^^^^MI^^m^^^^S$SM§'^M^§MSmS9^WwMB$mM:i


 
 BOOKS BY RENE BAZIN 
 
 Published by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Davidee Birot net S1.25 
 
 The Barrier net Sl.OO 
 
 (La Barriere) 
 
 "This, My Son" net m. 25 
 
 (Les Noellets) 
 
 The Nun net $1.00 
 
 (L'Isolee) 
 
 The Coming Harvest net %\:25 
 
 (Le Ble qui Leve) 
 
 Redemption net $1.25 
 
 (De toute son Ame)
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 
 BY 
 
 
 
 RENE BAZIN 
 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "the NtJN," "the coming HARVEST," "THE BAERtER, 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 MARY D. FROST 
 
 " ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 1912
 
 Copyright, 1912, by 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Published June, 191 2
 
 Contents 
 
 CHAPTER 3PAGE 
 
 J.* r\.RDI]15I£ ••• -••• ••• ••• ••• •*• O 
 
 II. The Birot Family 32 
 
 III. The House on the Plains 65 
 
 rV. "Flower o' the Broom" loi 
 
 V. Anna's Funeral 137 
 
 VI. A Talk with Phrosine 152 
 
 VII. A Clandestine Departure 161 
 
 VIII. Lying in Wait 171 
 
 IX. Troubled Souls 192 
 
 X. Maieul's Song 203 
 
 XL The Inspector's Visit 232 
 
 XII. "Blandes of the Green Shutters" ... 255 
 
 XIII. The Meeting 279 
 
 XIV. The Return to Ardesie 305 
 
 XV. The Permission 319
 
 DAVIDfiE BIROT
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ARDESIE. 
 
 Maieul Jacquet, commonly known among his 
 comrades in the quarry as Maieul Rit-Dur or 
 Sobersides because he laughed so seldom, had left 
 off work earlier than usual that afternoon, and 
 having gone behind his wind-break, where he re- 
 moved his sabots, unwound the strips of cloth 
 which served him as leggings, and hung them care- 
 fully on a cross-beam, he stood for a few moments 
 bare-headed, gazing through a triangular opening in 
 this wattled screen, far into the distance, doubtless 
 with some one in his thoughts who hved over 
 yonder toward the west. 
 
 "Are you going already?" asked one of the 
 men who was at work within a few yards of the 
 hut. "Is it the stones that bother you? It's 
 the same way with me. For these three months 
 I've had naught but waste and rubble." 
 
 "Maybe," replied Rit-Dur laconically. 
 
 "Or perhaps you are going on business of your 
 own? You've some private reason for quitting 
 work before four o'clock?" 
 
 3
 
 4 davidE:e birot 
 
 Rit-Dur made no answer, but stooping once 
 more under the screen picked up an empty soup- 
 can, a pewter spoon, and half a loaf of bread. 
 Then, ha\dng spread a checked handkerchief on the 
 ground, he carefully tied up in it these remnants 
 of his noon-dinner. Meanwhile a third workman, 
 higher up in the quarr}^, made answer for him. 
 
 "Why do you ask him? He's a chap who if he 
 has any secrets won't tell them, even when he's 
 drunk, which he never is. " 
 
 "He is a lucky one, " remarked the first speaker. 
 
 "That he is for sure!" 
 
 The sound of their voices ceased and nothing 
 could be heard save the cUck of broken slate from 
 all over the quarry, rising now in sonorous musi- 
 cal waves as the great blocks were struck by picks 
 of steel, then in deeper notes, from the blows of 
 the heavy mallets and the grinding of scales of 
 slate cloven by balanced knives which rose and 
 fell in measured beat. If the three hundred men 
 at work had been smashing glass with hammers 
 for their pastime, they would have made much 
 the same sort of music. Along the roads outside 
 the quarry, which were deep with a bluish clay, 
 tip-carts went by driven by children and laden 
 with immense blocks of slate which clanged loudly 
 at every jolt. The urchins, ha\'ing discharged 
 their loads, stood up in their rimless chariots and 
 lashed their horses into a trot, with a mighty shak- 
 ing up of carts, dust, and children, while the heavy 
 rumbling of wheels shook the ground and mingled 
 with the cascade of lighter notes from the crash- 
 ing and falling slates.
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 5 
 
 Rit-Dur's wind-break was larger and newer 
 than the others and consisted of three fine pah- 
 sades, one at the back, the two others meeting in 
 the form of a forage-cap. It had been fashioned 
 by its owner out of gorse and heather, closely 
 bound between wooden laths, and held together 
 by branches of buckthorn, that buckthorn whose 
 shiny black bark drives the young bucks mad 
 when they nibble it in the sprmg. 
 
 To the right of the entrance lay piles of finished 
 slates, large and small, from the ''poil-roux" to 
 the "grande-anglaise" waiting to be counted and 
 distributed as merchandise. 
 
 The morning had been lowering, as so often 
 happens in March, and the afternoon continued 
 damp and showery, so that the smallest splinters 
 of the slate that strewed the ground held a rain- 
 drop on their sharp edges. The gray clouds had 
 never ceased rolling in from the west in an un- 
 broken mass, without a rift through which blue 
 sky could peer. But all at once this canopy of 
 cloud parted, revealing, on the western horizon, 
 a belt of clear-washed green, and a paUid Hght, 
 against which stood out less dimly the roofs of 
 far-off hamlets, the billowy mounds of the slate 
 quarries, an occasional factoiy chimney, and the 
 tall outline of the well of La Fresnais looming like 
 a windmill without sails. 
 
 Maieul Jacquet emerged from his shelter, push- 
   ing his bicycle before him and carrying his hand- 
 kerchief bundle slung across his shoulder. 
 
 "Good-night to you all," he cried. 
 
 "Good-night!"
 
 6 DAVIDEE birot 
 
 He was no ordinar}^ youth, this Rit-Dur. An 
 excellent workman, he had been doing a man's job 
 since his eighteenth year, and was what is called 
 a four-load slate-cutter— that is, one whose supply 
 of blocks to be cut is renewed at each distribution. 
 But it was mpre especially in his independence of 
 character and his love of solitude that he differed 
 from his comrades. He had come originally from 
 one of the small islands lying between two branches 
 of the Loire at Savennieres, and even when he 
 arrived at the quarry he was already taller and 
 dreamier than the other lads, with something in 
 his face and manner which attracted every one. 
 If he was no talker, he was a bit of a musician and 
 poet though he never wrote songs for the village 
 revels. But the stone-cutters behind their wind- 
 breaks could often be heard singing ditties which 
 were said to be his, and sometimes at night there 
 came across the heather from the slopes of La 
 Gravelle the sound of airs played upon a rustic 
 flute which brought tears to the eyes. No one 
 ever saw the player, but the neighbours said to each 
 other, "That is Maieul having one of his nights!" 
 
 He walked for a few yards over the crackling 
 slates, then mounted his machine, and, without 
 haste, took the road that led to Ardesie, the little 
 neighbouring commune where he Hved. Every 
 morning and evening he followed this road almost 
 as far as the village, but not quite, for, to reach 
 his house, he was obliged to make a slight detour. 
 La Gravelle was situated — and very wisely too — 
 at some distance from the high-road. If Maieul 
 was in many ways unlike those about him, the
 
 DAVIDfiE BIROT 7 
 
 same may be said of his house, which stood, old, 
 high-perched, and isolated, amidst the mounds 
 and hollows of ancient slate-quames, abandoned 
 a hundred years ago. 
 
 What a droll idea it was of his, eveiy one said, 
 to go and settle himself so far from the inn and the 
 neighbours who always have at least some news to 
 tell, a newspaper to lend, or a joke to repeat! 
 
 He was in no hurry now, and being a muscular 
 youth he could mount an occasional steep rise 
 without apparent effort. In a few minutes he had 
 reached the little square of Ardesie, in which there 
 was not a single house of the good old kind, with 
 fine steep roofs, a turret or a mulhoned window; 
 nothing but a new grocery, a tobacconist's shop, 
 two tumble-down cottages newly painted ancl 
 whitewashed, and an immense shed, the disused 
 storehouse of a slate-quariy, whose shattered roofs 
 let in the sun and rain and stars. 
 
 No one was crossing the square as he entered, 
 but as he turned into the street leading from it, a 
 troop of romping girls rushed out of the village 
 school, laughing and shouting and flourishing their 
 arms about. Two of them, in their rush, colKded 
 with the bicycle and would have thrown the rider 
 off if he had not whirled his machine round and 
 hghted on one foot. Thereupon the whole crew 
 of twenty little girls set up a shout of joy and 
 triumph at having nearly upset the tall young 
 quarryman, and without damage to life or limb. 
 
 "Oh, Monsieur Maieul has fallen!" the}' cried; 
 "he has fallen off his wheel! It is a hurdle race!" 
 
 A clear firm voice arrested the tumult.
 
 8 DAVIDfiE BIROT 
 
 "Ernestine," it said, "you will be kept after 
 
 school to-morrow evening. " 
 
 The noise ceased at once as the children formed 
 into two groups and disappeared rapidly in oppo- 
 site directions. 
 
