- 
 eriot to lunch. 
 
 When Vespers rang, the mother went to church, 
 leaving the two by themselves. 
 
 Violette played with the scissors, saying: 
 
 "They're pretty. I'll take good care of them." 
 
 While inwardly she thought: 
 
 "They're just tin. The whole thing didn't cost 
 him more than thirty sous. But why did he do it? 
 What's struck him, this year?" 
 
 Boiseriot laughed like a man who is happy to be 
 alive. 
 
 "When you get married I'll give you a handsome 
 present, don't you fear ! Your godfather isn't rich, 
 but he's all alone, living like an old wolf. He could 
 manage to buy you a gold necklace, or give you a 
 dozen gold pieces for your wedding." 
 
 "I haven't any sweetheart." 
 
 "Better go and get you one, little girl." 
 
 They were silent for a moment, and then they 
 
 talked about the weather and Violette's new cus- 
 
 136
 
 N E N E 137 
 
 tomers. She lifted innocent eyes to him, but all 
 her guile and craft were on the alert. 
 
 "By and by he'll have to stop beating about 
 the bush," she thought. "I wonder what's on his 
 mind?' 
 
 Finally he ask in an offhand way: 
 
 "Did you go to the Moulinettes for the pond- 
 draining 1 ?" 
 
 "Yes, and I'm not sorry I did. You yourself put 
 it into my head to go. Thank you for having told 
 me." 
 
 "Did they get much fish?' 
 
 "Quite a lot. I bought some from the man you 
 told me about." 
 
 "Michael Corbier?" 
 
 "Yes. A handsome man and well-spoken ! You 
 had a row with him. I'm sure you were in the 
 wrong." 
 
 He answered smoothly: 
 
 "Perhaps I was. I'm an impulsive fellow; we had 
 some words about the farm work but I'm not hold- 
 ing any grudge against him." 
 
 "I believe you," said Violette with a show of con- 
 viction. 
 
 "I'd even like him to know it. I shouldn't have 
 minded meeting him here, that time he called." 
 
 He was watching her slyly with sharp eyes. She 
 thought of parrying the thrust, but then decided to
 
 138 N E N E 
 
 give herself the satisfaction of showing him that he 
 wasn't taking her in. 
 
 "Go on!" she said. "Why don't you admit that 
 you know nothing and would like to know all"? 
 Don't think I'm a fool ! It's true, Michael Corbier 
 did call, but he doesn't want anybody to know about 
 it. I'm telling you, because you are my godfather." 
 
 Boiseriot laughed. 
 
 "That's good ! That's fine ! You haven't lost 
 your time! But you know he has two kids. Be- 
 sides, he's a Dissenter. What's your idea*?" 
 
 She waved her hand with an air of perfect uncon- 
 cern and answered, this time quite frankly: 
 
 "I don't know." Then she added : "And you? 
 What's your idea about it?" 
 
 "I don't know either, my dear. And what's more, 
 it doesn't concern me." 
 
 She insisted coaxingly: 
 
 "Oh, but it does ! I'll tell you all that happens 
 and I'll come to you for advice." 
 
 "We'll see about that! . . . After all, I'm not 
 against this thing." 
 
 He spoke calmly, but his eyes gleamed with ma- 
 licious pleasure. He went on smoothly: 
 
 "Didn't I hear somewhere last Summer that there 
 was a Dissenter from Saint-Ambroise going with 
 you*? a big fellow they call Trooper, who lost his 
 arm in the threshing machine?" 
 
 "People did some talking, yes but they don't
 
 N E N E 139 
 
 any more. I haven't seen him since his accident." 
 
 "I'd say you were wise. It's not a nice family 
 people of no standing. . . . His sister happens 
 to be Corbier's hired girl; she isn't of much account 
 and yet, there are things being said " 
 
 Violette looked at him so keenly that he put off 
 to some later day the telling of what he wanted her 
 to hear. Having finished his coffee, he left her. 
 
 On his way home, he felt like dancing. 
 
 "I've got them! I've got them, every one! 
 Corbier, Madeleine, Trooper and I'll get Gideon 
 too. The girl's a bad one not so clever, either 
 not nearly so clever as she thinks! Ah, I've got 
 you! You're no match for me!" 
 
 Violette had remained on the threshold, following 
 him with her eyes, amused at seeing him so frisky. 
 
 "There he goes, thinking I'll keep him informed 
 and ask his advice! He's got some grudge against 
 them, the little sneak! But that's nothing to me. 
 I'll have some fun and hang the rest! Michael 
 is a handsome fellow; his eyes are blacker than 
 mine. ... I kind of liked Trooper too last 
 year. . . . And the others! All the others! My 
 friend, if you want to know them all, I'll make you 
 do some travelling."
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 MEANWHILE, at the Moulinettes, Mad- 
 eleine was laboriously writing on a sheet 
 of flowered notepaper that her brother had brought. 
 
 He sat at the table, opposite her, and the blue 
 pools of his eyes were troubled and restless. 
 
 His accident had left its mark upon him; he car- 
 ried his head low like a weakling who dares not look 
 life in the face. His fine moustache, that he used to 
 keep so trim, had grown bristly and seemed redder 
 now in his emaciated face. 
 
 He had had one shock after another, these ten 
 months since he was crippled. 
 
 First of all, the insurance company had given him 
 only six hundred francs in all; when his expenses 
 had been paid out of this, he had been left penni- 
 less. 
 
 For a few days in winter, he had found employ- 
 ment turning the crank of a grain separator, which 
 was work for a child or a dotard, and he had per- 
 formed it with a bad grace, just to earn his bread. 
 In the spring he had found a fortnight's job at sim- 
 ilar work in town. Then he had returned to Le 
 Coudray where he had hunted up small odd jobs 
 now and then, here and there. He was set to 
 
 catching moles in the fields, leading animals to 
 
 140
 
 NENE 141 
 
 fairs, gathering rocks, or trimming brushwood 
 hedges with a sickle: mere trifles that were put his 
 way for the sake of charity. 
 
 He had applied for an appointment as letter car- 
 rier, counting firmly on getting it at once, as his 
 right; but nothing had come of it. However, his 
 hopes had risen again these last days, concerning 
 this; that is why he was writing to Violette. 
 
 "Well now, what do you want me to say, big 
 brother?' 
 
 Madeleine had written the date line and the 
 usual form of address; and now she was waiting, 
 pen in hand. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Make her a pretty compliment first, if you don't 
 mind, saying that I love her more than ever." 
 
 "What compliment?" 
 
 "Tell her she's a beauty because she is ! WTien 
 she looks at you the weather brightens it's as 
 though the morning sun were beginning to shine. 
 All around her the air is young and smells sweet, 
 like a breeze playing among the apple blossoms!" 
 
 "Goose ! That's only the scent she puts on !" 
 
 Madeleine laughed at his fervid air and resumed 
 her writing. 
 
 "I have told her she is the best-looking girl in 
 the county. True or false, it'll please her. And 
 I go on to say that you'd like to be always at her 
 feet."
 
 142 N E N E 
 
 "Say I'm longing for the sight of her." 
 
 "Haven't you seen her in such a long time?" 
 
 He did not answer her immediately; his lips quiv- 
 ered ; then he said shamefacedly : 
 
 "It's just ten months and three weeks." 
 
 "Oh, you poor boy!" 
 
 Madeleine dropped her pen and looked at him out 
 of eyes brimming with pity. 
 
 "But then, why do you want me to write? Why 
 do you want me to write compliments to a hussy 
 who's thrown you over?" 
 
 "Please, Madeleine, don't say anything against 
 her; I wouldn't like it. If she didn't love me I'd 
 go crazy. But she does, I tell you! She hasn't 
 thrown me over. It's her mother she's forbidden 
 her to see me that's what she wrote me in her 
 reply to the letter you put down for me at the hos- 
 pital. Her mother doesn't want her to speak to 
 a Dissenter. Some people get hard when they're 
 old. What can she do? Just wait, that's all. 
 I've tried to meet her; I went to Chantepie, but she 
 didn't dare to come out. Her mother's watching 
 her every minute ! I've waited for her by the way- 
 side, too, at the hour when she was due to come home 
 from her work but I've never had any luck. Oh, 
 yes, once! I saw her coming but there was a 
 girl who helps her coming along with her, so, of 
 course, she didn't speak she just waved her hand at
 
 N E N E 143 
 
 me from a distance. I can't stand it any longer; 
 my head's swimming; I've got to talk to her!" 
 
 He paused, and then he added with an air of de- 
 termination : 
 
 "Besides, I've got news for her!" 
 
 "What is it?" asked Madeleine. 
 
 "You'll say, first, that the matter of religion is 
 not a hindrance. Let her tell that to her mother; 
 I'm open to argument on that. I'll see what I 
 can do." 
 
 Madeleine pushed back the flowered paper 
 angrily : 
 
 "You can't make my hand write that. I'd be 
 too ashamed! Nobody in our family has ever 
 changed himself. It's our pride. You'd be the 
 first, and they'd point fingers at you!" 
 
 He kept silent. 
 
 "You don't stand up for our faith. . . . You 
 leave your own people. . . . You give in. ... Is 
 that what you call being a man*?" 
 
 She stopped, a little frightened at having flung 
 such harsh words at her stricken brother. But it 
 was her duty to speak out there could be no doubt 
 of that! a duty hardly perceptible, yet as deeply 
 rooted as the instinct of pity, which is in all good 
 women those guardians of the race. 
 
 He sat there in silence, head low, pale as death, 
 and trembling. 
 
 "John, you're not a man! . . . You mustn't do
 
 144 NENE 
 
 this. It's mean! We've got to hold on hold 
 
 on 
 
 He replied sullenly, with a break in his voice: 
 
 "Whatever you say doesn't matter; Violette wins. 
 If it weren't for my being crippled, I wouldn't have 
 come to this pass. Now I'm like an uprooted alder 
 bush floating down stream." 
 
 She let her look dwell on him for a while as he 
 sat there all huddled up and so pitiful with his big, 
 untidied head, his quivering lips and that empty 
 sleeve hanging at his side. 
 
 "Hold on! ... Hold on! . . ." 
 
 She wasn't sorry she had spoken out as she had; 
 she felt sure she had said only what had to be said. 
 But, in the end, her mercy was upmost. 
 
 "Poor old dear, the hour of misery has indeed 
 come upon you." 
 
 She wept. . 
 
 Then she picked up her pen and wrote the words 
 of apostasy as she would have given a dying man 
 his most outrageous wish, without a sound, for fear 
 of showing how guiltily weak she knew herself 
 to be. 
 
 When she had finished, she wiped her eyes and, 
 seeing him still in the same dejected posture, she 
 drew him to her and kissed him. 
 
 That gave him encouragement, and he said: 
 
 "There's something else I want her to know. I'm 
 not rich just now, but I'm going to get a good job.
 
 N E N E 145 
 
 I'm sure of it, now. They're looking for another 
 postman at Chateau-Blanc, and I'm to get the job." 
 
 Madeleine wrote this down quickly. 
 
 "Are you sure*? When are you going to be ap- 
 pointed?" 
 
 "Maybe in a week, maybe in a month, maybe to- 
 morrow. It just depends on how long it'll take for 
 the red tape." 
 
 His voice rang clear as he added: 
 
 "As soon as I'm postman at Chateau-Blanc I 
 hope Violette's mother will change her mind and let 
 us get married. I'll get good wages, and with what 
 she can earn at her trade working at home, we'll be 
 pretty well fixed, I'd say !" 
 
 He winked slyly and went on, taking her into his 
 confidence. 
 
 "Let me tell you, now : there are plenty of plums, 
 only you must know how to get them! At first, I 
 just made my application, all by myself. I've served 
 my time in the army, haven't I? And they made me 
 a corporal and now I'm crippled I've got the 
 right on my side and enough schooling I've 
 taught myself to write a little with my left hand. 
 All right! You think you have the job all sewed 
 up tight? Well, you wait and see! Wait three 
 months: nothing! six months: nothing! eight 
 months : nothing ! Then I looked around and in- 
 quired, and some one told me: 'You'd better go 
 and see M. Blanchard !' You have heard about M.
 
 146 N E N E 
 
 Blanchard, haven't you 1 ? All the Dissenters voted 
 for him at election; it wasn't our fault that he 
 lost. All the same, he has a big pull, being for the 
 Government. I didn't like one bit hunting him up, 
 because I don't like to ask favours. But I made up 
 my mind. I told him my business and this and that, 
 giving answer to all his questions. He asked me 
 for whom I voted. I didn't want to answer di- 
 rectly, but I said: 'I am a Dissenter!' He just 
 chuckled in his big beard : 'Good ! good ! You can 
 count on my help, young man, my very best help !' ' 
 
 "Oh, then, yes ! The thing's settled," said Made- 
 leine, sealing the letter. 
 
 "You've said it!" 
 
 This Monsieur Blanchard had formally promised 
 the same position to three others after John Claran- 
 deau. And only a few days later he had obtained 
 the job of postman at Chateau-Blanc for one of the 
 most militant young Catholics, a sad specimen who 
 had promised to go back on his affiliations, to vote 
 openly, before witnesses, and to make his people vote 
 the same way.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THERE was a clatter of wooden shoes at the 
 door and a curious, sing-song voice called: 
 
 "Hey! Hey! Who's there? It's me, Jules. 
 Come in, my dear! I will come in, if there's no 
 bad boy in the house and no sticks behind the 
 door." 
 
 Lalie was pale with fright and ran to clutch the 
 skirts of Madeleine, who began to laugh. 
 
 "Don't be frightened : it's only Jules the natural, 
 talking to himself. Is that you, Jules'?" 
 
 "It's me, Jules. Come in, my dear." 
 
 "All right, then, come in." 
 
 The door opened and a man appeared who at 
 once made the sign of the cross and then spat on 
 the floor to show his disgust. 
 
 "You can sit down, Jules," said Madeleinte'; 
 "there aren't any bad boys around." 
 
 The half-wit looked behind the furniture and 
 under the bed; then he stood up in the middle of 
 the room and began to mumble: 
 
 "Jules, why do you go to the Dissenters? My 
 Lord God, I have no use for them. Jules, you 
 close the gates of their field, you go and fill their 
 jugs at the spring. My Lord God, it isn't true, 
 
 147
 
 148 N E N E 
 
 Thou art a great liar ! May the devil burn all the 
 Dissenters !" 
 
 Once more he made the sign of the cross and 
 thus having conjured away any possible bad luck 
 he sat down quietly, sticking his feet out toward the 
 grate. 
 
 Madeleine had gone back to her work, without 
 paying much attention to him. She had known him 
 for twenty years and she was used to his ways. 
 
 This Jules was a curious sort of half-wit. With 
 a mind on a level of that of a small child, he yet had 
 an astonishing memory. He knew all the villages 
 five leagues round about; he knew all the fields, all 
 the paths, all the trees. On the blackest night he 
 could go anywhere without losing his way or hunting 
 for it, even in parts of the country where he had 
 been but once. He knew everybody by name, some- 
 times he would tell the youngsters what the weather 
 had been like on the day of their christening and 
 the names of their godfather and godmother and 
 whether there had been any sugar almonds given 
 away to the neighbours. When anybody asked him 
 about things like that he replied at once, without 
 even a moment's thought. 
 
 He was very gentle of temper and became angry 
 only when somebody pretended that he ought to get 
 married and insisted on it. If you wanted to get 
 rid of him, you merely had to take a piece of paper 
 and read aloud: "In the name of the law, Jules
 
 N E N E 149 
 
 the natural, I marry you to " That made him 
 
 scamper away as fast as his legs would take him. 
 One day, when some youngsters were teasing him 
 like this after locking the door, he bit them and 
 jumped at the window like a cornered cat. 
 
 He babbled to himself all day long, with ques- 
 tions and answers. You could hear him on the 
 roads, keeping up an interminable conversation with 
 his thousands of friends and acquaintances. 
 
 Often he talked with the Lord, and sometimes he 
 would get excited and swing his stick, because He 
 was making him sore with His indelicate questions. 
 
 Madeleine explained all this to Lalie as best she 
 could, but the child's fear of the man would not go. 
 
 "May the devil burn all the Dissenters! They 
 stink like badgers !" 
 
 There was no fire in the grate; nevertheless he 
 held his feet up to it in all seriousness. 
 
 "That isn't nice talk," said Madeleine. "Why 
 do you say such things about the Dissenters?" 
 
 "They have pillows of chicken feathers and no 
 nails under their wooden shoes nor any pork in 
 their pantry. Would you like something to eat, 
 Jules'? A little mouthful, with a piece of bread. 
 Go away, Jules, we have nothing, we're down and 
 out, we can't pay our debts. Small fry !" 
 
 Madeleine smiled and gave him a big hunk of 
 bread and a slice of pork. He ate it so eagerly that 
 even Lalie was amazed.
 
 150 N E N E 
 
 Madeleine asked him the usual questions. 
 
 "How old are you now, Jules'?" 
 
 "I entered the army at twenty-one. Now you 
 count, from that." 
 
 "Jules, is it true you are going to get married*?" 
 
 He was so well in his stride that he merely re- 
 plied : 
 
 "I am a natural; God protects me." 
 
 "I've been told so, though. I've been told the 
 mayor himself was going to marry you." 
 
 "May the devil burn the mayor !" 
 
 But this last had roused him and he had got up 
 and run to the door. 
 
 "Sit down, Jules, he won't come here, never 
 fear! Sit down!" 
 
 He wouldn't be quieted and remained standing, 
 with his eyes on the door. 
 
 "Have the Dissenters any more bread for Jules, 
 who has some of his pork left*?" 
 
 Madeleine handed him a small piece; he gobbled 
 the rest of his pork and said : 
 
 "Have the Dissenters any more pork for Jules, 
 who hasn't finished his bread*?" 
 
 "You're a nice one!" said Madeleine. "Can't 
 you be content with what I've given you? Here, 
 take this slice and go away. I'm busy." 
 
 He hid the pork in his hand and swallowed the 
 bread. 
 
 "Have the Dissenters " he began.
 
 NENE 151 
 
 "Stop it!" said Madeleine, who was trying to 
 catch up with her work. "You aren't hungry any 
 more." 
 
 "Dissenters have nails under their wooden shoes. 
 They're big fry, they are !" 
 
 "That's all!" 
 
 "My Lord God, let the Dissenters sleep on goose 
 feathers! My Lord God, give them a-plenty to 
 eat!" 
 
 "That's all!" 
 
 "Jules will tell the news." 
 
 Madeleine couldn't help laughing: 
 
 "You're a pest ! Go on, tell your news." 
 
 "The priest won't give Jules any cider. So Jules 
 says, morning and night: 'My Lord God, Father 
 Picon broke Friday's fast by eating a wren's nest/ 
 Rivard has polled his grey cow. Bourru shut up 
 the devil in his poultry yard and a big rooster 
 pecked out his eye. Mme. Berceger is dead, Mme. 
 Rousselot is dead, Mme. Piquereau is dead. The 
 Protestant pastor has the dropsy in his belly may 
 he burst! Have the Dissenters any bread?" 
 
 "All right, here you are ! Eat !" 
 
 He took the bread and went on, by way of thanks. 
 
 "Trooper didn't get the job of postman; that 
 made him madder than Jules." 
 
 Madeleine turned round as if struck : 
 
 "Hush! Don't say that!"
 
 152 N E N E 
 
 "What news do you want? Would you like to 
 hear about the marriages?" 
 
 "All right, tell me about the marriages," said 
 Madeleine. 
 
 "Louise Bruneau is marrying Jacques, of L'Or- 
 meau. Pierre Harteau is marrying his cousin, of 
 Monverger. Father Picon is marrying Julie-red- 
 eye, the old witch of the Hardilas: bad business, 
 that!" 
 
 "Too bad, I should say !" smiled Madeleine. "Go 
 on!" 
 
 "Bray of the Little Pasture is going with Jeanne 
 Lourigeon; Philip the mason is going with Bertha, 
 of the lower village; Michael Corbier, your mas- 
 ter here, is going with Violette, of Chantepie and 
 Jules is going with nails under his wooden shoes 
 when he isn't going barefoot." 
 
 Madeleine came closer, not having heard well : 
 
 "What's that you say about Michael Corbier ?" 
 
 "Corbier of the Moulinettes is going with Violette, 
 the dressmaker." 
 
 "You 5 re a liar, Jules!" 
 
 "My Lord God, is Jules a liar? No, Jules, you 
 are not a liar." 
 
 "But who can have told }{ouisuch a thing?" cried 
 Madeleine. 
 
 "Boiseriot, of Cha'ntepie, he told me. He said: 
 'Go and tell it to Madeleine, at the Moulinettes/
 
 NENE 153 
 
 What did he give Jules for his trouble*? A hand- 
 ful of sugar and a mellow pear." 
 
 "Oh, Boiseriot! Thank you! And now go 
 away, Jules. No, no, you won't get any more 
 pork; you've eaten enough. You'd be sick. Go 
 
 v 
 
 away, go away now! Or I'll call the mayor to 
 marry you." 
 
 At this threat he skurried out into the yard and 
 ran away as fast as he could. 
 
 "The mayor! May the devil burn the mayor! 
 May he burn him!"
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 AT the moment, Madeleine felt only a slight 
 shock. It took her some time to, realise that 
 the wound was ugly and might rankle. At .first she 
 had thought only of herself. "Corbier of the Moul- 
 inettes goes to see Violette, the dressmaker !" Well, 
 let him go ! This was the second time she had been 
 hurt in this way through Michael. But this second 
 blow hurt less than the first; it didn't really upset 
 her much. 
 
 Some girls she knew, in cases like this one, had 
 gone into a decline; others had almost gone insane 
 or had grown old all at once: she couldn't quite 
 see how such things could happen. 
 
 What was a "broken heart" but a fancy, some- 
 thing like a cloud over a mirror that you rubbed 
 away with a cloth? There might be a few tears at 
 first, but afterward ! With both hands busy from 
 morning to night, a girl ought to get over such a 
 small thing quickly enough. 
 
 For her own part, Madeleine was convinced of 
 it. But other thoughts had come to trouble her 
 much more grievous and heart-rending thoughts. 
 