 "Monsieur Maieul, I am very much annoyed." 
 "I am not at all. There's no harm done." 
 He said no more, but shrugged his shoulders 
 slightly in the direction of the retreating children. 
 The school-mistress had been watching the de- 
 parture of her pupils from the threshold of a door- 
 way whose tufa side-posts were roughcast with 
 brown and purple-shot clay up to the height of 
 a man's head — that is to say, a little higher than 
 the head of Mile. Davidee Birot. She was young, 
 and very erect, and her eyes, weary with writing 
 and reading, were gazing with pleasure along the 
 road, at the rift of light on the horizon, at the 
 melancholy landscape, and at the figure of the 
 young quarryman dismounted there in the middle 
 of the highway. 
 
 Between her black skirts and the sides of the 
 door-way one caught glimpses of the court-yard of 
 the school, its sandy floor flecked with puddles, 
 its leafless pear-trees, and the arched trellis of an 
 arbour. 
 
 ^^Tien Maieul had followed the children with 
 his eyes a moment, he seized the handles of his 
 wheel, replaced his bundle with a toss over his 
 shoulder, and was about to move on when the 
 thought seemed to strike him that it would be 
 unci\al to go without a word to the young school- 
 mistress. As he turned toward her, an expres-
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 9 
 
 sion of astonishment crossed his face as he ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 "What is that I see, Mademoiselle, alongside 
 of you? A spade?" 
 
 "Certainly, Monsieur Maieul." 
 
 "But it is as big as mine!" 
 
 "Is it? I found it here at the school; we have 
 no other. " 
 
 "You are not going to use it, surely?" 
 
 "Pardon me, I am going to use it, and at once. " 
 She laughed as she spoke, not with the wide- 
 mouthed ringing peal of the countrywoman, but 
 discreetly and with reserve, as if her mind were 
 just hovering on her Hps. There was no mockery 
 in her laugh. She knew Maieul by sight, and said 
 to herself: "This good fellow evidently regards 
 me as a sort of princess!" 
 
 "You imagine then that we have a gardener, 
 Monsieur Maieul? No, the commune has not 
 offered us one. The Mayor of Ardesie would be 
 highly astonished if I asked him for such a thing. 
 We hoe our own beds and sow our own carrots, 
 onions, parsley, and Uttle radishes. It certainly 
 is not expert labour, but here is spring coming upon 
 us, and if we wish to vary our fare a little, we must 
 set to work. And, as you see, I am about to do 
 so!" 
 
 Her jesting tone, which implied more than she 
 uttered, at once intimidated and attracted the 
 young slate-cutter. Mile. David^e had already 
 turned away, crossed the court, and opened the 
 wicket gate which led through a low wall into the 
 kitchen-garden. She entered, stepped across a
 
 10 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 border sown with corn salad, and took up her po- 
 sition firmly at the end of the adjoining bed. Was 
 she actually going to use those hands — which 
 seemed fit only for handling a pen, so white and 
 slender were they and no bigger than a fennel 
 apple — to dig great shovelfuls of earth and turn 
 them over and over, and keep on at this work until 
 dusk? She had already raised her left arm and 
 planted her foot on the spade, when Maieul 
 grasped the handle and with a \dgorous movement 
 drew it away from her. 
 
 "There! there! let me have that spade," he 
 cried; "it is much more used to me than to you. 
 I will dig your garden for you!" 
 
 "You! Not really?" 
 
 "And take much less time about it too — and 
 maybe give pleasure also to — but enough said! 
 I must get to work at once. " 
 
 Mile. Davidee was standing in the middle of 
 the salad bed, half inclined to laugh and half 
 touched by this attention, and not at all sure which 
 w^as the more appropriate feeling. As for Maieul, 
 he had already pulled off his vest, thrown it over 
 a small pear-tree, and set to work digging the rich 
 earth which, at touch of the hoe, crumbled away 
 in soft heaps, intermixed with straw and ground- 
 sel. 
 
 "Very well, then, since you really mean it, 
 Monsieur Maieul; I thank you heartily. I have 
 in fact some papers to correct and you are doing 
 me a great kindness." 
 
 But to this he made no reply, not being given 
 to expending his energy in words. Alread}', with
 
 DAVIDfiE BIROT 11 
 
 half-a-dozen strokes of the spade, he had dug up a 
 strip of earth a foot wide and was beginning on a 
 second one. 
 
 The young girl walked away along the garden 
 path which was imprinted with the marks of tiny 
 heels, her own and those of Mile. Renee Des- 
 forges the head-mistress. She mounted the three 
 steps of the porch at the end of the playground 
 and in full sight of the garden, unconsciously hold- 
 ing herself veiy erect without any swaying of her 
 light figure. As she opened the door she turned 
 back to gaze up at the sky, which was again cov- 
 ered with dark clouds, the rift in the west having 
 closed in. 
 
 "What a dismal light, Mademoiselle!" she ex- 
 claimed to some one within. " It gives me a very- 
 despondent feeling." 
 
 " Don't be over-sensitive, my child, and beware 
 of humbug! I heard you joking a moment ago. " 
 
 "Yes, with Maieul Jacquet who insisted on hoe- 
 ing our garden for us. It was droll of him, was 
 it not?" 
 
 "Perhaps so." 
 
 "\\Tiydoyousaythat?" 
 
 "He has reasons of his own, no doubt." 
 
 "All the same it strikes me as rather odd, 
 though I have no wish to look deeply into his 
 motives. But, Mademoiselle, it is quite true that 
 owing to all these dark clouds, this fog and rain, 
 I am feeling a httle " 
 
 "A little what?" 
 
 " Depressed?— No, hardly that. Sad? — No, not 
 actually sad, but a little inclined to sadness."
 
 12 DAVIDEE birot 
 
 "You must tell the Inspector so the next time 
 he comes to Ardesie. He will advise you to get 
 married, or perhaps he will have you appointed 
 to some place on the Riviera — the sky there is 
 always blue, you know!" 
 
 Mile. Renee Desforges' wide hps curled with a 
 slightly disdainful smile. Then of a sudden she 
 ceased smiling, the bodice on which she was work- 
 ing fell from her lap, and she spoke volubly and 
 passionately. 
 
 "You are still a novice in spite of your three 
 years and a half of teaching, and as naive as a new- 
 comer after your six months in Ardesie. Posi- 
 tively you rouse my pity ! You do not talk about 
 marriage, but you encourage, you cultivate, and 
 cherish your emotions, whether over a sick child 
 or a dying woman, a strike, a mewing cat, or a 
 small bird that breaks its wing against a telephone 
 wire. You are always in a state of agitation and 
 suffering, trying to solve the problem of evil, while 
 you are nothing after all but a poor little assistant 
 school-mistress exiled to this remote hamlet of 
 Ardesie, regarded with jealousy by the cure, 
 scarcely listened to by the inhabitants, closely 
 watched by the school board, and on the whole 
 pretty badly off. You are on a false tack, my dear, 
 believe me! Live for yourself, do all that is re- 
 quired to get on, have a good class-room in excel- 
 lent order, and neat papers; the rest is superfluous, 
 and nobody will thank you for it. Give up your 
 zeal for helping the human race. Cultivate a 
 universal scepticism such as is in favour with the 
 authorities. Above all, indulge in no dreams of
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 13 
 
 conjugal affection! Any other kind you may 
 dream of, if it is not against your principles. But 
 the husband of a village school-mistress, what is 
 he? Three times out of four he is a man who lives 
 upon us, upon our labour, and if we take one from 
 among the instructors we renounce all hope of pro- 
 motion, for it would be the height of luck to find 
 two posts vacant at the same time, side by side. 
 And moreover, my child, I do not see many of our 
 masculine colleagues whom / would consent to 
 marry. No, no, my dear, we must love our pro- 
 fession for its own sake, we must lay our hearts 
 between two sheets of blotting-paper so that they 
 may dry thoroughly, always say yes to the school- 
 committee, and attain to a tidy Httle pension at 
 last without over-exerting ourselves." 
 
 "What a profession of faith! And what ardour 
 you put into it. Mademoiselle ! I assure you that 
 I have given you no pretext for lecturing me on 
 the subject of a possible or impossible marriage. 
 There is not a suitor on the horizon, I swear to 
 you! The horizon is quite misty; I have just 
 looked out. There is not a gleam in sight. " She 
 laughed gently as she spoke, bending her slender 
 neck a little. Mile. Renee resumed: 
 
 "However, you have perhaps a right not to be 
 like the rest of us school-ma'ams; you have a dowry 
 and a rich father, you are a sort of aristocrat. " 
 
 She rose as she said this, carefully folded her 
 work, stuck her needle in it, and laid it on the 
 kitchen table. 
 
 " As it is my week to keep house, I must go and 
 make the soup. Come and correct your papers
 
 14 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 beside me, will you? And perhaps you will cor- 
 rect some of mine at the same time. " 
 
 "Oh, yes, most willingly." 
 
 Mile. Davidee crossed the little corridor at one 
 end of which was the stairway leading to their bed- 
 chambers, and entered the scantily furnished, tile- 
 floored room which the yomig teachers called their 
 parlour. Taking up a pile of exercise-books she 
 carried them back to the little kitchen, where she 
 seated herself at the table and, turning her eager 
 yomig face toward the window, began to read. 
 "Middle class," — this was Mile. Desforges' class 
 — "Madeleine Bunat's cop3^book, Friday, March 
 26. Writing: Imitate good examples." With 
 one stroke of her pencil Mile. Davidee marked the 
 page "fairly good." "French composition: Describe 
 how you intend to spend your Easter vacation in 
 useful ways while resting from your studies. " 
 
 "Upon my word, this of Madeleine's is not bad. 
 Are you Hstening, Mademoiselle Renee?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, I am hstening." 
 
 The head-mistress was bending over the fire- 
 place, hanging the kettle on the crane. She raked 
 up the dead ashes, threw on a few handfuls of dry 
 thorns, took a newspaper which she folded in a 
 narrow strip so that it should not burn too fast, 
 lighted it, and set fire to the thorns which crackled 
 and threw out a white blaze. This done she put 
 her foot on the paper to extinguish the flame and 
 carefully laid the rest of it aside for next day, a 
 housekeeper's movement and a frank avowal of 
 poverty. All the women in Ardesie did this. 
 Davidee looked on curiously.
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 15 
 
 "Well, read this masterpiece, then!" said Mile. 
 Renee, 
 
 ''Oh, yes. Here it is: 'I intend to spend my 
 holidays usefully, for I am too old now to play all 
 the time. The first thing in the morning, I will 
 help about the housework, I will run errands, and 
 peel the vegetables. Then I will spend my after- 
 noon in manual work, embroidery, sewing, and the 
 like. But I shall also have my hours of leisure. 
 When I am alone, I will employ them in reading 
 and drawing, and quite often I will ask my little 
 friends to play with me. I shall thus have spent 
 my vacation usefully and at the same time pleas- 
 antly.'" 
 
 " You are right. That is very good ! " said Mile. 
 Renee as she rose from her knees with her face 
 scarlet and her eyes glowing from the flames. "I 
 have always had great confidence in Madeleine 
 Bunat." 
 
 Mile. Davidee, as often happened, shook her 
 head, and proceeded to deny what she had just 
 asserted. Speech was prompt with her, judg- 
 ment followed later, and often contradicted her 
 first words. 
 
 "All the same, do you not think Madeleine 
 Bunat's ideal of a vacation rather a tame one? " 
 
 "What would you ask better?" 
 
 "I hardly know, but as I reread the compo- 
 sition I thought to myself: A formula, just a 
 formula she has learnt by heart, and which will 
 not protect the child. Let us suppose that " 
 
 "Well, prater, I will suppose that you are not 
 looking after your gardener. Is he still there?"
 
 16 davidEebirot 
 
 Davidee Birot, light, swift, agile, rose from the 
 table, ghded past Mile. Renee, and pressed her 
 face against the window-pane. 
 
 " Yes, he is still there. He looks terribly heated. 
 The bed is almost dug. If you could only see 
 him! If we were hiring him at exorbitant wages 
 he could not work with greater ardour. There 
 now! What a shovelful, my poor Maieul Rit- 
 Dur! I really believe the darkness has made him 
 taller. He looks like a giant toiling away among 
 our pear-trees." 
 
 The young girl turned from the window and 
 came back to her papers, saying as she bent her 
 head over them, "It is very kind of this young 
 man to be doing what he is!" 
 
 "Perhaps I should think so too if he were doing 
 it for me. " 
 
 "Oh, nonsense! — Poor fellow!" 
 
 She said no more. The two school-mistresses 
 of Ardesie exchanged a glance. Their eyes ques- 
 tioned each other mutely. " What are you really 
 thinking?" They were both young — though with 
 some years between them — and their youth gave 
 a strange depth to the emotion which the half- 
 implied word of love had awakened in them. 
 Their long years of hard study were there, ready 
 to speak and say: "Shall we have our reward? 
 Will there ever be any truce to this labour?" 
 
 Such stri\dng and effort ! Such solitude ! Such 
 weariness over the daily monotony! No reward 
 but the passing affection of a few children and the 
 ingratitude of all the rest! The present moment 
 stiiTed them both and awoke their self-pity. The
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 17 
 
 same thought murmured vaguely in the soul of 
 each : " Look at this kitchen, this dull court-yard, 
 this pile of papers, this pot boiling on the hearth, 
 this whole humble life! We have barely courage 
 to go on hving because it is for ourselves alone; 
 but if it were for him! for him the unknown, the 
 impossible, perhaps!" The dream was the same 
 in the eyes of Mile. Davidee and of Mile. Renee. 
 But the latter no longer beheved in the words that 
 came in the silence with their subtle music and 
 tempting visions. She had known disappoint- 
 ment; she was growing old. Her beautiful fair 
 hair was beginning to lose its golden lights and 
 reflections. The rosy tints in her cheeks were 
 turning too fixed a red. 
 
 They still looked into each other's eyes; the 
 smile tinged with irony on Mile. Renee's lips never 
 changed. The younger girl, the Httle one who 
 had been teaching for four years, had in one mo- 
 ment lived through a happy future and seen her 
 spring-time fade; she grew sad the first, with a 
 passing impulse of gratitude for the sympathy 
 which she thought Mile. Renee expressed for her. 
 Then she went back to her task of correcting 
 papers. The two young teachers had not ex- 
 changed a word. Mile. Renee now took from the 
 sideboard a tin dish containing cold meat sliced 
 in gravy, and set it on the fire, while Mile. Davidee 
 went on reading: 
 
 "Elementary course. Writing: 'Temperance 
 preserves the health. ' She is incredibly lazy, that 
 little Philomene Letourneur ! If you could see her 
 page of writing ! I shall give her a bad mark. "
 
 18 davidE:ebirot 
 
 "Then her father will beat her!" 
 
 "No, he drinks; nothing matters to him. The 
 mother is a nice woman, however." 
 
 Mile. Davidee took up her pen again, erased the 
 bad mark and substituted : " Carelessly done. " 
 
 "Elementary course. * Temperance preserves 
 the health!' This time we have Httle Anna Le 
 Floch. " 
 
 "The Bretonne? We have too many children 
 from Brittany in school now. They come in 
 troops from Poullaouen and Huelgoat and Redon. " 
 
 "This is very badly written, all ups and downs. 
 Temperance — preserves — health. Besides, the poor 
 little thing has no health, although she observes 
 temperance strictly enough! I am always afraid 
 of her dying on our hands. She would be the first 
 of my pupils who has ever died. I am going to 
 put 'Fairly well' for her mark; it will save a few 
 tears. " 
 
 She continued to skim the copybooks, her head 
 bent lower over the pages as the light faded. Her 
 serious mouth with the red lips, which enunciated 
 so clearly, murmured each name in turn: Julie 
 Sauvage, Corentine Le Derf, Jeannie Fete-Dieu. 
 From time to time she addressed a remark to Mile. 
 Renee who repHed as she moved about the kitchen. 
 
 When she had finished correcting her papers and 
 laid them in a neat pile. Mile. Davidee rose and 
 went to the door which led into the court-yard, 
 opened it cautiously, took a step or two on the 
 sand outside, bending her head to Hsten, then 
 re-entered the room. 
 
 "He is gone," she said.
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 19 
 
 "What! without taking leave of us?" returned 
 Mile. Renee. "What manners these people have! 
 They are perfect boors. " 
 
 " But he has dug our garden-bed, " said Davidee, 
 "and after all — " She did not pursue her 
 thought, but added only: 
 
 "We must light our lamp; the night is coming 
 on, " and, so saying, she took down from the buffet 
 shelf a glass lamp whose opaque shade was taste- 
 lessly decorated with a design of playing-cards on 
 a greenish ground. She lighted it with the care 
 she gave to whatever she did and began to set the 
 table. 
 
 The two young teachers always spread a cloth 
 for their morning and evening meal; it was of 
 coarse linen, but white and fresh, and served to 
 distinguish their simple meal from those of the 
 peasants around them. Mile. Davidee spread it, 
 smoothing the folds mth her hands, while Mile. 
 Renee took the soup kettle from the hob and 
 poured its contents into a tureen, which stood on 
 the hearth half-filled with morsels of bread. Then 
 without turning her head she remarked: 
 
 "It is a pity Maieul Jacquet leads such a sad 
 life, for he is not a bad man after all. " 
 
 "What do you mean by a sad life?" 
 
 "How simple-minded you are!" 
 
 "But what is it you reproach him with?" 
 
 Mile. Davidee bending forward across the table, 
 her hands still smoothing the cloth, was vexed 
 to feel her blood mounting suddenly in such an 
 absurd way to her lips and cheeks and brow. 
 