 What would become of her brother ? He had seen 
 Violette again ; Madeleine knew it and she imagined, 
 reasonably enough, that the hussy made a game of 
 
 154
 
 N E N E 155 
 
 searing men's hearts. If she encouraged Michael 
 and Tom, Dick and Harry only to laugh at them 
 afterwards, let her, and no great harm done ! Why 
 did the fools let her catch them*? But with a crip- 
 ple it wasn't the same at all; at least, not to Mad- 
 eleine. Then the game became cruel and cowardly, 
 a very ugly kind of sin. 
 
 What would become of poor Trooper"? Already 
 he had been doing some foolish things. Every now 
 and again he got drunk; one night at Saint- Am- 
 broise, while drunk, he had beaten up the inn- 
 keeper and kicked a door in. 
 
 If it were only understood, once and for all, that 
 Violette jilted him! But on the contrary! She had 
 again found means of leading him on, and there was 
 no doubt that she held him in leash closer than any 
 of the other fellows. 
 
 When he heard about his sweetheart's behaviour 
 and Boiseriot would see to it soon enough that he 
 did there was sure to be trouble. The very thought 
 of it made Madeleine shiver. 
 
 Then there was Michael, too. What on earth 
 had come over him? A man of thirty, and fixed as 
 he was! The idea of his falling in love with such 
 a young thing whose head was filled with nothing 
 but tricks! Was he thinking of marrying the girl? 
 Anyhow, even if he was, Violette had no such inten- 
 tion! Just imagine the pretty little dressmaker in 
 a work apron and clumsy wooden shoes !
 
 156 NENE 
 
 And what about the children*? Couldn't he 
 think of them a little? Could anybody love them 
 more than Madeleine*? Could they possibly be torn 
 away from her some day*? 
 
 "Let them try! Just let them try!" 
 
 At the mere thought of it, Madeleine's head 
 buzzed like a swarm of hornets. 
 
 "Oh, I'm just a big fool ! Michael is only a bad 
 boy having his fun. If he gets hurt, so much the 
 better! It's all plain foolishness and no more! 
 Besides, how do I know there's any truth in it at 
 all? I'll have to find out." 
 
 She began watching Michael. 
 
 The death of his father had been a blow to him; 
 on the first Sundays after the funeral, he had stayed 
 at home except to go to rosary prayers. Then, lit- 
 tle by little, he resumed his old habits. Now he 
 often didn't return home on Sundays until night- 
 fall. 
 
 As he rarely went to the inn, Madeleine concluded 
 that he must be gadding about. She tried to draw 
 him out, but did not succeed. 
 
 He received letters outside of the house; twice 
 the postman had asked Madeleine where Michael 
 was at work. That was singular, rather strange 
 
 At last the day came when Madeleine could doubt 
 no longer. It was a Saturday in October. At 
 eleven o'clock Madeleine was tasting the soup that 
 she had just seasoned when the postman came in.
 
 N E N E 157 
 
 "Here's a letter for Michael Corbier !" 
 
 He held it high for a moment, sniffing the air. 
 
 "My, but it smells good! A pretty girl could 
 use it as a sachet in her waist!" 
 
 Not wanting to make any comment, Madeleine 
 asked : 
 
 "Can I get you a drink of wine? It's a warm 
 day, walking." 
 
 He answered: "I just had a drink at Chestnut 
 Hill Thank you kindly, all the same. Good dayj" 
 
 As soon as he had gone, Madeleine looked at the 
 letter. It was on pretty blue notepaper, as smooth 
 as a looking glass, and it did smell .heavily of 
 scent. The postmark in the corner was blurred and 
 not easy to make out. Madeleine, however, could 
 trace almost all the letters of the word "Chantepie." 
 
 A few minutes later, Michael came in from his 
 ploughing. 
 
 "The postman brought a letter for you," said 
 Madeleine. "It's there, on the table." 
 
 He seemed annoyed, picked up the letter and 
 went out again without a word. 
 
 Instantly Madeleine flew to the window, behind 
 the curtain. 
 
 Out in the yard, he was opening the envelop. A 
 flower fell out; he picked it up very carefully and 
 gazed on it ; then he took a little notebook from his 
 pocket and actually put his old flower between its 
 leaves the big silly!
 
 158 N E N E 
 
 That was a little too much for Madeleine to re- 
 press a movement of spite, and even while she tried 
 to laugh, two big tears welled to her lashes. 
 
 She turned away, rushed to the soup kettle, threw 
 off the lid with a great clatter, reached into the 
 salt-box and dumped two big handfuls of salt into 
 the soup. 
 
 After which she set a small pot to simmer by the 
 fire, for the children.
 
 PART TWO
 
 PART TWO 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 IN a shady spot on the short-cut grass of the 
 meadow, Lalie was trying to manage a "ring 
 around" dance. Her right hand held one of Jo's 
 and in her left dangled Zine, the wooden doll. She 
 had crowned Jo with a wreath of rushes and over 
 Zinc's heart she had tied, with a bit of worsted 
 thread, a big bunch of daisies. It was just like a 
 wedding party. 
 
 "Around, around the sleeping lake,' 
 
 Lazily, lazily sways the wind 
 My white duck follows my black drake. 
 Merrily, merrily . . ." 
 
 Here Lalie stopped, not remembering how it went 
 on. 
 
 "Nene, what comes now*?" 
 
 Madeleine sang the next lines, bent over her wash- 
 ing: 
 
 "Merrily, merrily plays the wind, 
 Lazily, lazily sways the wind." 
 
 "Oh yes ! I remember now !" 
 Lalie jumped with pleasure and went on, turning 
 around more rapidly: 
 
 161
 
 i62 NENE 
 
 "The King's son comes and aims his 
 Lazily, lazily sways the wind. 
 He kills my duck, the bad King's son . . ." 
 
 Again she stopped, memory failing, and began to 
 lose her temper. 
 
 "It's Jo! You simply can't play with him! 
 When I say 'wind !' we ought to run. Jo drags and 
 drags ! Are you going to run, yes or no, when it's 
 the wind?" 
 
 She shook Jo, who gave Zine a kick, and the 
 game was broken up. 
 
 Madeleine turned to look: 
 
 "Well? Aren't you going to go on playing?" 
 
 "It's Jo's fault!" said Lalie. "He has broken 
 one of Zinc's legs . . . And he won't do anything 
 but drag and drag!" 
 
 Jo said nothing but went to hide behind Made- 
 leine's skirts. That made Lalie jealous. She began 
 rocking her doll in her arms: 
 
 "Come here, poor little Zine ! Lalie loves only 
 Zine, so there!" 
 
 "Is that so? Don't you love Nene a little too?" 
 
 "Yes, I do!" said the little girl, running to the 
 washing-plank by the stream and starting to jump 
 up and down on it with her brother. 
 
 Madeleine kissed them both in turn, holding her 
 hands back so as not to wet their clothes. 
 
 "You'll tumble into the water," she said, "and 
 you'll make me fall in too ! Run away, now !"
 
 NENE 163 
 
 "Will you dance with us?" begged Lalie: "Come 
 on! I'll take your hand, and you can hold Zine 
 on the other side." 
 
 "Jo, too," said the baby. 
 
 Madeleine hugged them both between her elbows, 
 hands held away. 
 
 "I haven't time to-day! I have to wash your 
 pinafores and stockings, you know." 
 
 "I wish somebody'd play !" said Lalie. 
 
 "There, there ! Start your dance again. I'll sing 
 for you !" 
 
 The little girl clapped her hands. 
 
 '"'All right! Come on, Jo! Come on, Zine! Sing 
 the wind song, Nene." 
 
 Madeleine began to sing : 
 
 The King's son comes and aims his gun. 
 Lazily, lazily sways the wind. 
 
 He kills my duck, the bad King's son! 
 Merrily, merrily plays the wind, 
 Lazily, lazily sways the wind. 
 
 "Go on!" called Lalie. "Go on, Nene!" 
 Madeleine continued, marking the measure with 
 her beetle and not losing a minute with her wash : 
 
 The black drake swims now all alone.' 
 
 Lazily, lazily sways the wind. 
 You wicked Prince, see what you've done! 
 
 Merrily, merrily plays the wind, 
 
 Lazily, lazily sways the wind. 
 
 "Go on! Go on! We're having fun now!" 
 Madeleine thought: 
 "They'll drive me crazy!"
 
 164 NENE 
 
 And her eyes danced with laughter. 
 
 She got to the end of the song and began it all 
 over again. When she turned to see how the game 
 was going, she found that the children weren't lis- 
 tening any more. 
 
 Lalie had seated Zine, whose knees wouldn't 
 bend, and was making her recite her rosary. Jo was 
 busy pulling up handfuls of grass, grunting at every 
 pull with the effort of it, and sticking out his 
 tongue. 
 
 "I'm like a blind fiddler who strikes up a dance 
 after the wedding guests have gone. The children 
 have more sense than I; if they'd kept hopping 
 around all this time they'd have been in a sweat. 
 Really now, I'm just a fool !" 
 
 She took her time wringing out some clothes, the 
 better to listen to Lalie. 
 
 "Before long, that child will be giving me ideas 
 about how to do 'most everything round the house." 
 
 A gust of pride swelled her breast, and her eyes 
 became vague, and her thoughts frisked ahead into 
 the years, as spry as a yearling. 
 
 "When Jo is grown up, I'll be an old woman. 
 Perhaps I won't be at the Moulinettes any more 
 Lalie'll have taken my place. Who knows where 
 I'll be? Jo'll come to see me and I'll make him a 
 cup of coffee. He'll go away for his service in 
 the army, but he'll get furloughs. 'Hello, Nene ! 
 So you're still at your spinning wheel!' His
 
 NENE 165 
 
 sabre'll drag, clatter, clatter, behind him; then I'll 
 ask him if they're giving him plenty to eat, and 
 I'll give him a silver piece. And then he'll have 
 a sweetheart and they'll get married. Dear Lord, 
 make that I have money enough so he won't be 
 ashamed of me at the wedding, and so I can make 
 him a fine present !" 
 
 She gave a bunch of clothes their final wring and 
 bent again over her wash. 
 
 It was a beautiful place for washing. The lively 
 little stream rippled over its uneven bed with a 
 jingling as of tiny bells. Above the rubbing plank 
 the water was so clear that the bottom was plainly 
 visible. Schools of minnows sailed across it, coming 
 up close to the surface at times and there whirling 
 round and round, all together. 
 
 Madeleine thought: 
 
 "Perhaps the little things are dancing a round 
 too, and their mother leads the game from down 
 below. How pretty all God's creatures are when 
 they're young. I'd like to know where the 
 mother minnow is, and if she is looking out for her 
 children." 
 
 Madeleine went about her work with the quick, 
 telling movements of the experienced washerwoman. 
 She wasn't afraid of wetting her arms nor of dash- 
 ing the spray hi her face. To save the clothes from 
 wearing out too quickly, she rubbed them between 
 her hands instead of on the board and she was very
 
 i66 N E N E 
 
 saving with the soap. She did the rinsing quickly, 
 shaking out the linen with a lively snap that flung up 
 the ends of it as high as her face. 
 
 She had washed first the men's clothes and the 
 kitchen towels; remained the children's little things, 
 and these she wanted particularly clean. On the 
 following Sunday their cousin whose farm was 
 called "L'Ouchette," or Little Pasture, was giv- 
 ing a dinner. Michael could not go, but Madeleine 
 was to take the children there. She meant to do 
 everything possible to make Jo and Lalie look hand- 
 somer than the other children. 
 
 So she spread a petticoat of flowered stuff over 
 her board and began to soap it with great care ; then 
 she rubbed it a long while, but very gently. This 
 was the kind of work she enjoyed, and she would 
 have liked to prolong it. 
 
 Merrily, merrily plays the wind, 
 Lazily, lazily sways the wind . . 
 
 The roundelay had come back to her lips, as sweet 
 as a chocolate drop. On she went, rubbing, rub- 
 bing; between her big fingers the thin stuff disap- 
 peared in a mass of foamy suds. 
 
 Zine having finished reciting her rosary, Lalie 
 had laid her flat on her back, pretending the poor 
 thing was very ill, and had gone to fetch Jo. He 
 had come with a bunch of grass in both his fists. 
 
 "Jo, let's play Zine has a tummy-ache. I'll be
 
 NENE 167 
 
 her mamma; I'll rock her on my lap you'll bring 
 her some tisane. Let's play like that!" 
 
 Jo was not in a mood for it and shook his head. 
 
 "Nene didn't say!" 
 
 "Never mind ! Zine will cry. I'll dry her eyes 
 and wipe her nose." 
 
 "Nene didn't say!" 
 
 Lalie pulled Jo by the arm. 
 
 "You're a bad boy, that's what you are!" 
 
 Jo tried to give Zine a kick; he didn't reach her 
 because she was lying flat on the grass and he lifted 
 his foot very high, intending to kick hard. So he 
 leaned down quickly and rubbed Zinc's face with a 
 handful of grass. 
 
 Lalie gave him a push that made him roll over. 
 Jo set up a howl and Lalie howled the louder. 
 
 "Nene ."'cried Jo. 
 
 "Nene ! Nene !" cried Lalie. 
 
 Madeleine sprang to her feet and ran towards 
 them, with her hands all white with suds. 
 
 Whatever she was doing, now-a-days, she dropped 
 everything the minute the children cried for her. 
 It made her lose much time every day and she re- 
 proached herself for it, but that never kept her from 
 doing it again; their cries echoed in her breast; they 
 hurt her. 
 
 "Yes, they'll drive me crazy all right, poor dar- 
 lings!" 
 
 She wiped her hands and covered the children
 
 i68 NENE 
 
 with hugs and kisses. Then she joined in their 
 game, played being Zinc's mamma, while Lalie 
 showed Jo what to do with the tisane. 
 
 When they were well started again, she ran back 
 to her work. Time was flying; she was all upset 
 about having wasted those few moments. 
 
 "If I had a mistress, she'd give me a fine scold- 
 ing! Playing with dolls that's going too far! 
 Well, now I'd better hurry and get done !" 
 
 She plunged her arms into the stream and began 
 rinsing one of Lalie's little shifts hi lively fashion. 
 But no, it wouldn't do to hurry over work like this ! 
 As she was wringing it out, she saw the water drip- 
 ping still soapy from it; so she rinsed it all over 
 again. How soft the fine wisp felt to her hands! 
 
 "Little shift, come out nice and white. Pretty 
 lace, I'll dip you in starch so you'll stand out as 
 neat as a daisy's little collar." 
 
 "Ha-a-h!" ' 
 
 A scream rose from near by, along the stream, 
 while Lalie called out in great fright : 
 
 "Nene! Nene!" 
 
 Madeleine was up in a flash, her legs shaking, her 
 heart standing still. The baby was nowhere to be 
 seen. 
 
 "Jo, where are you? Jo!" 
 
 Lalie pointed to the stream. Another, sharper 
 scream pierced the air. 
 
 Madeleine rushed forward, bumping against her
 
 N E N E 169 
 
 tressel and spilling all the clean clothes in the mud, 
 leaving her wooden shoes behind so she could run 
 faster. 
 
 Jo had fallen into the stream. Fortunately he 
 had picked out a calm spot. Two yards further on, 
 the current would have tossed him, but here his 
 head was above water, poor duckling, and God 
 knows if he didn't open his bill ! 
 
 Madeleine pulled him out on the grass and took 
 off his clothes. He was yelling his head off, and he 
 would have yelled still louder if he hadn't been 
 shivering so with cold. When she had him lying 
 naked in the grass, he went right on yelling while 
 Madeleine rubbed his back to warm him. She her- 
 self was whiter than a sheet. 
 
 "He's frozen to the bone ! Pray God he doesn't 
 fall ill, now!" 
 
 She untied her apron to wrap around the baby, 
 but it was wet. There was nothing at hand but 
 her skirt that was dry and woolly. Not for an in- 
 stant did she hesitate, nor even glance up to see if 
 there was anyone in sight : her hands flew to take off 
 her skirt and throw it over the baby like a bell. 
 Then, finding herself with nothing on but a chemise, 
 she rushed to the overturned tressel and tied one 
 of the newly washed petticoats around her waist. 
 
 "Come, little Jo. Let's run home! Are you 
 still cold?" 
 
 She ran to the house, taking the shortest way,
 
 i 7 o NENE 
 
 jumping across the ditches. As she passed by a 
 hedge, a thorn buried itself so deep in her bare heel 
 that her heart went cold and tears shot to her eyes. 
 But she ran on, limping, with her wet petticoat slap- 
 ping about her legs. Crossing the goat-pasture, her 
 foot sank ankle-deep in a manure drain, but on she 
 went. 
 
 The baby had quieted down now, feeling warm 
 and at ease in the folds of the soft woollen skirt ; her 
 running jogged him and he enjoyed it hugely. When 
 Madeleine reached the house and wanted to put him 
 to bed, he protested and struggled and clung to her 
 neck. 
 
 "More run, Nene, more run !" 
 
 But this time she did not give in, she was too 
 afraid he might have caught a chill. She put Him 
 in his cradle and warmed him between two pillows. 
 Then she dressed him in dry clothes and his Sun- 
 day smock. 
 
 "Are you still cold, Jo, darling? If you are, I'll 
 heat you some sugared wine." 
 
 "Yes, Jo is cold." 
 
 She ran to get the sugar, the spirit lamp, the 
 bottle of wine. 
 
 "There, now! Drink, darling! Does it taste 
 good?" 
 
 Jo kept his nose in his cup and replied between 
 swallows : 
 
 "Jo'll do it again!"
 
 NENE 171 
 
 Madeleine bent over him, worried. 
 "What's that? What will you do again?" 
 "The water Jo'll fall in again!" he said with a 
 determined air.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 NEXT day Madeleine had to do her wash all 
 over again, and every day, that week, she 
 had to sit up very late in order to make up for lost 
 time. 
 
 When the children's clothes were all ready, Mad- 
 eleine was not yet satisfied. She remembered a din- 
 ner Corbier had given before the death of his father. 
 The little cousins had come dressed up with all 
 sorts of ribbons and furbelows, for their mother 
 thought much of appearance; but they had also 
 brought some aprons along, so they could play with- 
 out soiling their finery, and their mother had said 
 pointedly : 
 
 "You've got to be careful and watch out for 
 everything. If you don't, you can't make ends 
 meet." 
 
 Madeleine thought : 
 
 "She's putting on airs for my benefit! She's 
 welcome ! But with all her watching out, she's only 
 a braggart; you don't need aprons with so much lace 
 trimming to keep a cotton dress from being mussed 
 up." 
 
 Yes, that is what she had said to herself at the 
 time. 
 
 But now the incident bothered her; not for her- 
 
 172
 
 NENE 173 
 
 self but for the children, who must not stand be- 
 hind the others in anything. 
 
 That Friday a passing pedlar knocked at the 
 door and offered his wares to Madeleine. 
 
 "I've got some grand aprons the latest style. 
 You ought to take advantage of the opportunity, 
 Ma'am!" 
 
 "Thank you," said Madeleine, "I'm not in need 
 of anything." 
 
 The pedlar, who knew his business, pointed to 
 Lalie and Jo. 
 
 "Are these two all you have, Ma'am?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, turning red. 
 
 "It's a good beginning! They're pretty little 
 dears. Don't you want to buy them anything? 
 Come and look at what I've got, anyhow." 
 
 Madeleine followed him out to the road; he had 
 a big cart standing there, all filled with new goods. 
 
 "I might perhaps take two smocks," said Made- 
 leine. 
 
 "Good quality, and up to date style, of course?" 
 
 "Of course," she replied. 
 
 "Here you are and here are some more and 
 just have a look at these!" 
 
 Such piles he displayed for her! small ones, 
 large ones, red and green and blue. 
 
 "Make your choice, Ma'am. But if you want 
 my advice, Ma'am: I think these here are the best 
 in every way."
 
 174 N E N E 
 
 He held up a pretty smock of unbleached linen 
 with embroidery on the sleeves and little figures, 
 done in all colors, dancing along the hem. This was 
 the very smock Madeleine's eye had also picked out. 
 
 "It'll cost too much," she said. 
 
 "Not at all, Ma'am only two francs seventy- 
 five! I'll let you have two of them, all ready to 
 wear, for five francs. What do you say?" 
 
 "Oh, it's too much!" she said, but her tone con- 
 sented. 
 
 She went into the house to get the money. 
 
 Five francs ! Such a lot of money ! Nor was it 
 a necessary expense just then. 
 
 She opened the drawer where Michael's purse was 
 kept. Five Francs! Of course, Michael needn't 
 know about it; he never asked accounts of the pur- 
 chases she made, never thought of inquiring into the 
 price she had paid for this thing or that. She took 
 out a five-franc piece and closed the drawer. 
 
 "No, I won't, after all ! I want to pay for this 
 out of my own money." 
 
 She put back Michael's coin and took her own 
 purse out with her. 
 
 The pedlar had the smocks already wrapped. 
 
 "You ought to throw in two little handkerchiefs 
 to put in the pockets." 
 
 "I couldn't possibly, Ma'am. But I'll sell you 
 some at cost price." 
 
 Madeleine paid for the smocks and the handker-
 
 NENE 175 
 
 chiefs. And then she bought a pretty red silk rib- 
 bon for Lalie's hair; and then two pairs of fine open- 
 work stockings. 
 
 "You empty my purse !" she told the pedlar, and 
 laughed. 
 
 "The pedlar replied: 
 
 "You don't look as if you were sorry! You are 
 quite right, too! I understand: I have children 
 of my own." 
 
 "Oh! Do you live far from here?" 
 
 "I should say so! " 
 
 The pedlar flushed a little. 
 
 "I should say so! I'm from Auvergne. I've got 
 four kids there. It ain't easy for me to go 'way an* 
 leave 'em, I c'n jus' tell ye that!" 
 
 "Still, a father going away," said Madeleine, 
 "that isn't so bad, but if their mother had to go 
 away and leave them, like that !" 
 
 "Their mother! Ah, yes, their mother! She 
 left 'em, all right!" 
 