 " Do you never hear any gossip then? " the other
 
 20 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 rejoined. "I knew it six weeks after my arrival 
 in Ardesie. Maieul Jacquet, whom they call Rit- 
 Dur, is Phrosine's lover. " 
 
 "What! the woman who sweeps our class- 
 rooms? " 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "And whom I shall see to-morrow?" 
 
 "Yes, to-morrow, and all the following days; 
 Anna Le Floch's mother. " 
 
 "Oh, how you have lowered her in my eyes! I 
 shall never be able to look at her again without 
 thinking of this. " 
 
 "Oh, you will grow indulgent in time." 
 
 "I am so now. I make no open reproaches. I 
 pass as unconsciously as I can in the midst of their 
 vices. But I would like to rest my eyes some- 
 where. And as to this woman, I guessed her to 
 be unhappy, I saw that at times she looked shy 
 and rebeUious and that her face was hard and 
 stem, but I was always struck by a sort of dignity 
 about her. " 
 
 "Trust to that if you choose, my dear! She 
 certainly cannot hve on what she earns from us. " 
 
 "I never could have beheved it. She was one 
 of the last among the younger women to wear the 
 pretty cap of Ponts-de-Ce with the fluted \\dngs." 
 
 "Do you think those caps protect a girl?" 
 
 "But I thought she had such a steady air, the 
 look of a mother who misses her child. I have 
 never talked with her except to say: 'Do this or 
 do that, do not forget to put the broom in the 
 closet, good-by. ' " 
 
 "You are not regretting the fact, are you?"
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 21 
 
 "But how many fellow-beings there are whose 
 minds never touch ours except in trivial words like 
 these, and their equally trivial answers: 'Yes, 
 Mademoiselle! No, Mademoiselle. Good-by till 
 to-morrow!'" 
 
 Mile. Renee's sonorous laugh broke out in the 
 peaceful room, disturbing the silence which en- 
 wrapped the house and swathed the court-yard 
 outside, the garden and the highway in a shroud 
 of mist. 
 
 "Eat your supper, my dear; you evidently need 
 fortifying. You can philosophize to-morrow. Are 
 there many philosophers of your stamp in Cha- 
 rente? Ah, I confess frankly that I am incapable 
 of following you, and that I cannot worry as you 
 do over eveiybody's troubles. As long as I con- 
 duct my classes properly, I am content to let hu- 
 manity alone. Will you have another spoonful 
 of soup?" 
 
 "No, thanks; I am not hungry." 
 
 "That is the way things go! If you had hoed 
 the garden-bed yourself you would be eating your 
 supper with the appetite of a young wolf cub." 
 
 Sitting opposite each other the two young 
 teachers now resumed their usual evening talk 
 on the uninteresting but necessary subjects of the 
 next day's work, the order of studies, the themes 
 to be given out. Mile. Birot, while doing her 
 best not to appear absent-minded, was evidently 
 thinking of other things: a deep undercurrent of 
 thoughts and emotions was flov/ing beneath the 
 surface attention she gave and the partly veiled 
 glance of her dark eyes. At this moment she, too.
 
 22 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 was of those who give nothing of their real mind 
 and heart to their neighbour; she merely answered 
 "Yes, no, precisely," with a face void of thought, 
 like so many faces which reveal nothing but 
 the material life that animates them, the blood 
 flowing through their veins. And yet hers was 
 a face which, although without regular beauty, 
 could not fail to interest, such was the charm of 
 its soft pallor lighted up by her large dark eyes 
 and the deep red of her lips. 
 
 The plump, blonde Mile. Renee would have pre- 
 ferred to have her companion in a more commu- 
 nicative mood. Had she ever known the eager 
 concern in eveiything about her which agitated 
 Davidee? If so, she had speedily conquered it. 
 This woman of thirty-two lived her life wholly free 
 from that cold shivering breath which blows in 
 upon us from the open sea. She had no taste for 
 melancholy and fought its attacks, which grew 
 constantly rarer, by striving to drown reflection, 
 to avoid looking forward or facing any problems 
 which she had decided to be insoluble. There 
 was about her a prompt and easy gayety which 
 was not due to courage, though it produced that 
 illusion, but was rather the means of escape from 
 thoughts of sorrow, moral perplexity, and death. 
 
 "She is always in a good humour," said the 
 parents after a visit to the head-mistress, but they 
 left her without a spark of feeling or a glow of 
 comfort, with the memoiy merely of precise colour- 
 less words, relieved by little familiarities of man- 
 ner and studied pleasantries. No one could cite 
 more than three or four instances in which Mile.
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 23 
 
 Renee had shown herself violently aggressive or 
 harshly vindictive. The cure of Ardesie was one 
 of its inhabitants whom she cordially hated, 
 though she scarcely knew him. Her other ene- 
 mies were both women, and young, of whom one 
 had complained of the head-teacher for tearing 
 up a pupil's catechism in the class-room, while the 
 other had ventured to say of her, "That blonde 
 is growing stout and red." 
 
 To distract her assistant's mind, she began 
 describing the last teacher's reunion she had at- 
 tended in the neighbouring town. She dwelt upon 
 the toilettes — "Oh, very pretentious in a small 
 way!" — related some local gossip, and commented 
 on the latest school appointments, of which she 
 approved only those which did not arouse her 
 envy, and finally she wound up by exclaiming: 
 
 "Come, child, let us go for a walk. The 
 weather is bad, to be sure, but it will make our 
 blood tingle and change the current of our 
 thoughts. You evidently need distraction. Oh, 
 how young you are!" 
 
 The girls rapidly washed the plates and soup 
 tureen, performing this task with nervous haste, 
 the principal especially, who had long aspired to 
 a better-paid post, where she could hii-e a little 
 maid for these homely offices. 
 
 They were soon out-of-doors. "How soft the 
 air is!" exclaimed Mile. Renee. 
 
 They had put on sabots over their shoes, which 
 clicked at every step and raised them above the 
 sticky mud of the road. After leaving the school 
 behind they passed a larger whitewashed build-
 
 24 DAVIDfiE BIROT 
 
 ing, then the roofs grew lower and the one-storied 
 houses whose age was past reckoning, stretched 
 out to the cross-roads and beyond, the dim even- 
 ing Hght showing their long lines of roof thatched 
 with dusty moss and looking as if patched with 
 bits of gray cloth from the cast-off garments of their 
 peasant dwellers. They all lay wrapped in such 
 deep slumber that the village seemed dead. The 
 two "demoiselles" descended toward the square, 
 which is built up only on the south and east. The 
 cafe was still lighted and the dull glare from its 
 windows streamed out across the miry road. On 
 the east was a tumble-down wall and a house 
 before which stood a tree, the solitary tree which 
 vouchsafed the shade of its quivering leaves to 
 this poor toiling hamlet. On the north there was 
 one deserted house, whose outside stairway served 
 as a sleeping place for tramps and homeless dogs 
 on summer nights. Work at the cross-roads had 
 ceased, the earth no longer groaned beneath the 
 heavy slate-laden carts, and only these two girls 
 seemed to be abroad to listen to the wailing of the 
 night wind. All the life of the village was con- 
 centrated in the two streets diverging from this 
 open space. Streets crowded by poor hovels, 
 workmen's tenements, and drinking places whose 
 patrons were no longer entering them, but where a 
 few obstinate topers still lingered over their cups. 
 It was in this quarter that most of the school- 
 children lived. Mile. Ren^e and Mile. David^e 
 stared up at the house fronts, with their dimly 
 lighted windows, which they could distinguish by 
 certain vague signs.
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 25 
 
 "I must go, one of these days, to call on Jeannie 
 Fete-Dieu's grandmother," said Mile. David^e. 
 "The child tells me she is growing worse." 
 
 "Ah, my dear, you will be doing a kind act. I 
 envy you. For my part I cannot see people suf- 
 fer. It is too much for me." 
 
 The younger woman felt tempted to reply, 
 "Then do not look at me," but she kept silence, 
 for in truth she hardly knew why such bitter sad- 
 ness had taken hold on her and could not be 
 shaken off, or if she knew she could as yet find no 
 words to express it. She only said, after a mo- 
 ment's pause: 
 
 "We are real personages here, you and I, are 
 we not? At all events, I feel the need of saying 
 so to myself." 
 
 "Fine personages indeed! I wdth my hood on 
 my head, sabots on my feet, and solitude around 
 me! My poor Mademoiselle Davidee, when you 
 have lived six months longer here you will find 
 out that we are merely victims, sacrificed if not 
 condemned!" 
 
 A discreet and musical peal of laughter rang 
 out on the astonished night, Hke the note of a 
 waking bird. The cross-roads, the two diverging 
 streets stretching out and losing themselves in 
 the darkness, all were a desert. But humanity 
 was nevertheless there, innumerable, borne upon 
 the night wind — that wind which drove the noises 
 of the town before it and scattered them over the 
 lonely fields. There was a confused murmur in 
 the distance whence issued from time to time, as 
 bubbles break on the surface of a wave, now a
 
 26 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 voice, now the whistle of a passing locomotive, 
 then two distinct measures of a waltz played by a 
 military band on some square in the distant town. 
 A bell rang in muffled tones, then came the blast 
 of a siren releasing a gang of men from their work, 
 or again the whistle of an exhaust pump in the 
 quarries beyond the well of Champ-Robert. Then 
 all these sounds mingled and lost themselves in 
 one vast harmony, and this song of life was made 
 up of a vast interblending of toils and pleasures, 
 sorrows and joys, indistinguishable one from the 
 other. Great searchlights kept watch through 
 the darkness over distant quarries and formed 
 islands of light here and there, a soft warmth 
 exuded from the enveloping folds of mist and 
 dripped from stones and walls and bushes — one 
 could feel the breath of spring which had not yet 
 fully come and which exhaled itself as yet only in 
 stray perfumes and fugitive sighs borne on the 
 soft mild air. 
 
 "You were right," said Mile. Davidee; "the 
 night is sweet." 
 
 "What the poets would call a voluptuous 
 night, " replied Mile. Renee, and as she spoke she 
 wound her arm around her companion's waist and 
 together they retraced their steps toward the 
 deserted house at the head of the square, where 
 another lonely road led away through pasture- 
 lands and rough fields strewn with bluish pebbles 
 where only sparse tufts of grass and moss could 
 grow. The girls followed it slowly and a little 
 timidly, scarcely uttering a word ; they were bound 
 for a neighbouring hamlet where stood the parish
 
 DAVIDfiEBIROT 27 
 
 church and thence homeward by another road. 
 Half-way along this lonely stretch, they both 
 started at the sound of some nocturnal bird, an 
 owl or bat, rustling through the shrubbery as it 
 flew by them. They stopped short for a moment 
 and then moved on. But instead of smiling at 
 their passing fears. Mile. Renee wound her arm 
 more closely around the other girl's waist and 
 stooped to embrace her. 
 
 "Let me kiss you, dear," she murmured. "I 
 am very fond of you; are you fond of me?" 
 
 Davidee, a little surprised but grateful for this 
 unlooked for kindness, answered softly: 
 
 "Yes, Mademoiselle." 
 
 They resumed their slow pace, avoiding bogs 
 and pitfalls and passing a lonely house here and 
 there, until they caught a glimpse of the church 
 tower, a dim shadow rising a little darker against 
 the night sky. Then they turned back to the 
 house where they were living in order to teach 
 the village children how to live. They were 
 influences there — if not personages, as the younger 
 one had said — strong, youthful influences — one in 
 the fulness of her ardour, eager to spend herself 
 for her scholars, the other already disillusionized, 
 having exhausted an enthusiasm which had never 
 been very keen, and fallen back on lower ambi- 
 tions though continuing faithful to the letter of 
 her duties. 
 
 Both had studied hard and knew more than all 
 the other dwellers of Ardesie put together, with 
 the exception of the cure and one or two engi- 
 neers established in the village. Ardesie, owing
 
 28 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 to its slight importance, had no school besides 
 theirs, the boys being sent to school in a neigh- 
 bouring commune. 
 
 These girls had left their homes and families 
 as all their colleagues had, in order to teach and 
 live among the poor, absorbed in their profes- 
 sional duties, far from the pleasures of town and 
 congenial society, and surrounded by a stern and 
 desolate landscape. They could lay aside but 
 little from their slender salaries, and marriage was 
 a diificult question for them, since thej'' belonged 
 to an exceptional world, unclassed as they were 
 by their very education, wdth minds sufficiently 
 cultivated to make an unequal marriage unen- 
 durable and yet bound by close ties to the class in 
 which they taught and from which they had 
 sprung — bound to it by their early education, 
 by many of their tastes and some of their jeal- 
 ousies and ambitions. 
 
 Nine o'clock was striking as the young teach- 
 ers opened the school-house door. They lighted 
 a pair of candles set in twin candlesticks of blue 
 and white china, and mounted the stairs to their 
 rooms, but as they parted on the landing, the 
 two faces, dimly lighted by the gleam of the can- 
 dles, smiled upon one another. 
 
 " Good-night, Mademoiselle ! " 
 
 "Good-night, Davidee!" 
 
 "Is it the dawning of a new friendship?" the 
 younger girl asked herself. " Is the Principal really 
 about to be something beyond what a head-mistress 
 is apt to be; that is to say, a near neighbour, a 
 watchful authority, but a moral life totally apart
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 29 
 
 from ours, a judge useful to consult and difficult to 
 love? " But her thoughts did not dwell long upon 
 Mile. Desforges. She drew aside the white curtain 
 of her one httle window and gazed out toward the 
 north, trying to discern the light from an upper 
 chamber which often burned far into the night. 
 For there Maieul dwelt, in a large, almost noble 
 house, standing as it did on one of the mounds 
 left by a forgotten generation and overlooking 
 the whole slate-country. But she could see 
 nothing save a few twinkling lights in the fore- 
 ground which seemed to indicate the hamlet of 
 Morellerie. 
 
 "That Maieul! I detest him now!" she said 
 to herself as with her finger tips she rubbed away 
 the mist her breath had left on the window-pane. 
 "Ah, those men who hve with a woman for years 
 and then abandon her! The species is common 
 enough and odious enough! Phrosine may have 
 tried in vain to persuade him to marry her, for 
 she is older than he, much older, ten years at 
 least. And those are the surroundings in which 
 little Anna Le Floch hves! I no longer wonder 
 that she is shy and sad, and yet I have some- 
 times scolded the child! She is not one of my 
 pupils, to be sure, but how I wish that she were, 
 so that I might clasp her tenderly to my heart, 
 since her mother is unworthy! How hard it will 
 be to show a friendly face to Phrosine to-morrow! 
 But it would be useless for me to speak out what 
 I think. One may pity but never blame ! Blame ! 
 Oh, why did this Maieul offer to work in our gar- 
 den? \Miy was he so eager to do something for
 
 30 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 me, or rather for us? One never can tell, and he 
 is so silent. How glad I should be to see him the 
 head of a decent family such as are not lacking, 
 even in Ardesie! To see him a good husband, a 
 steady workman, living in his own little cottage, 
 well-kept and tidy, with a swarm of children on 
 his knees! Three or four or even five, if it is 
 possible to hold so many at once!" She smiled 
 as she conjured up this picture, for the maternal 
 instinct was strong within her and her thoughts 
 now reverted to her own little pupils and the 
 morrow's work. She undressed rapidly and lay 
 down on the narrow cot-bed protected from the 
 wind by one thin curtain only. The wind whis- 
 tled in chilly blasts and set her candle flickering, 
 so Davidee hastened to blow it out and was soon 
 asleep. 
 
 Night had come ^ith its needful rest, but not 
 to all. Suffering and pleasure, poverty and duty 
 still kept their vigils! At that very hour, in a 
 pothouse on the lower road which the two girls 
 had passed in their walk, a young slate-cutter 
 was being enticed to drink away his week's earn- 
 ings. At that hour, in a poor house in the vil- 
 lage street, little Jeannie Fete-Dieu had risen and 
 crept with bare feet to her grandmother's bed- 
 side and stood beside it holding her flickering 
 candle — the only being awake in the house — 
 watching the worn pallid face of the sleeper who 
 had called to her in her dreams. Beneath the 
 great searchlights carters were still busy in the 
 quarries carrying off the refuse of the day's work. 
 Here and there a rabbit-snarer, a tramp or a
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 31 
 
 poacher was prowling along the tracks of one of 
 the deserted quarries, while above them all, the 
 moon was making her tranquil way through 
 heavy banks of cloud.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE BIROT FAMILY. 
 
 Where was Davidee Birot's home? It was a 
 small village by the sea in the Charente region 
 where the coast-line rises softly like the bevelled 
 edge of a mirror, and the long beach slopes grad- 
 ually beneath a shallow tide. 
 
 She came of a land-holding family which, how- 
 ever, had long been settled on the water's edge 
 within sight of the open sea. The father had not 
 always lived as now upon his income. A jour- 
 neyman stone-cutter, skilled in his trade, tenacious 
 in his business dealings, surly but intelligent. Con- 
 stant Birot had made his tour of France, and had 
 chiselled, hammered, and carved every species of 
 stone, hard and soft, marble and granite, from the 
 ancient lava of the Central Range to the cream or 
 rust-coloured agglomerates in which he delighted 
 to find the shell-deposits. 
 
 On his return to his native province after amass- 
 ing some hundreds of francs, he had entered into 
 partnership with the son of a good family there, 
 named Hubert. Together they had purchased a 
 granite quarry outside the village, on the wide 
 treeless plain encircling "Blandes of the Green 
 Shutters." Hubert had furnished the funds, 
 Birot undertaking to act as overseer, and the 
 business developed slowly. Birot, who was defi- 
 
 32
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 33 
 
 cient in general education, had found this a great 
 disadvantage in his trade, and as his ambition to 
 rise in the world increased, he became more and 
 more irritated by this drawback which he regarded 
 as an injustice of fate, and through a delusion 
 caused by vanity, he had grown to exaggerate the 
 value of that learning which he had not acquired 
 and to attribute to this cause alone all his limita- 
 tions and failures. 
 