 "Is she dead?' 
 
 "No cleared out, that's all Where is she 
 
 now? Don't ask me!" 
 
 His alert business air had dropped from him; 
 he was just a poor soul shaken by sorrow, and so 
 he reverted to his native country speech. 
 
 "She left, the slut quit 'em just like that! 
 four of 'em as they be! An' me I've got to 
 keep me business goin', I have ! The two littlest
 
 176 NENE 
 
 be just like yours: the oldest, he's goin* most 
 blind. Can I be lookin' after him? Can I be 
 makin' him all right again? Lord 'n Heaven! 
 we ain't all got a happy lot!" 
 
 Meanwhile he had finished folding away his 
 goods. His back straightened as if he were ashamed 
 of having let himself go like this before a stranger, 
 and, without a trace of his country accent, he said : 
 
 "Thank you, Ma'am; if I come back this way, I 
 hope you'll be kind enough to look at my goods 
 again." 
 
 Then, having politely raised his cap to her, he 
 took his whip and the horses were off. 
 
 Madeleine grumbled as she walked back to the 
 house. 
 
 "Women like that, they ought to be sent to 
 the galleys. I'm glad there aren't many of them 
 in these parts. What a place it must be that 
 Auvergne !"
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THAT Sunday was a bright, sunny day. The 
 sky was blue, the sun beamed festively. 
 
 The breeze was gently playful, running in ripples 
 over the green fields spiked with yellow, or shaking 
 the ears one by one as if to count them; and then 
 it blew upward again to frolic among the trees. 
 
 The hedges had dressed themselves up in their 
 new leaves. Flowers were showing their prettiest 
 wide-open faces all round about. Even the poor 
 little grasses by the wayside had prinked themselves 
 watch them straightening up on their stalks and 
 trying to shine! And the birds were carolling like 
 mad. 
 
 Madeleine walked slowly, holding Jo by the 
 hand ; from time to time she picked him up and car- 
 ried him on her arm a little way. Lalie was trotting 
 in front, with her curly hair whipping her shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 A cuckoo was singing in a cherry tree at the turn 
 of the road; Lalie stole up on tiptoe to try and see 
 the bird, but he flew away as she came on and 
 perched somewhere far away. 
 
 "Coo-coo! Coo-coo!" 
 
 The little girl turned round with shining eyes: 
 177
 
 178 NENE 
 
 "Nene! Do you hear that one*? I believe I 
 frightened him away!" 
 
 She babbled on, dancing in the sunshine : 
 
 "I'm happy! Come, Jo! Let's play! Come 
 along, both of you !" 
 
 Jo scampered to his sister and made chorus with 
 her, calling: 
 
 "Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Where are you, coo-coo 1 ?" 
 
 Madeleine watched them running ahead of her 
 and thought them as handsome as the children of 
 the rich. 
 
 She had put the new stockings on them and their 
 little legs showed through. At the last moment she 
 had sewed two double rows of pearl buttons on 
 Jo's short little trousers; and on her arm she was 
 carrying the smocks she had bought of the ped- 
 lar. 
 
 She, too, had dressed up. She had put on her 
 Sunday skirt and her best silk apron. When there 
 was a puff of wind, the bands of her muslin cap 
 flipped about her face. She walked with her head 
 held high and felt as happy as could be. 
 
 There were half a dozen children that day, visit- 
 ing the cousin of the Little Pasture. Lalie and 
 Jo were the prettiest among them. However hard 
 it was for them, the women complimented Made- 
 leine, who thereupon lifted her head the higher. 
 They had given her a place at the end of the table, 
 a little off from the others, because she was not one
 
 NENE 179 
 
 of the family. She took Jo on her lap and made him 
 eat from her plate, saying: 
 
 "He's used to it; otherwise he wouldn't eat a 
 thing." 
 
 She talked gaily, held up her. end against the 
 jesting of the men; and told the story of the 
 Auvergne woman who had left her children. 
 
 The cousin asked if it was that woman's husband 
 who had sold her the children's clothes. 
 
 "Not all of them," replied Madeleine, "but 
 some." 
 
 The cousin pinched her mouth: 
 
 "I went out to his cart, too, but his prices were 
 too high. We can't afford to throw away money, in 
 this family!" 
 
 Madeleine wanted to laugh. 
 
 "She's always the same, this one!" she thought. 
 "Did I ask her for the money to pay for this finery*? 
 When I want money, I know where to look for 
 it!" 
 
 All through the day this thought gladdened her 
 heart. And even that evening, on the way back to 
 the Moulinettes, she mumbled to herself: 
 
 "I've got money of my own, I have ! If it suits 
 me to waste it, what of it? If it's my pleas- 
 ure? I've got two hundred and fifty francs in the 
 savings bank. What are they for, I'd like to 
 know, these two hundred and fifty francs? What 
 did I save them for!"
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 t 
 
 FOR some time Madeleine was perfectly satis- 
 fied with life. 
 
 Trooper had applied for another postman's job 
 and while he was waiting for it he worked at a few 
 odd jobs, and there was no more talk about quarrels 
 and drinking bouts. 
 
 At the Moulinettes, Michael was spending very 
 little time indoors; even on Sundays he was rarely 
 seen about. Madeleine was glad of it. 
 
 "He's having a good time," she thought. "He 
 doesn't mean anything by it. So much the better 
 for me, then! He won't be thinking of getting 
 married again. That little dressmaker surely 
 wouldn't want my place here !" 
 
 In truth, Madeleine had been rather fearful for 
 a while; but now she laughed at herself for having 
 taken seriously such seemingly groundless fears. 
 
 Michael did not talk to her often, but always in 
 a friendly way. He left her entirely free; she kept 
 his purse, did the buying and selling as she saw fit. 
 Sometimes she tried to make him go over her ac- 
 counts, but he only shook his head laughingly and 
 said : 
 
 "Never mind ! Never mind ! I trust you !" 
 
 If he had listened to her, however, he might have 
 
 i So
 
 NENE 181 
 
 noticed that she was cheating. For instance, when 
 she told him she had bought a pair of clogs for Jo 
 for five francs, he wouldn't have needed to look 
 very hard to see that the clogs were a very pretty 
 pair of shoes, worth at least double that sum. 
 
 Also, he wouldn't have been dense enough to 
 believe that in a whole month she had bought only 
 one cake of chocolate at the grocery, when the chil- 
 dren were always having their hands full of dainties. 
 
 But nothing roused his suspicion. The house- 
 work was done, the children were thriving, the farm 
 was beginning to prosper again; that was all that 
 mattered to him. His mind was much too busy 
 with outside concerns to look very closely at how 
 things were managed at home. 
 
 Madeleine noticed this indifference on his part 
 and slyly took advantage of it. 
 
 In the drawer below the clothes-press two purses 
 lay side by side. For all ordinary purchases, all 
 necessary expenses, she dipped into Michael's; but 
 when it was a matter of doing something special 
 for the children, she opened her own. She paid out 
 of her own money for everything like dainties, pleas- 
 ures or unessential finery. It was so easy for her to 
 buy things in this way and the joy of the children 
 was like sunshine in her heart. 
 
 Only one thing kept her from going beyond all 
 bounds: her purse was slender; very soon it would 
 be empty.
 
 182 N E N E 
 
 Some years past she had stopped handing her 
 wages over to her mother, but made her a small 
 allowance, instead, to help her out. She had also 
 sent some money to her brother while he was doing 
 his military service, and even now she slipped him 
 a coin, every once in a while. So she couldn't save 
 up such a lot. 
 
 Of course she had those two hundred and fifty 
 francs tucked away in the savings bank, but she 
 wasn't yet thinking of drawing them out. She made 
 her accounts: 
 
 "I have eight francs left. All-Saints day's com- 
 ing in two months, and then Corbier will give me 
 my wages. If I don't buy anything for myself, 
 I can manage. I'll have to do with a little less 
 pleasure for the children, that's all. But next 
 winter I'll catch up !" 
 
 One Sunday, walking with the children along the 
 road to Saint-Ambroise, she came across a man 
 named Bouju, a bachelor of thirty-five or so, who 
 was distantly related to her. While walking on 
 beside her, he told her about his affairs, his tastes 
 and how much he had been able to save up. Then 
 he suggested that she would be wise to get married, 
 that he liked her very much, and that well, here 
 he was, and would she take him? 
 
 "My goodness! If I ever expected anything like 
 this !" 
 
 She had stopped walking, taken utterly by sur-
 
 N E N E 183 
 
 prise, and this idea of marriage struck her as so 
 funny that she began to laugh. 
 
 Oh, yes, this man Bouju looked honest enough, 
 and her own heart was quite free but all the same, 
 it gave her a good laugh.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 fT^HERE came a morning when Madeleine's 
 JL heart was heavy. The day before she had 
 been to Saint-Ambroise and had brought the chil- 
 dren nothing but a pound of shortbread; and they 
 had sniffed at the dainty that used to content them. 
 
 Lalie, especially, had shown bad temper, but that 
 was because she had asked Madeleine to buy her a 
 doll, a big doll that stood in Mme. Blanchevirain's 
 show-window in the village. And she had framed 
 her demand in exactly the right way for effect, say- 
 ing: 
 
 "Germaine of the Little Pasture has three 
 dolls, yes, she has ! Her mother buys her all the 
 dolls she wants. And I haven't got a single one, 
 since Zinc's head is broken." 
 
 Madeleine's heart was very heavy and very trou- 
 bled. Still, she knew she had done the right thing. 
 All she had left was five francs, and the doll for 
 of course she had priced it! cost three francs. It 
 would have been folly to buy it, for All-Saints day 
 was still far away, and how far would two misera- 
 ble francs take her! 
 
 But just think of this girl, Germaine! Three 
 
 dolls of her own! Why not ten? What could she 
 
 184
 
 N E N E 185 
 
 be doing with her three dolls'? Her mother had 
 simply bought them for her to show off with ! 
 
 Madeleine worked herself into a temper. 
 
 "That woman, I know her! She's just a brag- 
 gart ! She makes me tired, she does ! Every chance 
 she sees me, she gives me a dig ! . . . Three dolls ! 
 The idea of throwing money away like that ! All 
 right, let her! Let her buy all she wants! ... it 
 won't make her big Germaine any the cleverer nor 
 any the prettier, either! . . . Just let her try and 
 compare her with Lalie ! ... As soon as All-Saints 
 day comes around, if I don't buy a doll that costs 
 all of five francs, I'll lose my name. Just you wait ! 
 I'll show you! " 
 
 She was grumbling away like this while stirring 
 up the fire and wielding the tongs with noisy energy. 
 
 A big voice rang out behind her : 
 
 "Well, well! Why all this racket*?" 
 
 She rose from her knees, blushing; but as she 
 recognised her brother she burst out laughing. 
 
 He had come up the path without her hearing 
 him and now he stood on the threshold. 
 
 "It's you," she said; "come in." 
 
 He came up to her to give her a kiss and laughed 
 as he said: 
 
 "What a fine morning! The sun's shining like 
 a benediction." 
 
 At the back of his blue eyes, however, some sort 
 of uneasiness was prowling. Madeleine did not
 
 i86 NENE 
 
 notice it and was honestly glad to see him in sucK 
 a pleasant mood. 
 
 "Where are you bound for, passing this way, big 
 brotherf 
 
 "Down valley, to Rivard's place. He sent for 
 me, and I thought I'd pass round this way to see 
 how you are getting along; you're making yourself 
 so scarce at Le Coudray." 
 
 "I've got my hands full, you see; and with the 
 children it's hard to get away." 
 
 Trooper had taken a seat. For a while he talked 
 about his affairs. He had been quite busy for some 
 time past, and this week too he expected to have 
 work every day. 
 
 Madeleine stopped working; an idea was trotting 
 through her head. 
 
 "No doubt he's got some money he'd be glad to 
 let me have some, I'm sure I'd only need to ask." 
 
 Then the thought came to her that it would be 
 wrong of her to ask; that she wouldn't dare, 
 young and strong as she was, to take money from 
 this poor brother who had so much trouble earning 
 his bread. 
 
 "Still, I've been giving him money, even before 
 he was crippled. Besides, after All-Saints day, 
 I'd return it. I could go right away to Mme. 
 Blanchevirain and get the doll with the eyes that 
 close, the one that costs three francs. Wouldn't 
 Lalie be glad, though !"
 
 N E N E 187 
 
 She dwelled on the thought of it, hands idle and 
 eyes shining. She wasn't listening to her brother 
 any more ; temptation was upon her like a thunder- 
 cloud. 
 
 Suddenly she made her decision : 
 
 "Well, now, big brother, if you're working every 
 day, you ought to be pretty well off, at present?" 
 
 He gave a little start and his thoughts followed 
 hers in this new direction. 
 
 "Well off? Goodness, no! It's all I can do 
 to earn a living!" 
 
 He lowered his eyes, repeating: 
 
 "It's all I can do all I can do! I never have 
 a penny in my pocket." 
 
 Usually he didn't need to say even as much as 
 that; Madeleine hardly waited for a hint before 
 slipping him a coin. To-day she made no move. 
 
 "I'm dressed like a tramp; see, my shoes are 
 falling off my feet I'm crazy for a smoke." 
 
 Still she said nothing. Pale and with tears in his 
 eyes he stammered: 
 
 "Madeleine, listen to me. It's hard for me to 
 say this Madeleine, you don't happen to have a 
 little money?" 
 
 "Well, now of all things!" 
 
 She threw this at him in an angry tone, standing 
 quite motionless, baffled by the unexpected shock. 
 
 Surprise at her attitude made him speechless for 
 a moment; then he got up.
 
 i88 N E N E 
 
 "Well, sister, I'll say good-bye, then." 
 But he had not gone three steps before Madeleine 
 threw herself at his neck. 
 
 "My dear! Don't go away! Wait till I tell 
 you how it is. We mustn't quarrel, you and 
 me! Money! All right, I'll give you some. 
 Sometimes a person talks before thinking, don't you 
 
 see!' : 
 
 She held him tightly in her strong arms and forced 
 him to sit down again. 
 
 "Money for your tobacco of course, I'll give 
 you some, you poor old dear!" 
 
 She had fetched her purse and was counting out 
 some coppers, one by one, lingeringly. 
 
 "There! Fifteen sous will that be enough?" 
 
 He replied bitterly: 
 
 "A pack of tobacco doesn't cost as much as that." 
 
 "That's so," she said. 
 
 The coppers were lined up on the table. She took 
 away five of them, blushed- and put them back. 
 
 She laid away her purse immediately, and then, 
 in order to forget the incident as quickly as possible, 
 she began to talk about her mother, about Fridoline, 
 and she laughed at Tiennette who was being seen 
 walking out with Gideon. But he stuck to his 
 theme : 
 
 "Madeleine, you didn't understand and it is 
 my fault. I didn't explain myself right; I didn't 
 tell you the truth I'm not craving for any tobacco.
 
 N E N E 189 
 
 As for money, I'm making a little every day 
 I've got some, but not enough for what I want it for. 
 Lend me twenty francs lend me ten francs lend 
 me just five francs, will you*?" 
 
 "Five francs! Why, that's all I have!" ex- 
 claimed Madeleine. 
 
 "I'll give it back to you when I get a job, as 
 I'll give you back all you've given me before." 
 
 "You won't do any such thing ! I share my little 
 bit with you, big brother, and that's as it should be. 
 If you want to pay me back for what I've given you, 
 pay me back in affection." 
 
 It upset her to see him shaking there before her, 
 and she came to him and said, very gently and very 
 low: 
 
 "John, tell me all about it! Something is tor- 
 menting you. Tell me your trouble and I'll comfort 
 you. If it's money you want, I've got a-plenty 
 hi the savings bank; I'll go and draw out some for 
 you." 
 
 He took her hand and kissed it. His words came 
 heavily, brokenly: 
 
 "Yes! poor sister! Work! Work your hands 
 off, work your eyes out! I'm there, waiting to 
 take your money and throw it to the winds; and 
 when you are old, you'll live on charity !" 
 
 "John, don't talk like that ! You're hurting me !" 
 
 "Poor sister! do you want to know where goes 
 the money you give me? Go to Chantepie and ask
 
 190 N E N E 
 
 Violette, the dressmaker. When you lay eyes on her, 
 look her over from head to foot; look at her belt 
 with the silver buckle, look at her fingers and her 
 ears and her neck . . . On her right hand she 
 wears a gold ring set with brilliants; I bought it 
 for her. On her left hand she has two more rings, 
 and who gave her those? And who's given her the 
 earrings and the necklaces'? It wasn't her mother, 
 nor was it me ! And yet, I love her, I love her." 
 
 "But you're stark mad, you poor dear!" 
 
 "I love her! Yes, I'm mad, I know! Yes, open 
 your eyes wide! Look at me! I'm bringing 
 shame on the family. One of these days I'll end 
 like a dangerous animal." 
 
 Madeleine was appalled and tried to raise his 
 head. 
 
 "Don't talk like this, for God's sake! What is 
 it you need"? You asked for money: you'll have 
 it. I'll give you all you want; only don't talk 
 like that don't!" 
 
 "Money! yes, give me some. Give me five 
 francs It's the last time I'll ask you I'm short 
 of just five francs to buy the watch she wants." 
 
 And he added, utterly crushed: 
 
 "And then, someone else will give her a chain. 
 I'm a coward; I'm not a man; just as you said once." 
 
 Madeleine emptied her purse and, without a 
 word, slipped the money into his pocket. 
 
 "Thank you," he said, "and now I must be on
 
 NENE 191 
 
 my way. And this evening, if I've finished early 
 enough at Rivard's, I'll go and buy the watch; she'll 
 have it to-morrow, because she's working at Saint- 
 Ambroise this week. Didn't you see her pass by 
 this morning? Your master's sure to have seen her ! 
 Good-bye, then no, don't kiss me, no, don't! 
 I don't deserve it." 
 
 He went away and Madeleine returned to her 
 work, with tears running down her cheeks. After a 
 minute or two, Lalie ran in and stood up before her : 
 
 "You're crying, I see! It's your turn! I cried 
 my eyes out yesterday, I did ! The Lord has pun- 
 ished you: that'll teach you! Now are you 
 going to get me the big doll at Mme. Blanche- 
 virain's shop?" 
 
 Madeleine leaned down to the little girl and 
 hugged her passionately. 
 
 "Yes, darling, I'll go and get it, never you fear ! 
 Let them all do their darndest; you'll have your 
 doll." 
 
 On the spur of the moment she had reached this 
 decision. 
 
 At noon, she told Michael: 
 
 "I'll have to go to market to-morrow. We've got 
 some twenty pullets ready to sell, and a basketful 
 of butter, and some eggs." 
 
 He said : 
 
 "All right. I'll tell the carter to come and fetch 
 the lot."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 SO next day, after market, Madeleine went to the 
 savings bank to draw out twenty francs, out of 
 which she bought, at a town shop, a doll that was 
 much grander than the one at Mme. Blanchevirain's. 
 
 Coming back home, she took the Saint-Ambroise 
 road. As she passed through the village she saw 
 through an open window two young seamstresses 
 laughing as they worked. A little behind them she 
 saw another girl, a tall one, standing very straight, 
 scissors in hand ; and on her breast there hung a new 
 and shining little watch. 
 
 Madeleine's heart heaved with anger. 
 
 "She's got it ! She got it already ! When I meet 
 her, I'll tell her what I think of her! I'll teach her, 
 I will, to rob Lalie and Jo!" 
 
 That very evening she watched out for Violette, 
 who had to pass by the Moulinettes on her way 
 home to Chantepie. But all for nothing; neither 
 that evening nor the next nor the next did Violette 
 come by. 
 
 But on Friday evening, as Madeleine was picking 
 vegetables in the garden, she heard voices on the 
 road; she straightened up and recognised the two 
 girl helpers, who came along chattering and seem- 
 
 192
 
 N E N E 193 
 
 ingly having great fun over something. She let 
 them get out of sight before she stepped to the road- 
 side. 
 
 "Well, now!" she mumbled. 
 
 At a turning a short distance back, Violette was 
 standing before Michael, her head bent flirtatiously. 
 
 "All right," said Madeleine, I'll wait for her a 
 bit farther on." 
 
 She withdrew noiselessly, went back to the house, 
 glanced at the children and ran out the back way 
 toward the pond. 
 
 She didn't have to wait long. Violette came on 
 at a swift pace, hurrying to overtake her girl helpers. 
 When she was close enough, Madeleine climbed over 
 a low fence and posted herself in the middle of the 
 road. 
 
 "Good evening, Mademoiselle Violette!'* 
 
 "Good evening," replied the dressmaker, turning 
 a bit to one side so as to pass by quickly. 
 
 Madeleine went on: 
 
 "You seem to be in a hurry !" 
 
 "So I am." 
 
 "There's something I want to say to you, though." 
 
 "You? Tome?" 
 
 "Yes and I'm not doing this for my own pleas- 
 ure, and maybe it won't be for yours either." 
 
 "You don't say!" said Violette, standing still. 
 
 She said: "You don't say!" and gave a short, 
 dry, mocking laugh. Her eyes glanced over Made-
 
 194 N E N E 
 
 leine from head to foot, with such insolence that 
 Madeleine asked rather angrily : 
 
 "Why are you looking me over like that? Doesn't 
 my skirt fit me?" 
 
 "Oh, beautifully ! It's quite even all round. My 
 grandmother used to wear one just like it, and she'd 
 inherited it." 
 
 "You've got a quick tongue !" 
 
 "At your service." 
 
 For quite a while they looked each other straight 
 in the eye; then Violette threw back her pretty, 
 insolent head: 
 
 "May I ask, in turn, what you're finding about 
 me that isn't to your taste?" 
 
 Madeleine answered: 
 
 "I was looking at your watch. I think it's 
 pretty." 
 
 "Would you like to see it closer?" 
 
 "Thank you, no; I can see it very well; it's a 
 new-fangled watch; it isn't an heirloom like your 
 grandmother's skirt." 
 
 "You said that very neatly! but whether it's 
 new-fangled or not is none of your business." 
 