 Accordingly, when, after his marriage with a 
 woman of modest means, two children were born 
 to them, he announced that his son was to be an 
 engineer, and that his daughter also should have 
 a fine position in the world. The son's career did 
 not turn out a success, and after proving an indif- 
 ferent scholar at the Lycee, where he was more 
 than once threatened with expulsion, he finally 
 obtained a clerical position in a prefecture in the 
 south, and was thenceforth rarely seen in Blandes. 
 Madame Birot's friends asserted that he only 
 retained this second-rate post through the in- 
 fluence and political relations of Birot the father. 
 This latter, in fact, who was already rich and still 
 engaged in active business, ha\dng bought out his 
 partner and become the sole proprietor of the 
 quarry, had grown to be an important figure, not 
 only in Blandes, but throughout the region, even as 
 far as La Rochelle. At Blandes itself he ruled su- 
 preme, he had been elected mayor and constantly 
 re-elected, and was always sure of being so, hav- 
 ing become what may be styled an absolute 
 mayor. He even aspired to the prefecture. 
 
 He had all the requisite gifts for the forcible
 
 34 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 conquest of municipal supremacy in a period of 
 local jealousies and violent transitions. He had 
 a methodical mind and a memoiy as implacable 
 as were his hatreds, but he could show himself 
 obliging and serviceable enough toward those 
 whom he did not hate. Always jovial and a 
 good fellow at first sight, and continuing so toward 
 those who yielded to his will, talkative and ap- 
 parently open, with a hand ever extended in cord- 
 ial greeting, he was, nevertheless, beneath this 
 expansive exterior, a keen, suspicious observer. 
 The first offence, the smallest failure on the part 
 of a subordinate which touched him officially or 
 in his private interests, called forth an immediate 
 response, and often one of starthng brutahty. 
 Every word, every gesture, every threat, all the 
 damaging stories accumulated for thirty years in 
 that tenacious memoiy, every insinuation that 
 might be brought, sustained as it was sure to be 
 by ready proofs, overwhelmed his victim. Birot 
 never denounced secretly; he proclaimed his 
 wrath loudly and demanded vengeance on his op- 
 ponents, sustaining his demand with promises of 
 reward which were invariably fulfilled. Accord- 
 ingly the pubHc school teacher was discharged, 
 the postmistress dismissed in disgrace, the mu- 
 nicipal counsellor saw his demand for the reprieve 
 of his son as reservist refused, and the son of 
 an old peasant woman, a soldier, was unable to 
 obtain leave of absence for the harvest. Neither 
 sex nor youth nor penitence on the part of the 
 culprit availed against the sentence of old Birot 
 whether already pronounced or about to be so.
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 35 
 
 Never had he been known to grant a pardon. 
 Never had a debtor obtained a respite from this 
 burly red-faced creditor who laughed as he cried, 
 "Pay! pay first! we'll see about it afterwards," 
 but his laugh was merely a tribute to his own 
 power, to his sense of his rights, and the force of 
 legality. No one had ever accused him of cow- 
 ardice. It was hi's habit to go straight to any 
 citizen who had been accused of speaking ill of 
 him and ask him outright: 
 
 "Is it true that you have been running me 
 down? Or is it a lie? Are you my friend or my 
 enemy? This is your time to speak openly." 
 He was accused of being pitiless and it was true. 
 It was also commonly said of him: "This man 
 has no heart;" and this was false. He loved his 
 trade and his quarry at Blandes, he loved his 
 blocks of granite and fine ashlar, his solid founda- 
 tion-stones, well-hewn and laid in perfect equi- 
 librium. Although he was beginning to walk 
 with diflSculty on the bow-legs which ill-sustained 
 his mighty paunch, he would gladly travel six 
 kilometres across country for the sake of seeing 
 a new f agade, the fine span of a bridge, a mile- 
 stone or a pedestal which did honour to the work- 
 man or the mine from which it came. But above 
 all, he loved his daughter. Davidee had been 
 born during what he called his hard-times, that 
 is, the period when he had laboured with his own 
 hands with exemplary ardour, conscientiousness, 
 and diligence. \Vhen he returned home at night 
 she was there, a dainty creature with little hands 
 outstretched to greet him, delicate hands which
 
 36 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 filled him with wonder; the nose a Httle tip-tilted, 
 the eyes fixed eagerly on him, full of infantile 
 admiration, and the memory of yesterday's gam- 
 bols, eyes moist and briUiant with a tenderness 
 whose power she already knew. 
 
 In her he recognized himself, not perhaps as 
 he was, but as he might have been. He would 
 often say to her: 
 
 "My little Davidee, you are intelligent. I am 
 no fool, but I lack education. You shall have the 
 best of educations. I will buy books for you, the 
 biggest and the most expensive, all you want. 
 I will hire teachers for you, teachers of writing, 
 reading, and arithmetic, of all that can be taught. 
 I will spend my last copper on you so that you 
 may do me credit, for you see I no longer count 
 on your brother ! Come here and kiss me, child ! " 
 
 And he would lift her proudly in his arms, those 
 arms whose muscles, long used to lifting heavy 
 weights, carried the child as lightly as if she had 
 been made of thistledown. He would then seat 
 her in a wicker chair, perched on four high legs, 
 bought for her at the same time as her nursing 
 bottle, and which still served — in spite of her 
 mother's shrugs — for the little maid Da\ad^e, now 
 grown as tall as a sheaf of wheat. Her father 
 wished it to be so because his heavy heart knew 
 but one joy on earth and feared to lose it, and 
 seeing the child still seated in her baby chair, he 
 could persuade himself more easily that nothing 
 was changed. Birot drew the chair to the fire, 
 which the mother had built sparingly, and threw 
 upon the heap of smouldering coals and embers
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 37 
 
 an armful of vine fagots from a tall pile he had 
 made under the winding kitchen stairs. 
 
 "There, warm your little hands, laugh, and 
 show your tiny teeth. This is the fire I have 
 earned for you with these arms ! This is the wood 
 from my vineyard whose wine I have sold to the 
 cognac makers. Draw nearer, child! This has 
 been a sorry day, mother! A big block of free- 
 stone, split by the frost, wounded one of those 
 confounded workmen in the knee and he expected 
 me to pay him damages ! You know him, Blazoin, 
 that swarthy fellow, with his hair in his eyes? 
 Haven't I been a workingman too? Have I never 
 had my carcase injured? Do you suppose I 
 minced matters with him? No, I just put my 
 two hands on his shoulders and shook him till his 
 bones rattled. That scared him and I heard no 
 more talk of damages. Come, little one, stretch 
 out your feet to the fire! these vine branches bum 
 like one's heart." 
 
 The child did not laugh as much as he would 
 have liked. She condescendingly allowed her- 
 self to be spoiled. Children divine so early the 
 power they have and how they can increase it. 
 Davidee stood more in awe of her silent mother 
 than of her violent father. When she wanted 
 anything hard to obtain, such as a journey to La 
 Rochelle, a day of mussel fishing in the bay, a 
 party of her little friends, or a fine new doll from 
 Paris, she asked Papa Birot, but cast anxious 
 glances meanwhile at her mother, moving about 
 silently in the background in her felt shoes, dark 
 and slender, noiseless, tireless, dusting, sweeping,
 
 38 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 polishing, always busy but never satisfied. A 
 soul enamoured of material order and finding all 
 perfection there. When her mother had said 
 yes by a nod, or no by a slight turn of the chin, 
 Davidee cared no more for Papa Birot's opinion. 
 Her case was already lost or won. 
 
 Soon the chair was too high for the child. Davi- 
 dee like all big girls preferred to touch the floor 
 with her feet. Birot who read slowly, stopping 
 to spell the complicated words, now begged her 
 to read the newspaper aloud to him. Through a 
 scruple which would have astonished his friends, 
 this foul-mouthed man ran over the head-lines 
 of his radical sheet beforehand, saying: 
 
 "Davidee, you may make a little skip just 
 there, and another here, just a lamb's skip. " He 
 bent- forward intently while his daughter read, 
 striving to follow eveiything, however fast the 
 words came, on the trot or the gallop, according 
 as the article amused or bored the youthful reader. 
 She had a naturally delicate enunciation, and an 
 alert mind which played between the lines like a 
 dolphin in the waves. Ah, the sharp little thing! 
 She much preferred to read to herself, her lesson 
 books or other volumes which Madame Birot took 
 out of the school libraiy for her; or those she could 
 borrow from her friends who sometimes possessed 
 as many as two or three dozen in a row on their 
 shelves. She brought home very high marks 
 from school. When she had gone to bed in her 
 own chamber just over the dining-room, which 
 served as a parlour for Madame Birot and a smok- 
 ing-room for the old man, the couple pored to-
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 39 
 
 gether over the marks on Davidee's papers, 
 and pride filled their souls as they counted up 
 the high marks which invariably signified "well- 
 done." 
 
 But Madame Birot, whose imagination was less 
 unbridled than her husband's, and whose judg- 
 ment was sounder, did not always conclude with 
 him: "She will go far!" but took care to add: 
 "Yes, doubtless, well-estabHshed near home, she 
 will do us honour. But you must beware, Birot, 
 of your ambition. It has already driven away 
 our son, it must not drive away our daughter." 
 
 This advice irritated the man, who, in return, 
 taunted his wife with being a hourgeoise. He 
 held forth on the subject of learning, repeating 
 the phrases he had caught up in the workshops, 
 or at public meetings, and which returned to his 
 memory, welded together like the links of a chain. 
 He knew the world, he aflirmed; he saw men and 
 understood progress; he would be willing to sac- 
 rifice his interests, even his pleasures, for his child's 
 future. He did not specify, however, what he 
 was prepared to do. But it became known in 
 time. The head-mistress of the girls' school at 
 Blandes had long ago laid her plan before Con- 
 stant Birot. She had offered her services gra- 
 tuitously in preparing Davidee for the normal 
 school, and securing her admission there. 
 
 "Such an intelligent child. Monsieur Birot," 
 she said to him; "such a favourite with her com- 
 panions, so clever and with so much distinction. 
 Yes, I can truly say it, such distinction! She 
 is formed to succeed as an instructress. She has
 
 40 davidEebirot 
 
 perhaps too much sensibiHtv, but Kfe will soon 
 cure her of that defect." 
 
 "Yes, you may well say that," replied Birot. 
 The directress continued: 
 
 "At fourteen, after she has rested for awhile, 
 I will take charge of her. You will have no fur- 
 ther responsibility. You will merely have to 
 supply remittances." 
 
 It was on a spring afternoon, to the sound of 
 bells which were ringing for vespers from the 
 tower of the fortified and crenelated church of 
 "Blandes of the Green Shutters," that Birot an- 
 nounced to his wife that he had selected a pro- 
 fession for their child. The couple were alone in 
 a first-floor chamber, scantily furnished with a 
 black walnut bed, with red cretonne coverlet, four 
 chairs and a round table, part of the stone- 
 cutter's dower, duly appraised and detailed in the 
 marriage contract exacted by the father of the 
 future Madame Birot. A door which stood open 
 connected this plain, bare, tile-floored room with 
 a larger one, whose parqueted floor and muslin 
 curtains, its brass bed and mirror, with its gilt 
 frame always shrouded in gauze, and its fine 
 china ornaments over the fireplace, seemed pre- 
 pared for a coming guest. The parents' room had 
 no fireplace though the atmosphere within the 
 house was colder than without. 
 
 _ Davidee had gone with one of her friends on a 
 visit to the neighbouring village of Villefeue and 
 accordingly the larger, handsomer, warmer cham- 
 ber stood empty. Madame Birot, standing upon 
 a wooden foot-warmer, which made her look un-
 
 DAVIDfiE BIROT 41 
 
 naturally tall, with her head turned toward the 
 window, was preparing to iron three spring waists 
 for her daughter — a lilac and two white ones — 
 which now hung damp and rumpled, on a tempo- 
 rary clothes-line stretched between two chairs. 
 An ironing-board was before her. Birot on her 
 right hand, with his back to the light, was super- 
 intending the heating of a posset of red wine and 
 sugar, which stood on the httle stove beside the 
 flat-irons. 
 
 This universal remedy was intended to cure an 
 obstinate cough which the master stone-cutter had 
 brought back with him from the works. The op- 
 pressive odour of burning charcoal filled the room. 
 
 Birot, who had not spoken for the last hour, but 
 sat gnawing his short moustache, suddenly raised 
 his resolute face. 
 
 "Well, I have seen Mademoiselle Helene," he 
 said. "She is quite ready to undertake Davidee's 
 instruction, and to teach her everything — every- 
 thing. She answers for it that three years hence, at 
 the latest, the child will be capable of entering the 
 normal school on the rue Dauphine in La Rochelle." 
 
 The slender housewife, with the brown braided 
 locks, started shghtly but did not speak at once. 
 She seized the lilac waist and spread it out on the 
 board, smoothing its folds nervously with fingers 
 that trembled slightly, as eyelids do that are heavy 
 with tears. Her husband had time to add: 
 
 "Nothing to pay. Only for her books, a mere 
 trifle." 
 
 "We ought to find out first whether she wants 
 to be a teacher. ^ It is a poor trade. "
 
 42 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 "Thefinest of all." 
 
 " What do you know of it? Attending to other 
 people's children when one might have some of 
 one's own!" 
 
 "Well, what will hinder her from getting mar- 
 ried?" 
 
 "To another teacher, I suppose? To a man 
 who can be sent hither and yon, away from us, as 
 a soldier is, and you who do not love soldiers! 
 It is just the same thing. Not to mention that 
 he will look down upon me, and on you also, for 
 that matter. But your pride prevents your judg- 
 ing intelligently." 
 
 " Why don't you say at once that I have never 
 been successful?" 
 
 "In business, yes; in elections, yes; but it goes 
 no further, Birot. You and the world are two." 
 
 "The world and you and I are three, then. 
 For you are of no different species from your hus- 
 band, my lady. You are nothing but the wife 
 of a workingman, who puts on gloves on fete-days, 
 but is nobody after all. Look here! Of us two, 
 it is I who have travelled most and heard how 
 people of the world talk. I hold my tongue, to 
 be sure, when your friends come to call on you, 
 if I happen to be around, and I appear like a 
 man who thinks about nothing. But I make it up 
 among men, I can tell you. I am listened to; 
 they tremble when I get angry; they seek to know 
 my opinion, to guess at it in order to agree with 
 me before I open my mouth. The gate-keepers, 
 the gendarmes, all the functionaries of La Ro- 
 chelle, even the big fellows, bow low to me as if
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 43 
 
 begging my leave to keep their places. The cure 
 never looks at me when we meet on the road, 
 probably for fear of seeing how I despise him. 
 The prefect would ask me to dinner if I cared to 
 go — me the stone-cutter! and he would even ask 
 you with me if I cared to have him. I could go 
 to his house in my blouse and sabots, with my pipe 
 and my oaths, and he would laugh, the poor cow- 
 ard! I have the sort of power men don't gain 
 without being intelhgent. You can't understand 
 the pleasure of that! To give orders without a 
 sergeant's stripe, to be a gendarme in a blouse! 
 Only it brings obligations with it, you see. I must 
 have children who will carry out my ideas and 
 serve the cause, do you understand? To have 
 Davidee married doesn't raise me in the world, 
 but to have Davidee a state-instructress does raise 
 me ! And besides, I can look after her promotion. " 
 
 Little Madame Birot, who was still ironing away 
 at the lilac waist, pointed the smoking flat-iron 
 toward her husband. 
 
 "So you are choosing for her! That is a pretty 
 business," she said. 
 
 "No, I want her to choose for me." 
 
 "Egotist that you are!" 
 
 "Isn't she my daughter, then?" 
 
 "She is mine still more, as I am her mother. 
 Do you never think that you are taking her away 
 from me? " 
 : "Three years from now!" 
 
 "Three years from now seem like to-morrow! 
 The fear of losing her will stand between us all 
 those days! Birot, do not do this! Neither for
 
 44 DAVIDfiE BIROT 
 
 yourself, nor for me, nor for her! We shall all 
 suffer if you do, each in our own way. " 
 
 Birot rose with purple face and hard eyes, and 
 stretched out his hand toward the hot iron which 
 his wife drew back quickly, and which she began 
 to move to and fro with frantic haste over the 
 light muslin, murmuring as she did so : 
 
 " Hard heart ! Hard heart ! " 
 
 The man was standing before her between the 
 ironing-board and the window, and she paused in 
 her work so that she could look him straight in 
 the face; she, facing the light which streamed into 
 the depths of her brown eyes, showed him plainly 
 that she did not fear him. 
 
 "Boiirgeoise!" he exclaimed after a moment's 
 silence, during which he recognized that his anger 
 would not prevail this time over the wounded 
 mother who resisted him. 
 
 "Bourgeoise! you are better educated than I in 
 some ways, but you have no longing for educa- 
 tion. As for me, I would give half my savings to 
 acquire learning, to be able to speak well, to write 
 well, to read books without my head's splitting, 
 as I see others do. You think I only want to 
 please my friends by making my daughter a 
 teacher? Well, no, it's not merely that. I want 
 her to have what I have never had. I want her 
 not to be below anybody, not to be ashamed 
 when she meets learned people. Knowledge is the 
 thing I am jealous of. I never own it to the com- 
 rades; they think me strong because I talk big; 
 but it is only because they are such cowards that 
 they always give in to me. 1 am in the wrong
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 45 
 
 sometimes; I can't invent everything. It enrages 
 me, when I have to answer back to a bourgeois 
 or to silence an enemy or a comrade who refuses 
 to obey me, that I can only swear at them. I 
 want to have ideas, knowledge, all that makes 
 one able to laugh at others instead of getting 
 mad mth them. My daughter shall turn the 
 tables. She shall talk for me, she shall think for 
 me. People will say: 'How well she talks, the 
 young lady! What a lot of things she knows! 
 "What an education she has!' While of me they 
 only say: 'That old Birot! It is not safe to be 
 one of his enemies! He hits hard and fears no- 
 body.' That's true enough, but it doesn't con- 
 tent one." 
 