 "I beg your pardon! I happen to know when 
 you got that watch and who gave it to you ! And 
 you needn't play the artless either, my dear !" 
 
 Violette was taken aback ; color rose to her cheeks 
 and her thin white nostrils quivered. 
 
 "Well, and what of it?"
 
 NENE 195 
 
 "You haven't got much self-respect !" said 
 Madeleine. "That watch and those rings you're 
 wearing you never paid for them !" 
 
 The girl tossed her head and her laugh came sharp 
 as the crack of a whip. 
 
 "Indeed I did!" she said. "I paid for them!" 
 
 Madeleine gasped. 
 
 "Aren't you ashamed of yourself*? You've com- 
 mitted a grievous sin ! If your mother heard you !" 
 
 But she saw that impudence was sovereign in the 
 girl's black eyes and, knowing that all admonition 
 would be wasted, she changed her tone. 
 
 "From now on, you'll leave my brother alone! 
 Since nothing will hold you back, neither shame, 
 nor religion " 
 
 Violette broke in, trying to down her speech: 
 
 "Religion! I've got as much religion as you 
 have, any day! You're a fine one to boast about 
 your religion ! Better go and be baptised, first !" 
 
 "... and since you don't care about your 
 mother's feelings, I'll keep my eye on you! Now, 
 listen to me! If you start again leading him on, 
 I'll mete you out your punishment myself! Oh, 
 you may laugh!" 
 
 "Indeed! What was that you said? You'll 
 mete me out my punishment? I'd like to know 
 how! Maybe you'll beat me up? You've got the 
 muscle to do it, all right and the face! No?
 
 196 N E N E 
 
 you won't beat me up? Well then, how will you 
 go about it?' 
 
 Yes, how would she go about it*? Madeleine 
 felt confused by the girl's insolent stare. However, 
 she managed to say: 
 
 "I'll begin by warning my brother; I'll tell him 
 of your behaviour." 
 
 "He probably knows it better than you !" 
 
 "I'll tell him that on the very day he gave you 
 that watch you listened to another suitor; I'll tell 
 him that a while ago I saw you with Michael 
 Corbier." 
 
 "Ah, now we're coming to the point !" cried Vio- 
 lette. "You're jealous! Why didn't you say so 
 right away?" 
 
 "You're wrong. Leave my brother in peace and, 
 for all of me, you can go your own way where it 
 suits you. But if you worry him again " 
 
 "You'll spy on me ! You'll use every means of 
 running me down to your master ! I know why !" 
 
 Violette had come close; her expression was so 
 vicious that it made her pretty face quite ugly. 
 
 "Others have been jealous of me before, but never 
 yet a monkey-face like you !" 
 
 Madeleine let this pass without much resentment. 
 Violette came closer still and said, with her evil 
 laugh : 
 
 "Listen to me! You're not up to this game! 
 Since nothing will hold you back that's the way
 
 NENE 197 
 
 you talk, isn't it? since nothing will hold you 
 back, neither shame nor religion nor the fear of your 
 mother, I'll mete you out your punishment myself! 
 To begin with, you'd better get used to the idea 
 of leaving the Moulinettes." 
 
 Madeleine's face went white and her hands crept 
 up to her throat. 
 
 "What do you say? What do you dare to say?" 
 
 "You needn't take on and start yelling like that ! 
 I'm being very nice about it I'm giving you a 
 month's notice, before All-Saints That leaves you 
 plenty of time to look for another place." 
 
 "But you don't know you can't imagine " 
 
 "Oh, yes, don't you fear ! I know, I can imagine; 
 and that's just why I'll make you leave. Perhaps 
 it'll teach you to mind your own business." 
 
 Madeleine stammered, strangling: 
 
 "No, you're wrong, it isn't what you think I'm 
 not jealous, God knows! It's on account of the 
 children. Oh, you couldn't be so wicked !" 
 
 "The children? Bah, what nonsense! You're 
 not their mother; you're nothing to them. What's 
 the matter? Are you going to beat me?" 
 
 "Shut up! Mademoiselle Violette, you shut 
 up!" 
 
 "Mademoiselle Violette, at present! But you 
 can't budge me ! You'll get out, my dear, and when 
 you're out, you'll never see either father or children 
 again! I'll have the house forbidden to you!"
 
 198 N E N E 
 
 "Ah! I wish I could throttle you, you wicked 
 thing!" 
 
 Madeleine threw out her hands. But the girl 
 walked away holding her glossy little head erect, 
 like a viper. 
 
 "Madeleine Clarandeau, you started this, and 
 you'll be sorry ! I'll see that you remember me." 
 
 Then she mumbled to herself: 
 
 "Well, my good Boiseriot, who thought she was 
 going to give so much trouble, who stopped at 
 nothing to fling mud at her, you'll thank me for 
 this day's work!"
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 ON Monday, Michael started the offensive. 
 From early morning on, he tried to pick 
 quarrels with Madeleine. At night he returned to 
 the charge without the shadow of a reason, not even 
 waiting until the farm-hands had gone away. 
 
 The following days it was the same song over 
 again. A mortal apprehension began to gnaw at 
 Madeleine's heart. From time to time she tried to 
 buoy herself up : 
 
 "He wouldn't dare; he'd have to find a good rea- 
 son for sending me away. Besides, it seems to me 
 he's beginning to calm down." 
 
 Then Violette passed by the farm, or wrote a 
 letter, and right away the bad weather was on her 
 again. 
 
 Madeleine never answered Michael back. Most 
 of the time she did not even hear what he said. The 
 blood rushed to her cheeks and as quickly back 
 again; her heart felt cold; sometimes it pounded 
 against her chest like the strokes of a hammer, 
 stopped still, and went on with a mad flutter. At 
 odd moments, her legs went suddenly weak, her 
 vision blurred, and all her faculties melted in a 
 
 strange pang that was like a death pang. 
 
 199
 
 200 N E N E 
 
 When the men had gone to bed she solaced her 
 ache with tears. 
 
 She didn't do her work as well as she used to. 
 Being now particularly anxious not to give Michael 
 any cause for complaint, she spent more time than 
 necessary over those things that usually caught his 
 attention; for the rest, the days weren't long enough. 
 She still dusted very carefully all the old keepsakes 
 on the mantelpiece, those rather ugly old things 
 that had come under her special guardianship after 
 the death of old man Corbier; but she now ran her 
 cloth but rarely, and then hurriedly, over the chairs, 
 the beds, the chests with the fine old iron-work. 
 
 Sometimes she sat down with Jo on her lap and 
 stayed like that a long while. When the baby let 
 her rock him in her arms, when he dropped off to 
 sleep against her shoulder, when the warm little 
 breath caressed her cheek, a gentle languor came 
 over her and, forgetful of everything, she still had 
 moments of deep happiness. 
 
 Michael took every opportunity to annoy her and 
 harshly show himself the master. One morning he 
 ordered Madeleine, in a tone that did not admit of 
 discussion, to get all of Lalie's clothes ready so she 
 could start going to school right after All-Saints 
 day. 
 
 Indeed it was high time; Lalie was past seven; 
 but as there was no one but herself to take her to 
 Saint-Ambroise, Madeleine had managed until now
 
 N E N E 201 
 
 to keep her at home. She had taught her to read 
 and count, and she had even bought her some copy- 
 books with handwriting models at the top of the 
 pages, for Lalie to learn to use her pen. And 
 Madeleine was delighted because Lalie was already 
 showing the promise of a fine hand. 
 
 When school had opened in October, Michael had 
 spoken of sending the little girl to attend classes, 
 but Madeleine had opposed the plan because it was 
 such a long way to go and the bad weather would 
 be coming soon. Michael had given in. And here 
 he was going back on his word, without a single 
 new argument. 
 
 "Lalie will go to school, beginning the first Mon- 
 day of November. Get her things ready." 
 
 "And where will I be, the first Monday of No- 
 vember?" thought Madeleine. "All-Saints day will 
 come round in a fortnight, and my contract will be 
 up, and he hasn't yet said a word about renewing 
 it." 
 
 Michael was indeed quite silent on the subject, 
 which only increased Madeleine's fears. 
 
 One day, however, at table, as he was making 
 plans for the coming year, Michael spoke up 
 bluntly : 
 
 "As for you, Madeleine, what have you decided?" 
 
 She did not answer but drew away from him, 
 turning her back to poke the fire. 
 
 "What are your plans? You haven't told me, so
 
 202 N E N E 
 
 far, whether you want to stay on here or not. It's 
 time I knew; I want to have all this business settled 
 at once. Here's what I have to say: if you decide 
 to stay on, it won't be at the same wages. I mean 
 to cut them down." 
 
 He had purposely struck a loud, lordly, disagree- 
 able tone to make it quite clear that he no longer 
 wanted his housekeeper and that he had made his 
 new offer merely to save her face, to let the break 
 come from her instead of him. The men listened 
 in astonishment; Gideon had to make an effort to 
 keep quiet, but his eyes showed anger. 
 
 Michael went on: "You are no doubt capable 
 of making a lot of money, but it isn't convenient 
 for me to pay you such high wages." 
 
 Madeleine kept her back turned and asked in a 
 dead voice: 
 
 "What's your offer?" 
 
 He paused, for he had not expected such a direct 
 question. At last he said : 
 
 "The girl I hire will get two hundred francs for 
 the year, no more." 
 
 Madeleine turned round at once ; facing the three 
 of them, she said: 
 
 "Agreed!" 
 
 Michael started, opened his mouth to say some- 
 thing; but, meeting the farm-hands' stare, he grew 
 red in the face and replied superciliously:
 
 N E N E 203 
 
 "All right! My word stands. That's settled, 
 then." 
 
 That day Madeleine ate her food with a good 
 appetite, did all her work with the old thorough- 
 ness and, when night came, she slept eight hours 
 at a stretch. 
 
 But on the morrow the man's attitude was such 
 that all her fears were revived, only the sharper and 
 more pressing for the brief moment's respite. 
 
 It seemed to her that she could not possibly stay 
 on at the Moulinettes; no agreement in the world 
 could bind her. No matter how deaf and dumb, how 
 humble and cowardly she might be, she would not 
 be able to escape this insensate enmity. 
 
 She who had never been ill in her life, felt her- 
 self on the way to illness. She could not eat; she 
 could not sleep; a strange weariness was breaking 
 all her limbs. 
 
 One morning, Gideon, who had got up very early, 
 found the hall door open. It puzzled him, and as 
 he went out to investigate, he stumbled over 
 Madeleine sitting on the ground, fighting off a faint- 
 ing spell.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 NIGHT was falling, an October night as beauti- 
 ful as a mid-summer evening, but of a more 
 wistful, more intimate, more thrilling beauty. The 
 wind that had been high all through the day, whisk- 
 ing the leaves off the trees, had gone to sleep. Only 
 the tall tree-tops were still a-tremble, shining like 
 copper in the golden haze of the setting sun. 
 
 Michael was guessing the hour of day by the 
 length of the shadows. All day long he had worked 
 in the meadow behind the house, pruning the bushy 
 hedges, cutting the heads off the shrubs, hacking 
 away the brambles and the intruding honey-suckle. 
 Now he had come to the goat pasture and was clean- 
 ing up all the tough, hasty weed-growths of the sum- 
 mer. With wide strokes of his sickle he felled dry 
 grasses, wall-flowers, the last of the thistles and the 
 rusty stalks of dead ferns. 
 
 Every once in a while he straightened up to listen, 
 and his eyes searched the road. Violette was to 
 pass by the Moulinettes on her way back from Saint- 
 Ambroise and he was waiting for her; it was almost 
 time for her to come. 
 
 "Only a little while longer ! When the mist rises 
 
 round the pond, she'll be coming in sight." 
 
 204
 
 N E N E 205 
 
 All his youthful, ardent feelings carried him 
 madly ahead toward her. 
 
 At the house, Madeleine's voice rang out. 
 Michael heard it and all at once his temper was 
 roused. 
 
 That girl ! Why was she staying on at his place*? 
 Why couldn't he get rid of her even when her con- 
 tract was run out? He'd made a new deal, and of 
 course he couldn't think of going back on any deal 
 once it was made. 
 
 Still . . . think of how she harmed him in Vio- 
 lette's esteem ! 
 
 Well, after all, it was largely his own fault. He 
 had been letting the woman take hold of his house- 
 hold too masterfully, right from the start. Now she 
 had naturally enthroned herself and expected to rule 
 the whole place. Well, she wouldn't just watch 
 and see ! 
 
 "I'm the master and the only master. They'll 
 start laughing at me, next thing! I'll get her to 
 go. She deserves it it's plain justice." 
 
 He kept saying these things to himself to keep 
 up his resolution. When he had Violette before his 
 eyes, his rancour flamed high, but whenever he was 
 alone he had to keep stirring the flames a little. 
 
 There were her three years of devoted service and 
 good fellowship; there was the renewed prosperity 
 of his farm, the happy comfort of his children. And
 
 206 N E N E 
 
 then perhaps something else, too, that wasn't quite 
 forgotten. 
 
 "It's plain justice, no more than plain jus- 
 tice " 
 
 Having finished his pruning, he threw down his 
 sickle, picked up a fork and piled up the rubbish 
 into a great heap ; then, in order to destroy all these 
 noxious weeds full of seed, Michael set the pile on 
 fire. A bright flame roared up, biting into the dry 
 fern and the small brush. Then the fire went down 
 a little, and a thick, white smoke billowed from the 
 burning greenery and rose up slowly. 
 
 Lalie, who was playing in the front yard, saw 
 the beautiful, high smoke. She ran through the 
 house to the back door. 
 
 "Nene ! Nene ! There's a big fire in the meadow ; 
 I am going to see it." 
 
 Madeleine called out: 
 
 "No, you stay here, you'll see it just as well ; down 
 there, you might get burned." 
 
 Michael heard her and approved of her prudence. 
 But then, right away, he chided himself for his ap- 
 proval and, from a feeling of misconceived pride, 
 he called : 
 
 "Lalie, come and see my bonfire !" 
 
 It was not a kindly invitation, but a crude defiance 
 shouted very loud so as to carry far. The words 
 passed over Lalie's head, on into the house, and
 
 N E N E 207 
 
 crashed against Madeleine's heart. Lalie started off 
 at once, calling back: 
 
 "Nene, I'm going; papa said so." 
 
 Michael was now raking together the little heaps 
 of dead leaves and dry twigs he had assembled all 
 over the pasture. Every time he flung an armful 
 of the fuel on the fire, it flamed up, crackled prettily 
 and sent up innumerable sparks. 
 
 Lalie danced around the fire, clapping her hands. 
 Michael had gathered some early chestnuts and put 
 them for her on a bed of embers that he had raked 
 together at one side of the bonfire. While they 
 were roasting, the child started running back and 
 forth through the smoke. 
 
 "Don't go too near," said Michael, "the flame 
 might catch you." 
 
 The little girl stopped running and busied her- 
 self stirring her chestnuts with a twig. 
 
 At the lower end of the meadow there was still 
 a big pile of brush left and Michael went to fetch 
 it; but just as he was raising his pitchfork, he 
 dropped it again and walked up to the road. 
 
 Violette was coming. 
 
 When she reached him she stopped and let her 
 girl helpers go on ahead. 
 
 "Good evening," said she; "you heard me com- 
 ing?" 
 
 "My mind is full of you all day long and when 
 you rise to come toward me, wherever you are, I
 
 208 N E N E 
 
 hear your step. My heart hears a hundred times 
 farther than my ear." 
 
 She threw back her head, offering her swelling 
 throat, and murmured languidly: 
 
 "When it comes to paying compliments, there's 
 none can hold a candle to you." 
 
 "That's because none feels such tenderness as 
 mine. If you knew how slowly the hours pass when 
 I am far from you!" 
 
 She smiled and drew nearer until she touched him. 
 
 "I too," she said, "I think of you. I'm glad I 
 met you to-night; I wanted to tell you that I've 
 found a new servant for you, an elderly woman who 
 can come right away after All-Saints day." 
 
 Michael made an angry gesture. 
 
 "Oh, about that ! I'm in a pretty fix, the way I 
 was caught the other morning!" 
 
 "What do you mean? What happened?" 
 
 "I made a new agreement, for another year, with 
 the one I've got now." 
 
 Violette gave a start as if she had stepped on a 
 thorn and malice began to gleam in her eyes. 
 
 "You're joking," she said drily, "you're trying 
 to make me laugh." 
 
 "Nothing of the kind, unfortunately!" 
 
 "Well, then? Didn't you promise me?" 
 
 "Of course I did, and gladly, too ! But there you 
 are, I never suspected ! I offered ridiculous
 
 N E N E 209 
 
 wages and she took me up right off. I only did it 
 so as not to hurt her feelings." 
 
 "Thank you ! You'd sooner have her hurt mine, 
 would you?' 
 
 She turned to go away and Michael pleaded: 
 
 "Violette ! Violette ! Please ! Don't hold it 
 against me!" 
 
 And he added in a sad, cowardly tone: "I made 
 you a promise I'll try to keep it; I'll find a way." 
 
 "It's simple enough and you needn't bother your 
 head: at All-Saints you just hire the servant I've 
 found for you." 
 
 "I can't do it ! We've made an agreement " 
 
 "Bah! Does that stop you?' 
 
 "Yes, it does. In our family, we've always 
 stuck to our bargains. But perhaps she'll leave of 
 her own accord: I'd rather have it that way." 
 
 "Not I !" declared Violette. "If you really mean 
 to get rid of her, you can find plenty of reasons. 
 In the first place, she's robbing you." 
 
 "That's not so !" said Michael. 
 
 "Isn't it, though! Poor fellow!" 
 
 She gave him a sort of pitying look and began 
 to relate Boiseriot's ugly tales. But as he shook 
 his head and remained incredulous she grew im- 
 patient and declared flatly: 
 
 "Anyway, I've got enough of this ! If you want 
 me to listen to your compliments, you'll have to 
 get rid of a servant as young as this one."
 
 210 NENE 
 
 Michael had taken her hands and held them 
 firmly in his. 
 
 "Violette ! Viofette ! All right it'll be managed 
 somehow. If you'd only say yes, it's you who'd be 
 at the head of my household now; and if there was 
 a servant, she'd be under your orders. Listen to 
 me " 
 
 She tossed her head, but he went on, more press- 
 ingly: 
 
 "You know how much I love you! If you love 
 me too, why won't you be my wife? Why wait and 
 let our youth go to waste*?" 
 
 She had no time to answer. 
 
 Through the evening quiet a cry rose: a sudden, 
 terrible, agonised, long drawn-out cry of horrible 
 fear and unspeakable pain. And then, almost at 
 once, another, deeper, raucous cry : the cry of a cor- 
 nered animal that makes ready for a spring. 
 
 Michael felt his legs give way under him; he 
 raised a hand and cried in a quaking voice : 
 
 "God's curse ! My child's on fire !" 
 
 He hurled himself forward, broke through the 
 hedge, dashed across the meadow toward the cloud 
 of smoke that eddied around a writhing, living 
 torch. 
 
 Madeleine, too, came hurrying through the goat 
 pasture. The child's cry had instantly brought her 
 to her feet, had sped her out of the house and was 
 pushing, carrying her forward with incredible swift-
 
 NENE 211 
 
 ness. And from her throat rose that other cry 
 in response, the hoarse cry of the she-wolf howling 
 at death. 
 
 Apron in hand, she threw herself on the child, 
 rolled with her on the grass, beat out the flames with 
 wild gesturings, with her skirts, her hands, with 
 all her big body. 
 
 And then, with one jerk, she was on her feet. 
 The child writhed in her arms, uttering piercing, 
 heart-rending shrieks. 
 
 Michael reached them all a-tremble, his clothes 
 awry. She never even looked at him, but started 
 off on the run. 
 
 With bare feet and her hair undone down her 
 back she ran this way and that, aimlessly, bounding 
 hither and thither in a mad zigzag. 
 
 As Michael ran after her, impatient to know the 
 worst, she darted off to the pond with the child 
 held high to let the wind cool the burns. A hedge 
 cut her off for a minute; then she was seen darting 
 back again. 
 
 Violette had also run into the meadow and was 
 standing beside Michael on the pasture lane. With 
 eyes aflame, Madeleine charged toward the two. 
 They stepped out of her path, knowing that she 
 was crazed and ready to scratch, to kick, to bite. 
 She shot past them, wild-eyed, her hair streaming 
 behind her in the wind, carrying her pitiful, scream- 
 ing burden into the house.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 doctor did not come until the next day, at 
 JL dawn. The child's cries went on inexorably. 
 At times they lost a little of their shrillness, grew 
 fainter, and it seemed as if they were going to sub- 
 side, but suddenly they rose again, more harrowing 
 than ever. 
 
 "Nene! Nene! It hurts! Help me, Nene !" 
 
 The doctor examined carefully the little body in 
 pain. The fire had caught at her skirts, probably 
 while the child was kneeling to watch the chestnuts 
 roasting. The cotton smock, already overheated, 
 had flared up like paper, burning away all her hair, 
 scorching her face and neck and hands. The left 
 side was the worst; another second or two, and the 
 whole of her body would have been one great 
 wound. 
 
 "She is not in any real danger," said the doctor. 
 "The burns seem to be superficial. But you got to her 
 just in time." 
 
 He was a young man with an air of self-impor- 
 tance. He put on bandages but, to Madeleine's way 
 of thinking, he didn't go about it as he should, too 
 hurriedly and too roughly. When he was done, he 
 rubbed his hands as if he were very well satisfied. 
 
 212
 
 NENE 213 
 
 "It will be nothing; painful, of course, but you 
 mustn't be frightened over trifles. Do you hear me, 
 Madame*? There you are, all in a tremble, and un- 
 nerved it's foolish! Look at me: am I upset*? 
 Do her screams upset me*? My goodness, one's got 
 to use some self-control !" 
 
 Madeleine had resumed her seat by the child's 
 bedside and the doctor was standing behind her, 
 talking and talking, suggesting that he was a 
 widely travelled and learned man. 
 
 With his little girl's incessant cries ringing hi his 
 ears, Michael had to make an effort to listen to 
 him with some semblance of politeness; he nodded 
 approvingly, even though he heard only bits of dis- 
 connected sentences that made no sense to him. 
 
 "In Paris . . . over there ... at the hospital 
 . . . you wouldn't believe it ! ... In the course of 
 my studies ... In Paris . . . some appalling 
 cases ... I remember a certain woman . . . 
 burned all over . . . blisters as big as bladders 
 . . . That was at St. Louis' Hospital . . . and 
 don't forget, there was asphyxiation too . . . One 
 of my colleagues suggested picric acid ... I said: 
 No! ... I saved her life ... In the Paris hos- 
 pitals . . . great, complicated cases . . ." 
 
 Madeleine turned round, bristling, and flung into 
 his face: 
 
 "Great complicated cases! Great complicated 
 cases! Why don't you heal this one that's little
 
 214 NENE 
 
 . . . and simple, so you say ! If you know such a 
 lot, why can't you stop her from suffering!" 
 
 The young physician laughed out of the corner 
 of his mouth, but all his bragging was cut short. So 
 he went away, saying to Michael : 
 
 "She's none too easy to get on with, your old 
 woman, eh 1 ?" 
 
 As soon as he was gone, Madeleine called Gideon. 
 
 "Run over to the Hardilas," she told him, "and 
 fetch Red Julie who casts spells for burns. We've 
 got to try everything." 
 
 Michael, coming back, heard her and said: 
 
 "What could she do, after the doctor?" 
 
 Madeleine neither moved nor answered. She 
 hadn't spoken to him since the accident; she paid 
 no attention whatever to him. 
 
 He went on, a little louder: 
 
 "The day of witches is past." 
 
 As she still refused to answer, he ventured to come 
 quite close to the bed. 
 
 "Madeleine, you must be dead tired. I'll take 
 your place for a spell. I'll hold up her head as 
 well as you and if she wants to be carried around, 
 I'll carry her around. Do you hear me, Madeleine?" 
 
 She turned away as she had turned away from 
 the doctor; she said nothing, but her look was so 
 unrelenting that Michael drew back. 
 
 The witch of the Hardilas came in the morning;
 
 NENE 215 
 
 she was half blind, very old, very dirty and very 
 gruff. 
 
 Right away she gave her prescription: three 
 spiders, three slugs, three earth-worms cut in seven 
 pieces, seven ash leaves and seven cloves of garlic; 
 put all this into a little sack and place it under the 
 pillow. 
 
 "Do you hear, my dear? Under the pillow/' 
 
 "Yes, yes, I hear," said Madeleine. 
 
 "Well, then ! Now you go out, I command you !" 
 
 "Where do you want me to go?" 
 
 "Go outside of the house. I must breathe on the 
 wounds and speak words that you mustn't hear. 
 Well, now go away!" 
 
 The old woman was losing her patience ; she went 
 to the bed and roughly pulled back the covers. 
 Lalie, who had been easier for a little while, cried 
 out: 
 
 "Nene!" 
 
 Madeleine rushed to her: 
 
 "I'm here, darling." 
 
 "Nene! She hurt me!" 
 
 "No wonder," said Madeleine, instantly roused 
 to wrath. "Why aren't you more careful? If you 
 came to hurt her, you'd better tell me !" 
 
 The old woman played the lofty string; she was 
 used to being flattered and she was so much held 
 in fear that she ended by believing in her own 
 powers of sorcery.
 
 216 NENE 
 
 She drew back, made weird gestures and mumbled 
 things to herself. 
 
 Lalie took fright at this gaunt, ugly old woman 
 who was shaking her claw-like hands, and Madeleine 
 protested : 
 
 "That's enough of your bugaboos !" 
 
 The old sorceress was so startled, she looked ready 
 to jump to the ceiling. Then she began to yelp: 
 
 "Red viper and water lizard ! White wehrwolfs ! 
 Come, my pets ! Black wehrwolfs ! Speckled wehr- 
 wolfs!" 
 
 Madeleine took her out by the door so energeti- 
 cally that the rest of her incantations stuck in her 
 throat for lack of breath. 
 
 Michael was coming in from the garden. 
 Madeleine's arms went stiff, and looking him 
 straight in the eye she shouted : 
 
 "So it seems that everyone is turning against the 
 child! First the young one, then this old thing! 
 First the doctor, then the witch ! I'm fed up on you, 
 all of you ! Go away ! Go away ! " 
 
 Michael stammered in his amazement : 
 
 "But this one you yourself sent for her !" 
 
 She made no reply; she didn't seem to have heard. 
 Her eyes became like steel; she flung out her arms 
 and opened her big hands. 
 
 "I don't want anybody here, not anybody! I'll 
 jump at the head of the first one who comes in !"
 
 NENE 217 
 
 And as Michael came nearer, she closed the door 
 in his face. 
 
 All through a week the house was unapproach- 
 able. 
 
 The hands ate their meals in Michael's room; 
 they passed in and out by the back door with muffled 
 tread. Madeleine did not trouble about them; she 
 troubled neither about the kitchen, nor about the 
 house, nor about the live stock nor about any of her 
 tasks. As long as the child's plaints kept on, she 
 sat by the bedside, stubbornly, jealously, fiercely; 
 and her eyes were wide and dry. 
 
 On the morning of All-Saints, however, as the 
 child had dropped off into a deep sleep, she quietly 
 opened the hall door and entered the men's room. 
 They were finishing their breakfast and Michael 
 had just counted out the farm-hands' wages; he was 
 pouring out some wine to drink to Gideon, who was 
 leaving that day to enter military service. 
 
 The men looked at her and found nothing to say. 
 Finally Michael got himself to ask : 
 
 "Is she sleeping*? She passed a good night, it 
 seemed to me." 
 
 He waited anxiously for her answer, but no 
 answer came. 
 
 Madeleine turned to Gideon : 
 
 "So you are leaving these parts'? Where are they 
 sending you, poor boy*?" 
 
 Gideon answered bravely :
 
 218 NENE 
 
 "Not to the ends of the world! I'm going to 
 Angers, to join the dragoons." 
 
 "I'll be sorry," she said, "not to see you round 
 here any more." 
 
 Michael ventured: 
 
 "I hope he'll come to pay us a visit every time 
 he gets a furlough." 
 
 Then he placed on the table a little pile of gold 
 pieces. 
 
 "Here are your wages, too, Madeleine. You'll 
 have use for them." 
 
 Then for the first time in a week she spoke to him : 
 
 "Thank you. I have a very good use for them, 
 indeed." 
 
 She took a gold piece and handed it to Gideon. 
 
 "You'll be going to Saint- Ambroise, won't you"? 
 Well then, will you do me the favor of stopping in 
 at Mme. Blanchevirain's : you'll please pick out the 
 nicest toy she has to amuse a little girl." 
 
 Michael was going to protest, but she shrugged 
 her shoulders and stressed her request : 
 
 "The nicest toy in the shop ! And you'll bring it 
 to me, won't you*?" 
 
 "I will," said the young man. "You'll have it 
 this evening." 
 
 Michael had turned very red, but his pride was 
 beaten and he offered his suggestion timidly : 
 
 "We might, at the same time, have the doctor
 
 NENE 219 
 
 called here again. I'd like him to look her over once 
 more." 
 
 "What for"? To hurt her again*? Seeing a child 
 in pain doesn't upset him one bit, your fine doctor!" 
 
 "Well, we might call in another doctor, say the 
 old one, of Saint-Ambroise." 
 
 "Oh, do as you like," said Madeleine and turned 
 on her heel. 
 
 The new doctor came in the afternoon no rush 
 and fuss about him ! He was a timid, sensible little 
 old man without any great reputation. He was of 
 no use in cases of wounds because the sight of blood 
 made him ill. They said that his learning was 
 scanty and that his long practice had not taught him 
 much. But there was this to his credit : if he rarely 
 cured his patients, he hardly ever killed them. 
 
 Standing beside the bed of Lalie, who was still 
 sound asleep, he said softly: 
 
 "Poor little darling she's asleep don't let's 
 wake her. Never wake the sick ! She was burned, 
 you say"? Poor little thing, she must have suffered 
 martyrdom. I won't disturb her. You're using 
 olive oil on the burns, aren't you?" 
 
 Madeleine replied with an effort: 
 
 "Olive oil, yes, that's what I use." 
 
 She had seated herself by the bedside; her legs 
 felt nerveless; her head was heavy; she felt no pain, 
 on the contrary, the gentle murmur of the doctor's 
 voice was soothing to her.
 
 220 N E N E 
 
 "That's quite right. Go on with it and take 
 care not to abrase the skin when you apply it. The 
 hands are rather bad, and the left cheek. Perhaps 
 she'll be all right again let's hope so. Such a 
 pretty little girl ! it would be too bad to have her 
 disfigured. She ought to be amused, have her mind 
 occupied now; and get her to eat well.- She'll be 
 up and about again soon oh, yes, yes, I promise 
 you: she'll pick up very quickly now. It's a pleas- 
 ure to 'tend these little tots. How she sleeps ! She 
 hasn't rested much these past nights, has she?" 
 
 As he turned round for Madeleine's answer, he 
 saw that she too had fallen asleep. Crushed with 
 weariness, she slept with her mouth open, almost 
 without breathing, and she was so white, one might 
 have thought her dead. 
 
 The doctor pointed her out to Michael, whisper- 
 ing: "Hush!" and left the room on tiptoe.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 IT wasn't long before Lalie's burns stopped pain- 
 ing and she became her merry little self again. 
 Nevertheless, the fire had left its ineffaceable marks. 
 Her hair grew out, her right cheek became white and 
 normal again, but a great red scar remained on the 
 left cheek and would never disappear. Her hands, 
 too, the pretty little hands with the shapely nails, 
 were covered with a new skin that was too smooth 
 and without elasticity; the poor little fingers that 
 used to be so nimble would never again open com- 
 pletely. 
 
 As for Madeleine, she didn't quite recover either 
 from the shock. It was as if her heart had been 
 scorched in the fire; part of it dried up and died 
 off. 
 
 Except the children, everything became a matter 
 of indifference to her. She had resumed her place 
 at the helm. Without a word Michael submitted 
 to her cold authority and felt more cowed in her 
 presence than the farm-hands. She never put any 
 ill-feeling into her speech with him, but sometimes, 
 when he behaved most humbly and gently, the 
 
 221
 
 222 N E N E 
 
 appalling memory flashed through her mind, and 
 then she cast upon the young master with the fickle 
 heart a look that was dry-eyed and unforgiving. 
 Winter came. Jo had the measles.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 BOISERIOT was having his coffee at Violette's 
 home. 
 
 They had lunched alone together, as Violette's 
 mother was out on a day's wash in the village. 
 
 With all his wile on the alert, Boiseriot was ques- 
 tioning Violette. In every one of his words he laid 
 a snare that could not fail to catch her yet, so far, 
 she had side-stepped them all, and of course it was 
 useless to try to read her eyes. 
 
 "She's a cool one all right!" thought Boiseriot. 
 "I'll never draw her out, darn her!" 
 
 He lost patience and said : 
 
 "Well now, my dear girl, I'll say it isn't the 
 easiest thing in the world to confess you; I'm not 
 clever enough for the job." 
 
 Then he changed his tone from one of complaint 
 to one of attack. 
 
 "It would take a pretty shrewd old parish priest 
 to make you tell what's in your mind, one who's 
 heard all kinds of stories and knows how to unravel 
 his yarn. . . . No young abbe for you ... eh, 
 little girl?" 
 
 Violette gave a startled toss of her head, went 
 
 pale, and the words came hissing through her teeth : 
 
 223
 
 224 NENE 
 
 "Is that what you were trying to get at?" 
 
 He looked surprised. 
 
 "My goodness, you act as if I'd made your angry ! 
 . . . What did I say? I don't see . . ." 
 
 She fell in petulantly: 
 
 "Don't play the innocent! ... So you came to 
 eat at my table just to insult me, did you? You'd 
 better make up your mind that I'm not in a mood 
 to stand it !" 
 
 She had got up and was noisily moving about 
 some glasses on the sideboard, while he drummed 
 on the table, waiting for the storm to pass. 
 
 "You want to read me a lecture, do you? . . . 
 'Violette, they're saying this,' and 'Violette, they're 
 saying that!' ... I don't care! I don't care! I 
 don't care !" 
 
 A glass fell down and broke with a clear tinkle. 
 Violette stopped, suddenly calmed; then she took a 
 few dance steps and burst out laughing: 
 
 "After all, my friend, you're right: that little 
 abbe wasn't very clever!" 
 
 "I don't follow you," said Boiseriot. "You talk 
 as if there was something. ... I don't know a 
 thing!" 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders: 
 
 "You don't, don't you!" 
 
 She came close to him and her eyes lighted up 
 with a flame of reckless impudence. She would 
 have liked to shout at him :
 
 NENE 225 
 
 "Come, now! You're lying! You're always 
 lying! I sometimes do tell the truth. I have 
 that courage! . . . You don't know a thing, do 
 you? Well then, I'll tell you this: There was a 
 pink little, blond little abbe here, with hair as fine 
 as silk and pretty hands as white as sugar. He saw 
 me often, almost every day. At first he paid no 
 attention to me. But because of his hair and his 
 hands and his innocent eyes, I wanted to wake him 
 up. ... So I went shaking my skirts around him, 
 and by and by he grew to have that wild look they 
 all get . . . and he came along, just like the others. 
 He came along yes; only, being tormented with 
 ideas of sinfulness, he got to talking a lot of non- 
 sense and doing foolish things . . . and so he was 
 caught. He's gone away now, far away somewhere, 
 I don't know where; and I'm left behind with the 
 smirch. But what do I care!" 
 
 Yes, truly, she would have liked to shout this at 
 him, just for bravado. . . . 
 
 "You don't know a thing, you sayl Then I sup- 
 pose you came to hear the news'?" 
 
 "Just as you like. They say you've lost your 
 two little helpers'?" 
 
 "It's true, they've left me, and so have my cus- 
 tomers, and, worst of all, so have my lovers." 
 
 "Oh! as for that " 
 
 "It's enough to make me cry my eyes out. But 
 never fear ! I'm one of the merry sort !"
 
 226 N E N E 
 
 "What are you going to do?" inquired Boiseriot. 
 
 "Become a nun in a far-away land and all day 
 long I'll pray for you who are in sore need of it. 
 Or then again here's another possibility: I'll go 
 and get married!" 
 
 "Get married?' 
 
 "Yes! since all my lovers desert me, I'll get me 
 a husband ! I'll just turn the goods; the wrong side 
 has a lot of wear in it yet. What do you think of 
 my plan*?" 
 
 "I think you're making sport of me." 
 
 She burst into another laugh. 
 
 "That's true! Of you as well as the rest of 
 them!" 
 
 Boiseriot went on, pursuing his idea. 
 
 "But is it true your lovers have deserted you? 
 Doesn't Clarandeau watch out for you on the roads 
 any more? And what of Michael Corbier? Are 
 you sure you've stopped listening to him?" 
 
 She looked at him squarely without answering. 
 
 "You boasted that you'd have that hired girl at 
 the Moulinettes discharged, she's there yet! You 
 told me she'd insulted you and so I thought " 
 
 Violette shot a sharp question at him: 
 
 "What about you? What's she done to you, 
 that big lump of a girl?" 
 
 Boiseriot drank down the last drop of his coffee 
 and smacked his lips. 
 
 "It's real good coffee, this is!" he said. "You
 
 N E N E 227 
 
 know how to make it. You're all ready to settle 
 down to housekeeping, I'd say!" 
 
 Violette kept her mocking eyes on him. He began 
 teasing her and pitying her future husband. 
 
 "He'll have to be a brave man! You'll lead him 
 a dance, right enough! There'll be five hundred 
 devils let loose in his house. I'd like to know the 
 poor fellow. Perhaps it'll be Clarandeau*?" 
 
 "Perhaps," said Violette. Her face was set in 
 an unreadable mask. 
 
 "If he got a Government job but those things 
 take time! Besides, he drinks. Perhaps it'll be 
 Michael Corbier?" 
 
 "Perhaps! It'll no doubt be either one of those 
 two there isn't another one that's brave enough ! 
 Do you know, your former boss isn't at all bad ! 
 If I take him, that hired girl will get out sure 
 enough, and then you'll have your wish." 
 
 Boiseriot rose. 
 
 "Are you joking, or are you speaking the truth, 
 seriously? I never can tell, with you. If there's 
 anybody can guess what you're going to do " 
 
 ". . . he'll have to be cleverer than you, as you've 
 said before. Well, he'll have to be cleverer than 
 myself, too. You're going? Good-bye, then! 
 When you come again, perhaps you'll have better 
 luck; I may have some news for you then." 
 
 So he left her. 
 
 Along the road Boiseriot thought :
 
 228 N E N E 
 
 "She'll marry. What else can she do? She'll 
 take one of those two purblind fellows who know 
 nothing. The one she jilts will think he's in hell, 
 but it's the other one who'll be there, sure enough. 
 I'm going to have some fun!" 
 
 And at her window, Violette was thinking : 
 
 "I'll get married. What else can I do? I'll have 
 to take either one of those two fools, who' re both 
 blind and deaf. Afterward, I'll manage my life 
 all right." 
 
 Having cleared the table, she sat down at her 
 sewing machine. Slowly she began to spin a silken 
 thread on to the bobbin. And slowly, too, she spun 
 her thoughts; but being of a coarse and short fibre, 
 they got tangled and knotted and would not run 
 smoothly, like a straight, orderly skein. 
 
 Regret had planted its teeth in her. Why had 
 she played at devilling that young priest? And 
 later, when he had grovelled at her feet like one 
 possessed, why had she yielded to his strange suppli- 
 cations? Had she loved this youth with the pink 
 complexion and the dreamy eyes? . . . Their reck- 
 lessness had made a scandal inevitable. 
 
 And now she was being shunned by everyone in 
 the village. The affair was hushed up, of course, 
 because the Church was involved; everything pos- 
 sible was done to keep it from the ears of Protestants 
 and Dissenters; nevertheless, tongues had been wag- 
 ging at Chantepie.
 
 N E N E 229 
 
 The parents of her two young helpers refused to 
 let them work with her any more. Her Catholic 
 customers had looked for another dressmaker. Even 
 her suitors no longer cared to be seen with such a 
 compromising girl. 
 
 What could she do"? Poverty was on the way. 
 It had not yet knocked at the door, but it would, 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Violette turned her thoughts over and over. 
 There was the city, to be sure, always ready to wel- 
 come girls of her kind. The city! Fine houses 
 soft silks bright lights festive gatherings. Her 
 dreams rose up and up like a flight of skylarks. 
 
 Yes, but she'd have to take chances, risk desti- 
 tution ! While here, if she married a fool 
 
 If she married a fool with a sufficient competence, 
 the road would not be wide, but at least it would be 
 level; and it would be easy enough, any time she 
 wished, to skip off for a bit along some tempting 
 by-way. 
 
 If John Clarandeau had obtained an allowance 
 from the insurance company, and a good Govern- 
 ment job. But no, he'd never be anything but a 
 crippled pauper anyhow. 
 
 Then, what of the other one, Michael Corbier? 
 He came of a substantial family; he had broad acres 
 in the sun. He was a Dissenter so much the 
 better! She would bring him into the Church and 
 herself return to the fold by his side. She would
 
 230 N E N E 
 
 return, not as a humble penitent despised by all, 
 but proudly, with her head held high. Making such 
 a convert would be indeed a victory and a great 
 feather in her cap; she would be honoured among 
 women throughout the parish. 
 
 "I'll marry him. I'll have a big house, with 
 people to work under my orders. I'd better not 
 wait." 
 
 The silken thread was spun on the bobbin; the 
 sewing machine was ready for work. But Violette 
 pushed away the unfinished dress. From an untidy 
 closet she fetched a box of scented notepaper and, 
 resting it on the shelf of the machine, she hurriedly 
 wrote to Michael Corbier.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 ONE Sunday Madeleine took the children to 
 Le Coudray. Her mother had been somewhat 
 ailing during the winter and her rheumatism was 
 still keeping her from work for days at a stretch. 
 She blamed Madeleine for not having come oftener 
 to see her, and then she said: 
 
 "There's the little matter of my allowance, too. 
 You're none too prompt about it, my dear! Your 
 sisters were ahead of you, this time, paying me 
 their shares. Seeing the state I'm in, I do need some 
 help." 
 
 Madeleine blushed and took the blame: 
 
 "You're right; I deserve to be scolded. But I'm 
 going to give you your money to-day; I've got it 
 right here, Mother." 
 
 She drew from her purse first a gold piece, then 
 a silver piece. 
 
 "Here are your twelve francs," she said. 
 
 The mother looked at her in surprise. Usually 
 Madeleine added something to the agreed sum, be- 
 cause she was the eldest and earned more money 
 than her sisters. 
 
 "So you're not in funds just now, are you*?" the 
 231
 
 232 N E N E 
 
 mother remarked. "You must be spending a lot 
 of money!" 
 
 Madeleine blushed again; she opened her purse, 
 took out a five-franc piece, then one of two francs, 
 and finally decided on a one-franc piece. 
 
 "I am kind of short," she replied; "however, I 
 can give you this." 
 
 She might have said : 
 
 "No, indeed, I'm not in funds ! I've been giving 
 money to my brother, though he had promised never 
 to ask me for any again. Then there are the chil- 
 dren that you see there: I've bought them so many 
 things that my wages are all spent." 
 
 But she would have found it very difficult to say 
 this last thing : it was a secret preciously guarded. 
 
 Lalie was on her lap ; she hugged the child a little 
 tighter. 
 
 "Is this little dear the one who was burned?" 
 asked Mme. Clarandeau. "I hadn't seen her since. 
 She must have suffered a great deal !" 
 
 "Oh, if you knew ! If you knew !" 
 
 That started Madeleine's tongue going. She told 
 all about the accident, all about the visit of the 
 young doctor, about that of the old practitioner and 
 about the anger of Red Julie; then she related other 
 troubles: colds, frostbite and Jo's measles that 
 had looked bad for a while. 
 
 Her subject carried her away and it seemed as if 
 she'd go on forever.
 
 N E N E 233 
 
 Mme. Clarandeau smiled: 
 
 "You love them as if you were their mother." 
 
 "Yes," said Madeleine, "I do." 
 
 "You've been there four years now. You're 
 likely to stay there a long time since Corbier isn't 
 marrying again. You must have your hands full." 
 
 "I have, but I like it. The worst of it is that I 
 have so little time to take the children out. You 
 see how it is : even to-day I must hurry back early. 
 I'd better leave you now; it's time." 
 
 "So soon?" 
 
 "Yes, I'm alone with just one hand. Michael 
 went away early, I don't know where, to town per- 
 haps, because he was all dressed up. I've got to 
 be home to see to everything." 
 
 "Just wait a minute till I get the children some 
 bread and jam." 
 
 Madeleine's eyes lighted up and all her face 
 thanked her. 
 
 "You're spoiling them, Mother," she said. 
 "They'll keep at me to bring them here again!" 
 
 Without another word she hunted in her purse 
 and put one more coin on the table. Then they took 
 their leave. 
 
 On the way home the children skipped to right 
 and left, munching their bread and jam. Madeleine 
 went leading them along, smilingly. 
 
 For some time now she had begun again to feel 
 happy; her old fortitude and even temper were be-
 
 234 N E N E 
 
 ing restored little by little. "You're likely to stay 
 there a long time," her mother had said. A long 
 time ! Why, she was there for always ! 
 
 "Jo! come on, darling!" 
 
 The child had stopped at a cross path and stood 
 up by a low fence. 
 
 "Look,Nene!" 
 
 Madeleine looked and saw a young girl hurrying 
 along, weeping ; she recognised her little sister Tien- 
 nette, and didn't have time to be surprised : the girl 
 vaulted the fence at once to tell her troubles. 
 
 "I'm going home ! I've stood it long enough ! 
 I'm not a thief! The rest, let it pass, but not 
 that ! I won't ever go back there ! Last year I was 
 all right there, but, at present, I don't know what's 
 come over them !" 
 
 Madeleine took her hands and drew her to the 
 side of the road. 
 
 "What's happened? Tell me !" 
 
 "I'm not a thief!" the girl kept saying; "I won't 
 have them look as if they thought I was! There 
 isn't a thing they can bring up against me ! " 
 
 "Calm yourself sit down here." 
 
 They sat down on the edge of the ditch, but it was 
 quite a while before Tiennette was herself again. 
 After a bit, Madeleine began to grasp the situation. 
 
 Tiennette had been hired out to a Catholic farmer 
 at a hamlet near Chantepie. This was her second 
 year at the place. At first all had gone well between
 
 N E N E 235 
 
 her, the masters and the other servants in the ham- 
 let. But at All-Saints some new farm-hands had 
 come and made mischief all round. They had 
 started by keeping aloof from her because she was 
 the only Dissenter among them; then they had 
 spread all sorts of gossip about her: she'd been seen 
 going to this place, doing that thing misbehaving 
 herself 
 
 "There's a sorry specimen hanging around there 
 a lot now, that Boiseriot who was discharged at the 
 Moulinettes. They listen to him because he's such 
 a devout Catholic. I believe it's he who invents all 
 the talk against me." 
 
 "You may be sure of it," said Madeleine. "He's 
 a wicked man and not to be trusted." 
 
 "From the day he came to the neighbourhood, at 
 All-Saints, my mistress has been horrid to me, and 
 things have been going from bad to worse. They're 
 openly on guard against me now; when I'm left 
 alone in the house, they lock up everything ! I can't 
 stand it! Yesterday a pair of scissors got mislaid, 
 and this morning, while I was at rosary prayers, they 
 opened my chest and went through all my things! 
 Would you believe it*? Do I look like a thief? I 
 told them what I thought and here I am. Mamma 
 can go for my things if she wants to; but as for me, 
 I'll never set foot in their house again!" 
 
 Tiennette burst again into sobs; Madeleine did 
 what she could to comfort her.
 
 236 N E N E 
 
 "Tiennette, come now! Tiennette! There's no 
 reason to get into such a state." 
 
 "Oh, but you don't know!" sobbed the girl. 
 "He'll hear about it and then what'll he think?" 
 
 "Whom do you mean*?" 
 
 "Why why, Gideon. He's away. I can't talk 
 to him and defend myself. They're capable of writ- 
 ing to him to blacken my character; they tried it 
 once before ! And didn't they come and tell me he 
 was sick in hospital? And it wasn't true at all, as 
 I found out !" 
 
 Madeleine thought it her duty to say severely : 
 
 "Why do you listen to that Protestant?" 
 
 Tiennette threw back her head, ready to defend 
 herself against this new attack: 
 
 "So you're against him too? What has he done, 
 can you tell me, that you all think less of him than 
 of the others?" 
 
 Madeleine replied, this time with great gentle- 
 ness: 
 
 "No, dear, I'm not against him; in fact I like him 
 very much." 
 
 "Well, then! What's wrong, since we love each 
 other for ever and ever? since we're going to be 
 married !" 
 
 "A Dissenter marry a Protestant! It would be 
 the first time it happened!" 
 
 "What's wrong about it, I'd like to know? What 
 difference is it to you? What difference is it to
 
 N E N E 237 
 
 Mother and Fridoline and John and all the rest of 
 you"? If he claims me for his own, you haven't a 
 thing to say about it ! If he doesn't worry about the 
 difference of religion, that's his affair! When he 
 gets his discharge from the army, I'll be ready : I've 
 pledged myself!" 
 
 Madeleine let her go on and it saddened her to 
 find her little sister too, now, as well as her brother, 
 so careless about things that, to her own way of 
 thinking, were so eminently worthy of respect; but 
 she was surprised, also, and a little moved, at seeing 
 this young love rise sovereign above all else. 
 
 "Yes," continued her sister, "we both pledged 
 ourselves. But now what if he should be made 
 to believe that I'm a thief? Oh, Madeleine, I don't 
 know what to do ! I'm so miserable ! " 
 
 Madeleine gripped her little sister's shoulders 
 very tenderly. 
 
 "Come, come, dear! Stop crying and wipe your 
 eyes! There, now! I know the cause of all this 
 trouble: it's an old grudge, 'way back when oh, 
 well, there are old things you don't know about. 
 I'm going to write to Gideon myself; as soon as he 
 knows that Boiseriot was your neighbour at the 
 farm, he'll understand. I promise you he won't 
 doubt you for a single moment." 
 
 "Really and truly?" 
 
 "I promise you. .You've been making a mountain
 
 238 N E N E 
 
 of a molehill, you poor child! That isn't being a 
 sensible girl, now, is it?" 
 
 For a while they said nothing further, so that the 
 children ventured to come closer. 
 
 Tiennette's smile came back through her tears as 
 she patted Jo's curly head. 
 
 "He was the first to see me, the little darling," 
 she said to Madeleine. 
 
 Somehow the child brought back a recollection 
 through trie mist of her present trouble, and she 
 blurted out : 
 
 "This Boiseriot certainly is a wicked sort of ras- 
 cal. He doesn't like you any better than he does 
 me, it would seem." 
 
 "Why do you say that?" asked Madeleine 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Day before yesterday I heard him talking to 
 Jules the natural, telling him the news and there 
 was one piece of news for you, that no doubt you 
 didn't like to hear. But, of course, you must have 
 known it long before Boiseriot !" 
 
 Madeleine's fingers tightened on Tiennette's 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Jules? I haven't seen him lately he hasn't 
 come around. . . . What news do you mean? I 
 haven't any news " 
 
 "Is that so? At Chantepie everybody's talking 
 about it." 
 
 "But go on, tell me ! What is it?"
 
 N E N E 239 
 
 White as death, Madeleine was panting for 
 breath. But the little sister didn't notice it and de- 
 livered her news lightly, almost scoffingly : 
 
 "Well, it's this: that poor fool, Michael Corbier, 
 is going to marry Violette, the dressmaker. The 
 thing's to take place toward early summer. This 
 very day he's supposed to buy her engagement ring." 
 
 Only then Tiennette felt her sister's hands glide 
 off her shoulders. She turned around: Madeleine 
 lay against the slope of the ditch in a faint.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ALL at once, Madeleine made up her mind that 
 Lalie should be sent to school. The notion 
 struck her unexpectedly; a queer notion, for her; but 
 she had had many others as queer since the bad 
 news. 
 
 She had suddenly thought herself very guilty in 
 keeping such a big girl going on eight years now 
 from getting the proper schooling. 
 
 "Oft to school with you, my dear! It's high time ! 
 I've taught you to read and to make your letters, 
 but for giving you any of the higher instruction, I'm 
 not studied enough! So, off to school you go, or 
 you'd blame me later." 
 
 Then, too, she was afraid of being blamed when 
 the Stranger should have taken her place; afraid 
 of being called less sensible, less vigilant than she. 
 So she decided not even to wait for the Easter term, 
 which was near. 
 
 But she wanted the little girl to be fitted out all 
 new and beautifully. And as for using the house- 
 hold money for that why, of course not ! 
 
 So she went back to the savings bank and drew 
 out, in a lump, all that remained there: just one 
 
 hundred francs. Then, while she was in town, she 
 
 240
 
 N E N E 241 
 
 did all her shopping so that on the following day, 
 which was Monday, she could take the little girl to 
 school. 
 
 The two of them set out early, Lalie trotting 
 ahead. What a pretty dress it was, bought ready 
 made from a town dressmaker! What a pretty 
 dress, and what a nice little frilly lunch basket! 
 Madeleine was swelled with pride. Her heart was 
 wrung it always was now but one thought gave 
 her solace : 
 
 "Lalie she'll never forget me. Whatever hap- 
 pens, when she thinks back to the early years, she'll 
 say: 'The first time I went to school, it was 
 Madeleine took me there, leading me by the hand/ 
 That's a thing one can't forget." 
 
 When they reached Saint-Ambroise, Madeleine 
 bought a big slice of shortbread and a slice of meat 
 loaf, and then some chocolate and chocolate al- 
 monds. 
 
 "You'll eat the shortbread first with the meat, 
 then the jam sandwich. And you'll give some of 
 the candy to the other little girls, so they'll like 
 you." 
 
 Madeleine knocked at the principal's door to pre- 
 sent Lalie and give the necessary information. 
 
 The principal appeared. She was an elderly 
 spinster in a plain black dress. She asked them in; 
 Madeleine left her wooden shoes at the door, but 
 Lalie stepped forth with her new clogs and almost
 
 242 N E N E 
 
 took a tumble because the floor was as polished as 
 a window pane. 
 
 The principal took a sheet of paper and wrote 
 down what Madeleine said: 
 
 "Her name is Eulalie Corbier born at the Mou- 
 linettes, Nov. 27. She's only seven, but misfortune 
 didn't wait for her to grow up: her mother is 
 dead." 
 
 The teacher said calmly: 
 
 "I know. I had her mother in my class. She was 
 a good pupil, too." 
 
 "I'm sure she was," replied Madeleine, "and this 
 child will be just as clever and make you proud 
 of her. Oh, Mademoiselle, I wish you'd take good 
 care of her!" 
 
 The principal had finished her writing and looked 
 up, rather surprised. 
 
 "We take good care of all our pupils," she said. 
 
 Madeleine blushed. 
 
 "I know you do," she stammered. "I have heard 
 your school praised on all sides, I assure you, 
 Mademoiselle ! It's only just that this little girl 
 is not quite like the others." 
 
 The teacher smiled a little, ever so little! but 
 her eyes on Madeleine remained calm and cold. 
 
 Then she, too, had her say, in a very few words; 
 and there was neither harshness nor gentleness in her 
 voice : 
 
 "You've come too soon or too late. There are
 
 N E N E 243 
 
 only three school openings : the first in October, the 
 second in January, and the third at Easter. How- 
 ever, as this child is past the age, we will take her 
 although in doing so I am going beyond the rules." 
 
 Then she rose and led Madeleine and Lalie to the 
 door, saying: 
 
 "You'll excuse me, I have some work to do let 
 the little girl go and play with the other children." 
 
 When the door was shut Madeleine felt distressed. 
 She leaned over the little girl and whispered : 
 
 "Lalie, would you like to come back home?" 
 
 Lalie was choking down sobs herself and did not 
 answer. 
 
 "If you'd rather, darling, we'll just go back 
 home. Come, let's go!" 
 
 She straightened up, took the child by the hand 
 and walked towards the gate. But as she got there, 
 someone was just passing it to come in. It was a 
 very young girl, neither tall nor pretty, with a pale 
 little face and squinting eyes. 
 
 "How do you do?" she said. "Are you bringing 
 me a new pupil?" 
 
 As Madeleine looked perplexed, she explained : 
 
 "I am the assistant teacher she'll be in my 
 class." 
 
 And without more ado she stooped down and 
 kissed Lalie. 
 
 "How do you do, dear ! Are you glad you're com- 
 ing to school? I'll give you a pretty book, with
 
 244 N E N E 
 
 pictures in it! And we're going to have lots of 
 fun together, you'll see ! What's your name, dear?" 
 
 "Her name is Eulalie," said Madeleine. 
 
 "Eulalie, do you like to play with dolls'? Or at 
 hide and seek 4 ? I'll show you a pretty 'ring-around' 
 dance. Oh, and what a beautiful dress you have, 
 Eulalie! I'd like to have one just like it! And oh, 
 look at your lunch basket! Who gave you such a 
 pretty basket?" 
 
 Lalie smiled, but never raised her eyes from the 
 ground. Madeleine said: 
 
 "Go on, don't be so bashful, Lalie! Answer 
 Mademoiselle." 
 
 "Come, answer me, won't you? I'm not a wicked 
 person who'd hurt nice little girls! Come, where 
 did you get this pretty basket?" 
 
 "Nene gave it to me." 
 
 "Nene?" 
 
 "She means me that's what she calls me," said 
 Madeleine. "She's lost her mother; I've brought her 
 up, and her little brother too." 
 
 The assistant teacher picked up the child in her 
 arms and held her close; as she noticed the scar on 
 Lalie's cheek, she asked : 
 
 "What has happened to her?" 
 
 "She was burned," said Madeleine. "She's had 
 a lot of bad luck, poor angel. See, her hair hasn't 
 all grown out yet and her poor little hands won't 
 ever get right again."
 
 N E N E 245 
 
 The teacher's pale little face turned quite white 
 and her tender squinting eyes filled with tears. 
 Madeleine had to wipe her own eyes. 
 
 "It wasn't my fault, I can assure you, Mademoi- 
 selle; I wouldn't want you to think so, because it 
 wouldn't be justice. If they'd only listened to me, 
 this thing wouldn't have happened, so I don't have 
 to blame myself for it. You see, Mademoiselle, I'm 
 fond of the child I can't tell you how fond! A 
 person does get fond of a child so quickly, isn't that 
 so? I'm glad you're going to take her in your class. 
 I know you'll watch over her. Don't let her run 
 too much and get overheated, will you? She has all 
 she needs for her lunch. She'll remember anything 
 you teach her; she's clever, let me tell you! She 
 knows how to read and as for writing well, you'll 
 see how beautifully she can write! I'm not very 
 educated, especially not in arithmetic; or else I'd 
 have taught her a lot more. She'll grow fond of 
 you, Mademoiselle; you won't have to scold her, 
 I'm sure! Besides, it wouldn't be right to be hard 
 with a poor motherless mite " 
 
 Five or six little girls had come running from the 
 far end of the yard, with eyes and ears wide open. 
 Madeleine cried softly. 
 
 The teacher covered the poor little deformed 
 hands with kisses and cried too ; big, bright tears ran 
 down undisturbed over her white face. 
 
 "You needn't be afraid," she said; "I'll watcli
 
 246 N E N E 
 
 over her; I'll love her quite as much as the others, 
 and perhaps a little more." 
 
 Then she dried her eyes and her gentle smile re- 
 turned. 
 
 "We mustn't cry," she said, "we aren't being sen- 
 sible ! That isn't the way to make children feel at 
 home and comfy !" 
 
 Turning to the yard, she called : 
 
 "Jeanne! Elise!" 
 
 Two pretty, bright-looking little girls ran up to 
 her. 
 
 "Come here! We've got a new pupil, and her 
 name is Eulalie. Give her a kiss and take her by 
 the hand. That's right! . . . I'll carry the basket. 
 We'll go and look the school over, and then we'll 
 play." In a whisper she advised Madeleine: 
 
 "You'd better go now; good-bye, and don't 
 worry!" 
 
 She went away down the yard, chatting brightly 
 with the three little girls. Suddenly Madeleine 
 called : 
 
 "Lalie!" 
 
 Lalie turned round, hesitating whether to run 
 to her or stay. Madeleine had not moved from the 
 spot and she was frantically wiping her eyes and 
 blowing her nose. 
 
 "Lalie! Good-bye, darling!" 
 
 The young teacher raised her hand and laughingly 
 motioned her to "go away! go away!" But as
 
 N E N E 247 
 
 Madeleine still would not move, she took the chil- 
 dren with her into the school-house. 
 
 Only then did Madeleine start off. She went 
 away at a quick pace, almost at a run; then, little 
 by little, she slowed; her feet dragged; she stopped. 
 
 Had she said all she had meant to say? How 
 stupid of her, now! She had forgotten to tell the 
 teacher not to fail making Lalie put on her cape after 
 school! What if Lalie grew homesick? What 
 would the teacher do then? What if she should 
 start crying? Wouldn't it be better to take her 
 home right now ? 
 
 Madeleine walked back toward the school. Class 
 had begun; she did not dare pass through the gate 
 into the yard, so she stayed outside, on the road, 
 and sat down on a stone at the foot of the school 
 wall. 
 
 The voices from the two classes came vaguely to 
 her ears. From one classroom there came a sort of 
 even murmur, a hum of low voices. The other room- 
 ful of children was noisier; wooden shoes shuffled 
 about, pencil boxes clattered to the floor; sweet little 
 voices recited the alphabet after a deeper voice that 
 for all its lower tone was yet young and flexible; 
 and all at once there were peals of laughter. 
 
 "They're having a good time of it, the tots," 
 thought Madeleine. "I hope they're not making fun 
 of Lalie. Perhaps that's why they laugh so 
 much "
 
 248 NENE 
 
 She got up and moved over directly under the 
 young teacher's classroom windows. 
 
 A merry miller passed by and began to tease her. 
 Then Bouju came along, driving a cart that same 
 Bouju who had asked her in marriage not so long 
 ago. He stopped his horse to wish her a good day 
 and inquire after Mme. Clarandeau, Tiennette and 
 all the family. 
 
 Madeleine answered straight and quick, in as few 
 words as possible. It annoyed her not to hear the 
 voices from the classroom any more. 
 
 When Bouju went on his way, the school bell 
 rang for recess. Madeleine ran to the gate, but the 
 young teacher, having seen her, came quickly 
 toward her: 
 
 "Don't let her see you," she whispered. "You 
 would have been wiser to go away. Everything is 
 going along nicely. I think she'll soon feel quite at 
 home with us. Besides, she's already a big girl, 
 and sensible. See, there she is, dancing in the rounc|/ 
 with the others. But hide yourself, please !" 
 
 Madeleine returned to the road; the teacher hur- 
 ried back to the children and joined in their round 
 dance right beside Lalie. 
 
 "Now it's your turn, dear . . . your turn to 
 stand in the middle ! Whom are you going to kiss?" 
 
 Lalie came up to her bashfully, and when the 
 teacher bent down, she threw her little arms around 
 her neck.
 
 N E N E 249 
 
 "Lalie! Lalie! don't forget your cape, after 
 school!" 
 
 All heads turned round. Who was that person 
 of whom only the upper part of the face could be 
 seen above the wall? The teacher shrugged her 
 shoulders ; Lalie smiled and blushed and it was she 
 who was the first to start the game again. 
 
 The blonde hair and the swollen eyes disappeared 
 from above the wall. 
 
 "She feels at home already. I'm glad! She's 
 put me out of her mind already. How she hugged 
 the teacher! I was so worried, and now it's all 
 right. All the better! I'm glad, very glad!" 
 
 All along the way to the Moulinettes Madeleine 
 kept mumbling: "I'm glad!" the while big tears 
 were blinding her. 
 
 Of that first school day Lalie made a whole long 
 tale: 
 
 "If you knew, Nene, how much fun we're having! 
 Teacher made me sing; she says I'll be at the head 
 of the class." 
 
 "Do you like her already, your teacher?" 
 
 "Indeed I do ! She's lovely ! When you kiss her, 
 her hair smells good. She gave me a paper rose." 
 
 "Like the one I bought for you at the Saint- 
 Ambroise fair?" 
 
 "Oh, much prettier." 
 
 Madeleine thought:
 
 250 NENE 
 
 "It's lucky the young lady knew so well how to 
 get round Lalie! " 
 
 And her heart was heavy. 
 
 As she was getting supper, she saw the little girl 
 very busy looking at herself in a mirror; she crept 
 noiselessly near : Lalie was trying to squint, in order 
 to look like the teacher. 
 
 The following afternoon it was the same tale of 
 
 joy. 
 
 "You haven't once been scolded?" asked Made- 
 leine. 
 
 "Scolded? Why scolded?" 
 
 "And all those hours, you don't once get a little 
 homesick? Don't you think of Jo? nor of me?" 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 Madeleine did not ask her anything more. 
 
 On Wednesday she hunted up some reason for 
 keeping Lalie out of school, but there was such weep- 
 ing and wailing that she had to let her go. 
 
 Thus the week passed. Lalie talked about noth- 
 ing but her school, her teacher. At night she talked 
 of them in her dreams, and this caused Madeleine 
 a hidden pang of which she was ashamed. 
 
 The Monday following, she had a flash of guilty 
 joy. She had gone toward Saint-Ambroise, about 
 four o'clock, to wait for Lalie. When the little girl 
 came in sight with her basket on her arm, Madeleine 
 saw that she was walking wistfully and that her 
 eyes were red.
 
 NENE 251 
 
 With a bound she was beside her and picked her 
 up in her arms : 
 
 "What's the matter? You've been crying! Did 
 she scold you?" 
 
 Lalie burst into sobs. 
 
 "Oh, she scolded you, she scolded you, did she?" 
 
 Lalie shook her head : 
 
 "No! No!" 
 
 But Madeleine, without listening, went on hug- 
 ging and petting her, setting her down and picking 
 her up again. 
 
 "Oh, the wicked girl ! She hurt you !" 
 
 "No! No!" 
 
 "What did she do to you? Tell me! I'll give 
 her a good scolding! Such a wicked girl! And 
 you won't have to go to her school any more." 
 
 Lalie struggled until she managed to slip to the 
 ground; then she cried in high dudgeon: 
 
 "She's not wicked! I won't let you scold her. 
 Who told you she hurt me?" 
 
 "But here you are, still crying !" 
 
 "I'm crying on account of the girls they won't be 
 good they won't learn to read. She said she'd go 
 away and we'd never see her any more !" 
 
 Madeleine stood perplexed, with empty arms 
 dangling, looking at the child, and her heart was 
 torn with jealousy. 
 
 Next morning she announced that Lalie was look-
 
 252 N E N E 
 
 ing out of sorts, that she'd been coughing all night, 
 and that she shouldn't go to school. 
 
 The child set up a yell, but Madeleine stuck to 
 her guns and had her way.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 YOUR mother isn't very strong, these days; her 
 rheumatism has been at her again. She's com- 
 plaining of you because you don't come to see her." 
 
 It was a little old man from Le Coudray, passing 
 by the Moulinettes, who was giving to Madeleine 
 the news of her home village. 
 
 She shook her head and said with a touch of im- 
 patience : 
 
 "But I haven't got time! On top of my work, 
 I've got to look after the children. Isn't my brother 
 close by her at present? And my sisters, with 
 almost all their Sundays free, can't they go over to 
 Le Coudray?" 
 
 "You are the eldest," said the old man; "you 
 ought to be the first to be the prop and stay of your 
 mother." 
 
 And then, for his own satisfaction, he launched 
 into a long homily full of bitterness. 
 
 "Old people are always in the wrong. What 
 right have they on earth? So long as they're able 
 to work, well and good ! but after that, they'd bet- 
 ter die right away." 
 
 Madeleine interrupted him: 
 
 "All right ! you can tell my mother that I'll go to 
 
 253
 
 254 N E N E 
 
 see her one of these days. Tell her not to worry and 
 take good care of herself, so she'll be well again 
 when I come." 
 
 The old man promptly took her up : 
 
 "Take good care of herself! How can she"? 
 Where will she get the money to buy what she needs, 
 can you tell me that*?" 
 
 Madeleine blushed : 
 
 "I know I'm a little behindhand. Ask her please 
 to forgive me." 
 
 "To my way of thinking, she's already forgiven 
 more than she should. I happen to know that this 
 is the third time she's reminded you. For my part, 
 I wouldn't have her patience no, ma'am!" 
 
 Madeleine's cheeks grew scarlet. 
 
 "Well, if you'll wait a minute, I'll fetch the 
 money now, and you can give it to her." 
 
 She opened the door of the wardrobe, where the 
 money drawer was, and said half to herself : 
 
 "It's only that I'm not in funds myself, right 
 now " 
 
 She emptied her purse in the drawer. 
 
 Could it be possible*? All that remained was 12 
 francs, exactly what she wanted to send her mother. 
 These last weeks she had spent and spent, and now 
 here was the last of her store. What was to be 
 done? Oh, well, Fridoline would have to contribute 
 a little more, Tiennette would have to do without a 
 new ribbon ! She simply couldn't spare any of her
 
 NENE 255 
 
 last few pennies! How could she refuse the chil- 
 dren any wish, now that she was going to lose them? 
 Not she ! 
 
 She closed the purse, closed the drawer, closed the 
 wardrobe. And to the astonished old man, she said : 
 
 "On second thought, my mother will have to wait 
 a little. I'll bring her the money myself, as I want 
 to have a talk with her."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 NOW, what can this one be after again?" 
 Just as the old man had gone, Madeleine 
 saw her brother coming. 
 
 His face was very red and his eyes glittered. He 
 trudged in and sank into a chair. 
 
 "H'lo, there, Madelon!" 
 
 She answered coldly : 
 
 "Hello yourself! What is it you want?" 
 
 He laughed: 
 
 "As if you didn't know!" 
 
 "I don't." 
 
 He winked and made a gesture as of counting 
 money on the table. 
 
 "Money! More money! You've come at the 
 wrong time : I'm not handing out any more money." 
 
 "I'm not begging for a gift, I'm asking for a loan. 
 And you needn't be afraid you know me: I'm your 
 brother!" 
 
 Madeleine shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "Give you money so you can go to the wineshop 
 and get drunk again, as you are right now? Or so 
 you can take it again to that hussy? Is that what 
 you want it for? Well, no and no and no! I'm 
 through !" 
 
 Trooper got up, instantly roused to anger. 
 
 256
 
 NENE 257 
 
 "What I've got to say is that you're talking rot, 
 Madeleine, and that you've deeply offended me. I'll 
 never forget your words; they'll stand between us 
 for life. You talk like a person without heart or 
 brain, who's never loved anybody." 
 
 Th'at made her turn on him in a flash. 
 
 "Shut up ! Get out ! You're driving me mad, all 
 of you! Be still! You say I don't love anybody? 
 Well, look out there, in the garden! Do you see 
 those children? You've got two of them right there 
 before your eyes, whom I love ! And I think they're 
 as worth while as anybody, as worth while as the 
 hussy who's making you crazy and wicked and 
 cowardly ! You make me laugh with your airs, the 
 lot of you ! Sitting around and chanting : 'We love 
 Peter or Paul or Mary or Jane poor Madeleine, 
 
 she doesn't understand Is that so! I don't 
 
 understand, don't I ! Without looking any farther, 
 take those children : I'd go through hellfire for them ! 
 Does that count for anything with you fools? Just 
 look at them, you great big idiot, you !" 
 
 With both her hands flat on his chest, she pushed 
 her brother to the door. 
 
 "Look at them ! I want you to look at them ! I 
 should think they're as lovely to look at as your 
 Violette, any day; and they won't betray me as she 
 has betrayed you! And now they're going to be 
 snatched away from me, and who'd be doing that 
 fine piece of work but your Violette !"
 
 258 N E N E 
 
 "That's not true!" 
 
 "Not true? Have you lost your wits altogether? 
 The wedding is going to take place in three 
 weeks." 
 
 Trooper fell back aghast and words of utter 
 misery came droning from his big chest. 
 
 "Madeleine, the curse of God is on my life !" 
 
 "Is there any blessing on mine*? But who cares? 
 Not you, at all events ! All you care about is Vio- 
 lette! Get out of my sight! You'd give her my 
 money, would you? And she'd be mean enough to 
 take it, too ! Anyhow, it isn't my money it belongs 
 to those children out there. As it is, your jade has 
 stolen quite enough from them ! I hate her ! You 
 don't know how I hate her! You don't know any- 
 thing! There was that little girl, the prettiest in 
 the county, the prettiest in the world, and the 
 cleverest Lalie! And all through your Violette I 
 almost saw her killed burned alive ! And now, as 
 if that wasn't enough, she's going to take her from 
 me! She's going to take Lalie, she's going to take 
 Jo, she's going to take everything! Everything 
 I've taught them she'll say was a lie ! She'll change 
 their religion, she'll change their hearts, she'll wipe 
 even my name from their memory! Damnation! 
 how I hate her ! And you who dare talk to me about 
 her get out ! Get out !" 
 
 Retreating before her, Trooper had reached the
 
 NENE 259 
 
 threshold, but he heard not a word she said. In his 
 drunken eyes the flame of madness burned. 
 
 He threw up his one arm and his powerful hand 
 opened and clutched, opened and clutched like an 
 iron claw, again and again, as he cried : 
 
 "The curse of God is on my life ! If I meet that 
 man God pity him ! I'll swing for him !"
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 MICHAEL returned from Chantepie where he 
 had attended to the last formalities. Every- 
 thing was settled : he would be baptised on the Sun- 
 day before the wedding. The priest had consented 
 to do the thing simply, quietly, without pomp, with- 
 out parade of victory, and Michael was glad of it. 
 He told his joy to Madeleine, whom he was now 
 keeping posted about everything. She answered 
 merely a word or two in a tone of polite indifference. 
 
 Then he turned to the children: 
 
 "I didn't forget you," he said. "Here, Jo!" 
 
 He handed the baby a bagful of sugar almonds. 
 
 "You, too, Lalie! See what I've got!" 
 
 Madeleine stopped her work while Lalie came to 
 her father, all curiosity. 
 
 '"Look at this box! Did you ever see such a 
 pretty one?" 
 
 He set on the table a little work box covered with 
 blue plush and opened it with a tiny key. 
 
 "See, it's fitted out with everything necessary for 
 sewing. And the name that's marked here, can 
 you read it?" 
 
 The little girl spelled out: 
 
 "Eu-la-lie. That's my name !" 
 260
 
 NENE 261 
 
 Lalie passed the box to Madeleine, who opened it 
 and immediately looked for the name. There it was, 
 on a little square of finely sewed-in linen, embroid- 
 ered in coloured thread, and not badly done. 
 
 Madeleine pinched her lips and her eyes grew 
 hard and strange. Nervously she closed the box, 
 opened it again, closed it click ! click ! And all at 
 once her clumsy fingers went through the cardboard, 
 breaking the cover, crushing the whole box. 
 
 'Well, now!" she said, "I've broken it! It 
 wasn't well made; I'll buy you a better one." 
 
 Then she took the two children by the hand and 
 went out of the house with them. 
 
 The earth was resting under the clear sky. Night 
 had not yet fallen, but through this Sunday twilight 
 there came no sound of men at work in the fields. 
 The wind was dead; there was neither stress nor 
 effort anywhere. All living things were at rest. 
 
 Madeleine had led the children out to the pond 
 and had seated herself with them under the sleeping 
 branches of the big oak. 
 
 Peace pervaded everything around. The children 
 did not play; they moved gently and asked unex- 
 pected questions. 
 
 Madeleine gave them slow, dreamy answers. 
 
 She had come to this spot as on a pilgrimage. 
 Under this same oak tree, on a day just like this, a 
 great emotion had filled her heart to overflowing. 
 Joy had been hers then and, by the grace of youth
 
 262 NENE 
 
 and the illusion of a nascent love, the happy hours 
 in store lay like a gleaming, endless rosary before 
 her. Now she was broken; now she dared no longer 
 look ahead; now she had come to say good-bye. 
 
 Ten days more and Corbier would be married. 
 One short week was all that was left for her at the 
 Moulinettes. One week! and then go away! 
 away from Lalie, away from Jo ; a new life to set 
 out on ! Death would be sweeter ! 
 
 Oh, but it couldn't be true, it must be a bad 
 dream ! She'd wake up, be tortured no more ; she'd 
 find Lalie's head on her breast and right there, 
 from the little bed alongside of hers, Jo would say 
 with laughing eyes: 
 
 "Nene, you've been sleeping and sleeping, ever so 
 long!" 
 
 No, this dreadful thing couldn't possibly happen ! 
 She'd pray the God of mercy wouldn't let it hap- 
 pen. He'd cast a rock in the path of the crushing 
 wheel; He'd hurl the threatening chariot into the 
 ditch by the wayside; surely there'd be some acci- 
 dent, some unforeseen salvation ! 
 
 "Nene, what are the clouds made of? Where do 
 they go?" 
 
 "They are God's little sheep going to pasture." 
 
 The clear sky was spread, out like a beautiful 
 meadow after haying; little billows floating across 
 it here and there made the blue dome seem low and 
 close.
 
 NENE 263 
 
 Jo said, pointing aloft : 
 
 "Nene, the moon isn't very high up, is it?" 
 
 "Nene," said Lalie, "I can see things on the 
 moon !" 
 
 "That's a little man you're seeing," replied 
 Madeleine; "a wee little man, and he's very old. 
 He's carrying a bundle of brushwood on his back 
 to bake his bread." 
 
 "Nene," inquired Jo, "what is behind the 
 clouds'?" 
 
 "There's Time," answered Madeleine; "that's 
 where God lives." 
 
 "Where is Paradise, Nene?" asked Lalie. 
 
 "My darling, we can't any of us see it while we're 
 alive, but those of us who don't love sin go there 
 when they die." 
 
 "But, Nene," said Jo, "how can they climb up 
 and stay up there, so high in the air 1 ?" 
 
 "They have no trouble at all it's difficult to ex- 
 plain these things." 
 
 Lalie pointed to the quiet water that mirrored 
 the deep blue of the sky and the billowing little 
 clouds. 
 
 "Look, Nene ! there's another Time at the bottom 
 of the water!" 
 
 "That's the nether world," said Madeleine. 
 
 "Are there people in that too?" 
 
 " k Yes," said Madeleine, "there are."
 
 264 NENE 
 
 "Nene," said Jo, "but they can't be comfy down 
 there!" 
 
 Old stories told her by that half crazy old aunt 
 came to Madeleine's lips; but they frightened chil- 
 dren, and therefore Madeleine thought them wicked; 
 so she said only those things that were part of her 
 faith. 
 
 "There are three worlds: the world above which 
 is good; the middle world that's ours, and it's both 
 good and evil; and the nether world God save 
 our souls ! It's a poisonous pit : evil rises from it like 
 a cloud of black smoke. There are three worlds, 
 each one unlike the other two. We know only one ; 
 in the other two things aren't the same; nobody can 
 understand ; our eyes won't tell us, nor our ears." 
 
 She spoke gently and her grief was appeased. As 
 night came on, a great, pitying calm descended from 
 on high. 
 
 "When we are dead, we go either above or below, 
 according to justice. Those up above are the people 
 whose hearts were loving: they love us still and 
 watch over us." 
 
 "Do you mean they see us?" asked Lalie. 
 
 "They see us. So, my little darlings " 
 
 She paused, not knowing how to put into words 
 the thought that welled to her heart. 
 
 "For you, there is help above: your mother is in 
 Paradise and watching over you. She loves you 
 nobody can love you as she loves you nobody !"
 
 N E N E 265 
 
 The children were silent and wide-eyed. Made- 
 leine went on thinking aloud, and her words rose 
 like a prayer. 
 
 "She's watching over you. She'll know well 
 enough that I love you, too. Lord, let her be of 
 succour to me ! If I must go away, all I ask is that 
 she keep them from forgetting me." 
 
 "But you won't go away, Nene !" said Jo. 
 
 "Do you mean you want to die*?" asked Lalie. 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 "If you died, would you go up there, too*?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "You'd have to go up there, otherwise how 
 would you manage to watch over us?" 
 
 Madeleine drew the two children to her breast. 
 
 "When I go away, perhaps I mayn't be able to 
 watch over you any more. I'm not your mother, you 
 see; I'm no, I'm not your mother. Your mother 
 is dead. She was good, that little mother of yours 
 ah, much better than me ! And she was lovely to 
 look at ! There never will be a lovelier mother. 
 It's her you must love best of all, darlings better 
 than me, better than anybody!" 
 
 She spoke slowly and in a low voice so that her 
 words might make a deep, lasting impression upon 
 the children. 
 
 "You can love all the others also; you can love 
 me a lot that isn't forbidden ! But let your mother 
 be first always I won't be jealous. Yes, you may
 
 266 NENE 
 
 love me and when you're grown up you may say: 
 'She wasn't our mother, but we remember her all 
 the same.' That'll be my share, and a plenty." 
 
 Lalie, whose thoughts were again in great labour, 
 asked: 
 
 "You're not our mother nor our aunt, nor our 
 cousin and here you're talking of going away. 
 Well then, what are you*?" 
 
 "What I am? What I am?' 
 
 Jo cuddled his head against Madeleine's neck and 
 spoke up, quite amazed by his sister's question : 
 
 "What is she? Why, she's Nene !" 
 
 And, that evening, they huddled close to each 
 other and didn't say another word.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 EVERYTHING was ready. There was nothing 
 more to do, nothing more to say. It was use- 
 less to weep, to pray, to struggle ... all that was 
 left for her was to go. 
 
 Only one more night scarcely seven or eight 
 hours 
 
 The wedding was set for Wednesday, but on 
 Monday Violette's mother was to come with part of 
 her household goods. Madeleine didn't want to be 
 there to make welcome this woman who came in 
 triumph. 
 
 For the last time she had undressed the children, 
 forcing herself to play with them the while as usual, 
 so they wouldn't feel badly. And she had put them 
 both in her own bed. For the last time she had 
 surrendered her head to Jo, who had pulled her ears 
 and rumpled her hair as so often before. 
 
 Now Jo and Lalie were asleep. In the men's 
 room the new farm-hand had stopped moving about. 
 The house was dark, yet outside, the twilight was 
 lingering on and on. 
 
 Madeleine sat down by the open window. On a 
 chair by her side lay a little bundle of clothes, all 
 
 that remained of her own at the Moulinettes, for 
 
 267
 
 268 N E N E 
 
 her other belongings had already gone. Michael had 
 paid her off that morning. 
 
 It was the end. 
 
 She did not weep, she did not stir; her hair fell 
 into her face; her legs and arms were numb; all 
 her life was concentrated in her breast where her 
 heart was beating furiously. 
 
 From the garden the border pinks sent in a sweet 
 fragrance ; a nightingale's song filled the room ; then 
 the tree-frogs began to make themselves heard from 
 the direction of the pond, and presently their count- 
 less voices were heard all around. 
 
 Madeleine forced herself to drown the ache of 
 her heart in a mumble of words : 
 
 "Now I shan't live in this cosy spot any more; I'd 
 grown used to it and it hurts to go. I'll be lonesome 
 for this nice old house, for the pond, for the stream 
 where I did my washing. Where shall I find a gar- 
 den that suits me so well *? I shall never see the lilac 
 bush again, nor the climbing roses in the front 
 yard 
 
 She tried to lose her heartache along these little 
 byways of thought. Poor girl ! better stick to the 
 main road ! The sleeping tots whose gentle breath- 
 ing you can hardly hear, hold all your heart in 
 bonds. 
 
 "I was the mistress here. Everything in the house 
 went as I said; it won't be the same elsewhere !" 
 
 As if your heart cared about that !
 
 N E N E 269 
 
 "I'll be ordered about roughly; they'll make me 
 work in the fields with the men." 
 
 Why do you try to fool your heart? If you were 
 asked, you wouldn't mind doing the work of a farm- 
 hand all the year round; you'd plough and sow 
 and harvest, fetch and carry, no matter how heavy 
 the load! 
 
 "Good evening, Madeleine !" 
 
 She looked up. A man whom she had not heard 
 come in was standing in the yard. 
 
 "Good evening," she said. 
 
 He drew nearer. "Don't you recognise me? 
 Does the uniform make such a difference?" 
 
 She started as if waking out of a sleep. 
 
 "Gideon!" 
 
 "Yes, it's me. I've had a furlough. I'm on my 
 way now to catch a train back, at Chateau-Blanc. I 
 didn't have much time this trip, or else I'd have paid 
 you a real long visit." 
 
 "I'd have been very glad," said Madeleine. 
 "Come in." 
 
 But he stepped to the window and leaned his 
 arms on the sill. 
 
 "I can't stop. I haven't got time. Is the boss 
 at home?" 
 
 "He hasn't returned yet," and she added, with a 
 touch of scorn : 
 
 "This is a great day for him; he got himself bap-
 
 270 N E N E 
 
 tised at Chantepie. It's a triumph for the Catholics. 
 But you've probably heard all about it." 
 
 "Yes, it's being talked about around the neigh- 
 bourhood. The wedding is set for this week?" 
 
 "Wednesday." 
 
 "And so you're leaving the Moulinettes? When 
 are you going?" 
 
 "To-morrow." 
 
 Madeleine turned her head away. The gentle 
 breathing of the children came faintly through the 
 silence that had fallen between them. Gideon ven- 
 tured in a low voice : 
 
 "It hurts, poor Madeleine I know " 
 
 She answered : 
 
 "It does." Her voice was the voice of a dying 
 woman. 
 
 He said nothing more, not knowing how to ex- 
 press the things that were in his heart. For a little 
 while he stayed on, leaning close beside her; then 
 he took her hand and straightened up. 
 
 "Are you going already?" she asked. 
 
 "I've got to. The train is due at Chateau-Blanc 
 at a quarter past ten. I wish you good health and 
 good courage, Madeleine. You know I'm fond of 
 you. I'd like to see you happy. We've spent four 
 years working side by side a person can't forget 
 that. Besides, there's what you know, between 
 Tiennette and me. Madeleine, I'm sorry for you 
 with all my heart. I wish I could comfort you.
 
 NENE 271 
 
 Try to cry, Madeleine it would do you good." 
 
 He kept her hand, saying awkwardly, endlessly: 
 "Madeleine, you know, poor Madeleine my dear 
 old Madeleine " until she herself became un- 
 easy: 
 
 "Aren't you forgetting the time, Gideon?" 
 
 He paused, a little embarrassed; then he took off 
 his dragoon's helmet and said : 
 
 "Madeleine, I'd like to kiss you good-bye, if you'll 
 let me." 
 
 She rose and offered him her cheek. 
 
 "Good-bye, dear boy." 
 
 He walked off a few steps, stopped and turned 
 around: 
 
 "I was going to forget: thank you, Madeleine, 
 for the kind letter you wrote me it did me a lot 
 of good." 
 
 Madeleine's mind was far away, but she inquired : 
 
 "Have you seen Tiennette?" 
 
 "Yes, that's what I came here for. There's some- 
 body else I wanted to meet too, a wicked red wolf 
 whose teeth I'd have liked to bash in. It couldn't 
 be managed, and he can thank his stars !" 
 
 "Whom do you mean?" 
 
 "Boiseriot. I saw him all right, but I couldn't get 
 him alone ! Only a while ago I saw him at a table 
 at the inn, at Saint- Ambroise, with your brother." 
 
 "With my brother!" 
 
 "Yes it was a surprise to me ! They sat alone
 
 272 N E N E 
 
 in a corner together, drinking brandy. I sat down 
 and waited for Boiseriot to go out alone, but he 
 didn't. I could see them very well ; Boiseriot acted 
 as if he was drunk, but he was just pretending, be- 
 cause I saw him empty his glass under the table. As 
 for Trooper, he was as drunk as a lord I heard 
 him shout : 'You say at ten o'clock at the Belief on- 
 taine crossroads'? All right!' And he cussed and 
 banged the table and rolled eyes as big as saucers. 
 He must have swallowed an awful lot of brandy to 
 get himself in such a state." 
 
 Madeleine said half to herself : 
 
 "When he's drunk he's like crazy." 
 
 The clock in the house struck the hour. 
 
 "Nine o'clock!" said Gideon. "I'll have to 
 hurry. Good-bye, Madeleine !" 
 
 And he vanished in the deepening shadows of the 
 night. 
 
 Madeleine had not risen to see him off, nor waved 
 good-bye, nor moved at all: she was so tired, so 
 weary and worn-out. 
 
 She was fond of her good young comrade, but 
 she was feeling so utterly miserable just now ! She 
 was feeling so miserable that Gideon and Tiennette 
 and Trooper and all the rest were almost indifferent 
 to her. 
 
 Her mind was not very clear. What was it 
 Gideon had said? Trooper was drunk; Boiseriot 
 made him drink brandy. Why? "At ten o'clock
 
 N E N E 273 
 
 at the Belief on taine crossroads - " It was prob- 
 ably some sort of wager, some prank that would fur- 
 nish the gossips with something new to talk about. 
 Poor brother! He too chafed under his sorrow; his 
 weak character did not stand up against adversity. 
 He was getting drunk very often now; only the 
 other day when was it? his eyes had been 
 
 "Oh, my God!" 
 
 Madeleine jumped to her feet, but her legs bent 
 under her and she fell back into her chair. One 
 memory among the many had come to the fore, cut 
 its way through like a pointed blade of steel. She 
 saw again that big threatening hand upraised: 
 
 "If I meet that man God pity him !" She un- 
 derstood now ! 
 
 For a moment she remained aghast. She did not 
 hear the words that came brokenly from her lips: 
 
 "The wicked red wolf ten o'clock at Bellefon- 
 taine that's on Michael's way on Michael's 
 way." 
 
 She sprang up, rushed out of the house, calling: 
 
 "Gideon! Gideon!" 
 
 But her voice was choked and didn't carry. She 
 ran across the garden and out along the road to 
 Chateau-Blanc. 
 
 "Gideon! Gideon! Help!" 
 
 No answer came. She wrung her hands.
 
 274 N E N E 
 
 "It's my fault! It's my fault !^-I prayed for it! 
 Damnation !" 
 
 Like one demented she ran across fields toward 
 Bellefontaine. The footpaths were no longer visible 
 in the darkness; she lost her way in a wide meadow 
 and couldn't find the stile; she ran against a bushy 
 hedge, broke through between two thorny shrubs 
 with a great thrust of all her body and rolled on the 
 other side into a deep ditch. 
 
 Her heart failed her; she had to stay sitting in 
 the ditch for a moment. A night bird flew by, utter- 
 ing its cry. With a great effort she got up; her 
 hands, raised high, tore at each other. The cry of 
 the owl had given birth to a thought and against the 
 monstrosity of it she struggled with appalled des- 
 peration. 
 
 "No! no! Not at that price! I don't want 
 them to be orphans ! I never wanted that ! I am 
 cursed ! I am cursed !" 
 
 She ran on, gasping for breath. 
 
 "I'm cursed if I don't get there hi time !" 
 
 Above the hedges she saw a great black mass: it 
 was the Bellefontaine woods, and the road ran along 
 its edge. Three more fields to cross, one more. 
 She reached the woods; her feet stumbled no more 
 now, but went on as in a dream. There are two 
 ancient oak trees that twine their branches over the 
 crossroads. She ran straight to them and her hands
 
 NENE 275 
 
 fell heavily on the shoulders of a man who was 
 crouching there between the twin tree trunks. 
 
 "John, what are you doing here?" 
 
 The man straightened up and stepped back: 
 
 "Madeleine!" 
 
 "Yes, me ! Come away, this instant !" 
 
 Her voice rang harsh and cutting, command- 
 ingly. His answer was a wild, terrible, insane burst 
 of laughter. 
 
 "John, do you hear me? Walk ahead of me!" 
 
 "You mind your own business ! Go on home and 
 to bed ! Honest girls don't run about on the public 
 roads at night." 
 
 Slowly, heavily he pushed her back, back 
 through the trees, back into a wide field where the 
 night seemed less black. Madeleine clung to her 
 brother's arm. 
 
 "Come, John, come away with me !" 
 
 But he shook her off with a last push and raised 
 his arm threateningly. 
 
 "Clear out!" 
 
 "John, why are you here?" 
 
 'To deal death! Get out!" 
 
 Madeleine came back close, darted at his raised 
 arm which held a weapon aloft. 
 
 "What have you in your hand? Give it to me! 
 Do you hear?" 
 
 She climbed against him, pulled down his wrist
 
 276 N E N E 
 
 and seized the weapon a roadmender's hammer 
 with a long holly handle. 
 
 She struggled and wheedled, she commanded and 
 pleaded, she shamed him and flattered him. 
 
 "Give it to me, John ! You've been drinking, you* 
 don't know what you're doing! Boiseriot made you 
 drunk the fiend! I've come to fetch you, to lead 
 you by the hand. You must come with me, you 
 must believe me! Here! give me that thing at 
 once! What do you want with it? John, think of 
 waylaying anybody like this! You're mad and 
 you're a coward ! Do you hear me? If you have a 
 grievance against someone, have it out with him in 
 the open ! You're a coward, a beastly coward !" 
 
 "There's no cowardice about it it's got nothing 
 to do with it. I'm out to kill first him, then my- 
 self!" 
 
 "Give me that thing, come on, give it to me! 
 Won't you? Of course you will !" 
 
 Crack! Suddenly, slyly, Madeleine had broken 
 the flexible handle. She grabbed the hammer-head 
 and hurled it away as far as she could. 
 
 "Now, will you come with me?" 
 
 Again that insane laughter rumbled from his 
 throat. 
 
 "I'm out to kill ! I have my knife and, besides, I 
 don't need any weapon, not even a stick! I open 
 my hand and I close it. Death, that's what I'm 
 here for ! You get out !"
 
 N E N E 277 
 
 "John, you'll be eternally damned and I too, I 
 too! You don't know! Those two poor children 
 sleeping so quietly over there come and see 
 them ! What have they done to you, the poor little 
 innocents'?" 
 
 "Death, that's what I want! There's nothing to 
 say. Get out of my way !" 
 
 Madeleine clung to him, held him tight with both 
 her arms for a last appeal and lied desperately: 
 
 "Listen, I won't let you I love him! Yes, I 
 love him ! I didn't want to tell you at first I was 
 too ashamed. Now you know! I won't have you 
 hurt him ! It would kill me, I tell you ! You won't 
 hurt him, will you? John, my own big brother! 
 Come ! let's go away yes, yes, let's go ! Listen, I'll 
 prevent the marriage; I can, still! You see that 
 it's best for you to mind me ! I say you'll not touch 
 him! I'll defend him! I'll scream as soon as he 
 comes hi sight; and shame will be on us on you, 
 on me, on all the family !" 
 
 Roughly he freed himself with a shake of his 
 powerful shoulders. 
 
 "Get out of my way !" He thrust her away and 
 made for the trees. 
 
 "You think so? You wait!" 
 
 Madeleine leaped forward ; with arms spread wide 
 she threw herself on her brother, lifted him off his 
 feet and carried him off. With a twist of his back 
 he escaped from her grasp and touched the ground
 
 278 N E N E 
 
 again; and his big hand came down on her. Made- 
 leine felt her arms go weak; an irresistible force 
 hurled her far away and her head rang against a tree 
 trunk. 
 
 She found herself flat on her back; the field 
 whirled around and around her; the ground heaved 
 and fell; above, the stars were dancing; then noth- 
 ingness. 
 
 When she opened her eyes again, she saw a big 
 head bent over her and under her shoulders she felt 
 a shaking arm. Trooper was kneeling beside her, 
 completely sobered, sobbing and pleading with in- 
 finite gentleness. 
 
 "Madeleine, wake up! Sister, forgive me! 
 Madeleine, tell me you're not hurt that I didn't 
 do you harm ! " 
 
 Madeleine looked at him, bewildered. Suddenly 
 memory returned. She uttered a cry and with hands 
 still weak gripped her brother's shoulders. He 
 leaned down closer and said in a very low, shamed 
 voice : 
 
 "Don't be afraid: he's gone past; by now he must 
 be at the Moulinettes. As for me, my madness is 
 over. Madeleine, what did I do to you*? Tell me 
 there's no limb broken " 
 
 Madeleine, raising herself painfully, had the cour* 
 age to smile. 
 
 "No, nothing's broken. I had a sudden weakness, 
 that's all. Help me to get up, will you?"
 
 NENE 279 
 
 When she was up, she had to go on leaning on 
 him; so he said: 
 
 "Would you like me to carry you?" 
 
 She didn't answer; she was thinking. 
 
 "John," she said at last, "when you were a little 
 fellow, I used to lead you along the roads. I wasn't 
 much bigger than you, but I knew the short-cuts 
 better. To-day you're losing your way, John, and 
 once more I have to put you on the right road." 
 
 He replied in the gentle voice of his hours of 
 distress : 
 
 "Lead me, sister." 
 
 "John, you must go away from these parts for a 
 time ; you must leave right away this very night ! 
 Walk all through the night and if you're not far 
 enough away by morning, keep on walking through 
 the day. You said you'd find work easily in town : 
 go to town then. Here's some money for the first 
 days of waiting; here, take it! When you're over 
 this trouble and feeling all right again, you can 
 come back. John, don't you think that's the best 
 thing to do?" 
 
 "Lead me, sister." 
 
 She took him by the hand and together they came 
 down through the woods. When they reached the 
 road, they kissed each other. Then she said : 
 
 "Go now, dear." 
 
 And slowly he walked away.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 IT was nearly midnight when Madeleine returned 
 to the Moulinettes. The door was ajar, as she 
 had left it, for Michael had gone in by the back way 
 as he always did. She went in on tiptoe and, quick, 
 quick, without a stop for breath, she undressed and 
 dropped into bed. 
 
 The two children had slipped into the depression 
 in the middle ; she separated them and lay down be- 
 tween them and, slipping her arms under their soft 
 little bodies, she lay quite still, eyes staring 
 crucified. 
 
 Her head buzzed; not a thought, not a memory 
 there ; nothing but the stupor of a poor animal that 
 has been struck down. 
 
 A great weight lay on her chest, suffocating her. 
 She drew her arms free and sat up; the children 
 stirred ; with infinite precautions she drew them close 
 to her again and laid their heads in her lap. 
 
 The clock struck one. Madeleine had the sensa- 
 tion of a cold wind striking her forehead; her hair 
 rose on her head. She could not weep, nor could she 
 breathe. Her head went back and through her open 
 lips passed a hoarse, heart-rending moan. 
 
 In the men's room across the hall, Michael had 
 
 just waked up and, hearing her, called out: 
 
 280
 
 NENE 281 
 
 "Madeleine Madeleine, are you ill?" 
 
 There came no answer. He listened a little longer 
 and, hearing no more, dropped off to sleep again. 
 
 She had thrown herself forward and bitten deep 
 into the blankets. 
 
 The children were uncomfortable and now began 
 to be restless. She had to straighten up again. 
 
 The moans sounded afresh. "My little babies !" 
 
 She drew them closer and closer, gathered them 
 up against her, brought near their arms, crooked their 
 little legs. Her hands would not stop fondling 
 them, gliding over them slowly in an endless caress. 
 
 The night rolled by; the window-panes began to 
 whiten; a cock, at the far end of the yard, saluted 
 the day with his cruel crow. 
 
 "My babies! Good-bye, my babies!" 
 
 She began to shake so hard that she was afraid it 
 would wake them. For a minute she managed to 
 control herself; she folded them to her more closely 
 still, drew up her knees, bent down her head, and 
 her hands spread over as much of them as they could 
 cover. 
 
 "Good-bye! . . ." 
 
 She laid the two little heads back on the bolster, 
 put her feet on the floor and, dragging herself up 
 by the blankets, she raised herself out of bed at last. 
 
 She lighted a candle and came back to the bed to 
 put on her clothes hastily. A horribly painful shiver 
 passed over all her cold body; her teeth chattered.
 
 282 N E N E 
 
 Her hands kept on busily, fastening her skirt, but- 
 toning her bodice; But her wide, staring eyes never 
 moved. It was with her look now that she touched 
 the two brown little heads, fondled them, sank her- 
 self into them. 
 
 All at once she blew out the candle. She made 
 three steps away, then ran back and fell across the 
 bed with arms spread wide. 
 
 And once more the dreadful moans arose. 
 
 She touched them again, she pressed her lips on 
 the warm baby flesh, anywhere, everywhere, just as 
 it happened. 
 
 At last she stiffened and drew back; but the little 
 boy had half waked up and threw his arms around 
 her neck, clutching a strand of her hair with his 
 hand. Madeleine pressed to her cheek the closed 
 little fist and, with one jerk, she pulled her hair 
 out by the roots. 
 
 Then she ran to the door and fled, with her apron 
 stuffed into her mouth.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 EARLY one morning two sad women were going 
 about the household tasks in a low thatched 
 cottage. One of them was preparing the breakfast 
 soup, the other, her daughter, was folding up and 
 packing her work clothes. 
 
 "Now I'll say good-bye, mother." 
 
 "Aren't you going to eat something? You've got 
 a long walk ahead, remember! Have some soup, 
 anyhow !" 
 
 "Thank you, I don't want anything." 
 
 "Aren't you feeling well*?" 
 
 She shook her head by way of answer and her lips 
 quivered. 
 
 "You must be ill, Madeleine !" 
 
 "I'd rather be ill. . . . I'd rather be dead !" 
 
 The mother crossed herself, then lifted toward 
 her daughter her bony hands with the stiff joints 
 stiff from being so much in the suds. 
 
 "Madeleine, I don't like the way you talk. We 
 mustn't invite trouble, but we must take it as it 
 comes. Have a good cry that'll relieve you. For 
 all of two weeks now you've let this thing gnaw at 
 you like a bad fever; is it sensible to work yourself 
 into a falling sickness just because you're going to 
 
 283
 
 284 NENE 
 
 a new place? Only thirty, and handsome and big 
 and strong as you are"? If your sisters could only 
 see you, what would they say?" 
 
 Slowly she passed her crinkled fir.gers over the full 
 shoulders and the ample arms. 
 
 "Come, now, drink your coffee, I've put a drop of 
 brandy in it. There now! Off you go; do your 
 work and do it so your new masters will be pleased 
 with you." 
 
 Madeleine took her bundle and went on her way. 
 
 A little down the road she halted. The heat of 
 the sun was beginning to make itself felt; she found 
 that her ill-adjusted bundle was too big, too round 
 and awkward. So she sat down to repack it; but as 
 she unfolded a warm, plushy garment, her heartache 
 revived bitterly. 
 
 It was this jacket she used to wrap around Jo's 
 cold little feet, over there, at the farm of Michael 
 Corbier, who was no longer in need of a hired girl 
 any more. And here was the half-burned apron with 
 which she had thrown herself on Lalie, that awful 
 day. 
 
 Memories were crowding each other within her. 
 
 She saw herself again coming to the home of the 
 young widower who had lost his grip on life. She 
 had loved him with a love that was sad and gentle 
 and quite without hope. . . . But very soon the 
 children had taken the first place in her heart ; for a 
 long time now they had held sovereign sway in it.
 
 NENE 285 
 
 They had given her so much happiness and they 
 had caused her so much anxiety. 
 
 She remembered their Sunday walks, their games 
 by the pond. . . . She remembered the troubled 
 hours, the anguished watches by Lalie's bed. That 
 last memory was to her like a savage tear in her 
 flesh; she would never cease hearing those plaintive 
 cries : 
 
 "Nene! It hurts, Nene !" 
 
 Lord knew they had captured her heart : Jo with 
 his square little paws that refused to be kept clean; 
 Lalie with her pitiful, martyred little fingers. 
 
 Two weeks had gone by since she had left the chil- 
 dren, since she had untied from about her neck the 
 little arms that had entwined it in the abandon of 
 sleep. She could hear their astonished cry that first 
 morning after she was gone : 
 
 "Nene! Nene! Where are you, Nene?" 
 
 Now she had hired herself out down valley, at 
 the farm of she couldn't even remember the name ! 
 
 She got up again and as her grief was too plainly 
 marked on her face she left the main road and took 
 a side-path a path that happened to pass by the 
 Moulinettes. 
 
 Her heart bounded in her breast and her legs felt 
 very tired. 
 
 As she came to a stile, a ploughman called: 
 
 "Hello, Madeleine!"
 
 286 N E N E 
 
 She raised her head. It was Corbier. He looked 
 happy and friendly. 
 
 "Good morning," she replied. "I see you're at 
 the ploughing." 
 
 "Yes, ploughing for feed corn. I've got a new 
 plough the old one is too heavy for this. I bought 
 a real beauty come and see !" 
 
 He was too absorbed in his latest pride to notice 
 the poor, straining face. She asked : 
 
 "Are the children well?" 
 
 "As well as can be, thank you. At first they kept 
 asking for you, but now everything goes on oiled 
 wheels. Violette has brought them around to her." 
 
 She turned her face away. Only then did he 
 notice how disturbed she was and he said good- 
 naturedly : 
 
 "You know, Madeleine, you've given us, all 
 through four years, your best work and your best 
 affection. Whenever you feel like dropping in at 
 the Moulinettes, we'll count it a pleasure. And I 
 hope you may live in happiness and health, Made- 
 leine." 
 
 "I wish you the same. Thank you, Corbier." 
 
 And she went on her way, sobbing. 
 
 Yes, she'd go back to the Moulinettes right 
 away as long as she had come so near. "At first 
 they kept asking for you, but Violette has brought 
 them around to her." Just like that, in a fortnight ! 
 It was enough to make anyone laugh! Brought
 
 N E N E 287 
 
 them around to her? But how? With candy, per- 
 haps. That would be the only way she'd think of, 
 the wicked thing! She couldn't possibly win them 
 with affection because she had no heart as 
 Madeleine knew well enough. 
 
 She'd brought them around to her! Indeed! 
 That did make her laugh ! Well, they'd see ! ... 
 Thinking ahead, she bent her neck as if she felt al- 
 ready the little arms around it. The darlings ! . . . 
 No, never would they forget her ! Wasn't she their 
 true mother? Do children forget their mother in a 
 fortnight? 
 
 She took the turn of the village road almost on 
 the run and came up to the house. The door stood 
 open ; she went in. 
 
 "Good morning, Violette !" 
 
 "Good morning. What do you want? Did you 
 forget something?" 
 
 "No I was just passing. I met Corbier and he 
 asked me to drop in." 
 
 Violette drew herself up in her victorious hatred : 
 
 "You don't say!" 
 
 "Yes . . . whenever I'd like to . . . if it doesn't 
 inconvenience you, Violette. . . ." 
 
 "Unfortunately it would inconvenience me. If 
 I'm mistress here, it isn't your fault, is it? Your 
 place is not in my house, no more than in the fields 
 where my man is working."
 
 288 N E N E 
 
 "Oh, Violette! Don't be so wicked! Just this 
 once I'd like to see the children !" 
 
 Violette smiled cruelly. 
 
 "Very well ! But you're going to be disappointed. 
 Here is Lalie now." 
 
 The little girl came in from the hall. 
 
 Madeleine took her in her arms, lifted her high 
 up, covered her with kisses, again and again and 
 again, on the eyes, on the forehead, on the scarred 
 cheek, on the poor little deformed fingers. "You 
 bring them around? Why, this is the way to win 
 them." 
 
 The child let Madeleine fondle her but gave 
 no response. 
 
 "Have you still got your little necklace, darling*?" 
 
 "Mamma gave me a gold one, much prettier than 
 yours !" 
 
 "Don't you love me any more, Lalie?" 
 
 The child hesitated. 
 
 "Yes, Madeleine." 
 
 "Say, Nene!" 
 
 "Oh, I can say Madeleine now." 
 
 Her heart was buzzing like a disturbed hive. Vio- 
 lette kept on smiling and showed her sharp teeth. 
 
 "Where is Jo?" 
 
 "In his bed in the other room you know the 
 way." 
 
 Madeleine flew to him. 
 
 "Jo! my little Jo!"
 
 NENE 289 
 
 Madeleine spread her big hands over the naked 
 little body. 
 
 But the child did not stretch out his arms as he 
 used to do. On the contrary : he squirmed and struck 
 at her. 
 
 "I'm not Jojo any more ! I'm a big man now !" 
 
 "My baby!" 
 
 "I don't like you! Go away! You aren't nice! 
 you've got a smell like cheese." 
 
 With a deep sob that shook her whole being, 
 Madeleine fled. 
 
 At the end of the garden she stumbled against the 
 gate, but on she ran; she dropped her bundle, she 
 dropped her wooden shoes, but she kept on running 
 straight to the pond, to a spot where the 
 water was black and deep; running running 
 running 
 
 She came up to the surface at once, her lungs full 
 of water. A thousand ripples splashed against her 
 face a thousand little voices sang in her ears mock- 
 ingly: 
 
 "Nene! Nene! Nene!" 
 
 Consciousness went and she slipped down to the 
 muddy bed. 
 
 Then a few bubbles came up and once more the 
 water was calm. 
 
 Lazy clouds moved in the sky like a flock of 
 white sheep. The sun stood high. It was a peace- 
 ful, glorious morning.
 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES 
 
 COLLEGE LIBRARY 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below. 
 
 Book Slip-25m-9,'60(.B236s4)4280
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A 001 158666 6 
 
 UCLA-College Library 
 
 PQ 2631 P42N3E 
 
 III inn mil inn 
 
 L 005 740 029 3 
 
 College 
 Library 
 
 PQ 
 2631 
 
 P42N3E