 "And who is content, Birot? Are you? Or am 
 I? Or the comrades in the stone-yard?" 
 
 He rephed by stretching out his big broad hand 
 and seizing between two square-tipped fingers the 
 half-ironed waist, puffed out by the pressing, and 
 transparent in the light. Under his harsh mous- 
 tache, reddened by the pipe, his lips spread wide 
 apart : 
 
 "It's this pretty rascal, Davidee Birot!" 
 
 "Will you stop saying words like that!'* 
 
 "When she's through school at twenty, how the 
 suitors will swarm around her like flies around a 
 block of stone at noonday!" 
 
 "Don't touch that muslin, Birot. It is too 
 fresh and fine for your fingers. Give it back to 
 me." 
 
 He merely kept up his big laugh, trying to 
 soften his wife.
 
 46 DAVIDIGEBIROT 
 
 "Give it back to me, I tell you! I tell you not 
 to touch it." 
 
 This time he threw the waist down and his 
 wife seized it, holding it up to see if he had left 
 any trace of his fingers on the muslin and cried 
 angrily : 
 
 "You will live to repent, Birot. You who sell 
 your daughter to serve anybody's children ! You 
 will have grief enough when you are only a poor 
 old man and your daughter is no longer here 
 beside us and you can see her no more! You 
 never yield, to be sure, but old age wdll make you 
 bend. You won't know how to bear it, and then 
 you will shed bitter tears at having driven away 
 our little one, the pretty, the sweet, the well- 
 beloved!" 
 
 He felt the force of these images which gripped 
 hold of his heart. He turned aside and coughed 
 to show that he was ill, leaning his head against 
 the window. "There she is!" he suddenly cried. 
 
 Madame Birot stepped down off the foot- 
 warmer. 
 
 "Let me see!" she said, pushing him aside. 
 He did not protest, for he obeyed his wife in 
 everytliing which did not concern his "ideas." 
 Each exercised their own tyranny, hers within 
 the home, his without. 
 
 "You say that you love her, the poor darling! 
 I know you only too well; you have a fashion 
 of loving others which takes no account of their 
 tastes or their wishes. Look at her there! How 
 she walks between the tinman's two daughters! 
 How rosy she is and how soft-hearted and pleased
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 47 
 
 with life! She has already turned her eyes this 
 way; there again! She sees me. She is saying 
 to her companions: 'That is mammal' Poor 
 innocent! The idea of making a teacher out of 
 her with that smile, and lips like apple blossoms! 
 The idea of making her teach b-a ba, and dip 
 steel pens in ink! Now she is crossing the street 
 alone, and looking out for the carriage that is 
 coming. I have so often told her she must look 
 out for carriages! Do you hear her on the 
 stairs?" 
 
 They had both turned at once. They were 
 listening for Davidee's light, even step on the 
 wooden stairs. With the same emotion they 
 watched the door open and saw in the rift of light 
 from outside the head of a slip of a girl, the quick 
 hand turning the handle and throwing the door 
 wide open, and then Davidee standing there in 
 the full light. 
 
 "Good-morning, papa! Morning, mamma!" 
 Her cheeks were sunburnt, and her features 
 still unformed; her long brown braids were loos- 
 ened by running; her cotton dress with white 
 polka-dots was stained and too short for her; her 
 boots were muddy, and her legs in their black 
 stockings too stout for grace, and yet she had 
 about her a radiancy of youth, a dazzling air of 
 health and vigour, an awkward grace, a mysteri- 
 ous but evident promise of intelligence, of ca- 
 pacity for happiness or suffering — perhaps for 
 making others suffer, perhaps for consoling them 
 — a something, in short, which already out- 
 stripped the poor calculations of the parents who
 
 48 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 now embraced her, the father brusquely, the 
 mother with a slow, tender clasp. 
 
 "Good-morning, my darhng, darling Davidee." 
 
 " Good-day, Uttle one. " 
 
 She seated herself on her mother's knee and 
 nestled in her arms, and Madame Birot's face 
 grew young again. It relaxed, softened, and 
 became beautified, in its perfect happiness. A 
 little more and she would have rocked her child 
 in her arms. Even Birot, little given as he was 
 to idle sentiment, gazed with complacency on this 
 group formed by the two beings who belonged 
 to him wholly, his wife and his daughter. His 
 mind, uncultivated as it was, controlled his feel- 
 ings; his emotion at this moment was purely men- 
 tal. He admired Davidee's look, her happiness 
 at being petted, but a happiness which did not 
 exclude thought; he di™ed that those brown 
 eyes, half-hidden on her mother's breast and yet 
 peeping forth at her father, around the room and 
 out of the window, held a strange fulness of life, 
 and he was proud of her; he was confirmed in his 
 views as to her future, while the mother merely 
 rejoiced in clasping her child in her arms and 
 defending her body and soul. 
 ' They were ahke, Davidee and her mother, but 
 the child had a mobihty of expression which the 
 mother lacked. Her deUcate ears, small and 
 well-modelled, came neither from her father nor 
 mother; her red, half-parted hps exhaled a fresh, 
 even breath which her mother drew in hke the 
 breath of spring. All three remained silent, 
 father, mother and child, because their minds were
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 49 
 
 each absorbed in a different thought, and an 
 obscure sense of separation lay between them. 
 
 The father spoke first. 
 
 "Did you enjoy yourseK?" 
 
 "Yes, well enough." She often answered in 
 that way. 
 
 "Did you run?" 
 
 "Yes, as fast as a doe." 
 
 "Did you drink milk?" 
 
 "I dipped my nose in it." 
 
 "A big cupful?" 
 
 "Yes, with cream as high as that." 
 
 "Who did you meet on the road, gentle-folk, 
 or men from the works?" 
 
 "Your men, papa." 
 
 "Did they bow to you?" 
 
 "They didn't seem to recognize me." 
 
 The man gave a scowl and muttered: 
 
 "If you were the daughter of a rich patron, 
 who did no work, of a noble or a half-noble, they 
 would have recognized you fast enough. But 
 the daughter of one of themselves, who has worked 
 harder and earned more than they, her they pass 
 by as if she were nobody. The jealous dogs! 
 How disgusting it is to get on in the world and 
 yet not be looked up to!" 
 
 He snorted furiously through his bristKng mous- 
 tache as he spoke. Davidee's mother was bend- 
 ing over her, unbuttoning her damp, muddy 
 shoes and struggling over each button. When 
 she had pulled the shoes off she carefully felt of 
 the child's feet. 
 
 "They are wet, you naughty girl; you will catch
 
 50 davidEebirot 
 
 cold. Oh! how I hate letting j^ou go away from 
 home like that. Wait while I get you some 
 dry stockings from the closet." So speaking, she 
 drew off the clinging stockings as if she were 
 skinning a little rabbit, while the child's long legs 
 steamed in the warm room. Davidee was laugh- 
 ing, her head leaning against the chair-back. 
 Her mother had lifted her in her arms as she rose 
 and set her down again a little sideways, telling 
 her not to touch her feet to the ground, while she 
 ran hastily to the clothes-press and turned the 
 creaking lock, which invariably resisted. 
 
 Papa Birot seized the opportunity to approach 
 without rising from his chair, by dragging it along 
 with him, and seized one of the girl's hands as 
 it hung at her side. 
 
 "Look here, child! tell her it is all settled." 
 
 "What is settled, papa?" 
 
 She knew perfectly what he meant, but she 
 hesitated, because she had a tender heart which 
 suffered at the thought of giving pain to others. 
 She divined that at the farther end of the room 
 an ear was bent to listen to them, as the lower 
 drawer slid softly open and was softly closed again. 
 
 "Tell her that you want to be a teacher. You 
 must speak out frankly now that you're a big 
 girl. Who did you meet over yonder? Did you 
 not meet a lady whom father had asked to meet 
 you?" 
 
 Davidee was a resolute girl as well as a sensi- 
 tive one. She rose now and stood barefooted on 
 the floor, saying solemnly and in measured tones 
 as if pronouncing an oath:
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 51 
 
 "I will be a teacher. I have met the du-ectress. 
 I will begin to-morrow." 
 
 But no sooner had she spoken than her heart 
 resumed its sway; she was about to throw herself 
 into her father's arms when she found herself 
 seized by the waist, lifted and forcibly replaced 
 in the chair, while her mother kneeling in front 
 of her pressed the two small feet against her 
 breast so vehemently as almost to crush them, as 
 unrolling a pair of black stockings she exclaimed : 
 
 "Just wait till I give you a scolding. Can't 
 you stay where I put you?" 
 
 But whether the child's limbs were still damp 
 or the mother's hands trembled, the woollen stock- 
 ings refused to shp on, and Madame Birot, bending 
 over them, was nothing now but a poor unnerved 
 mother, helpless between her husband and child. 
 
 "God have mercy!" she murmured. 
 
 "There is no God!" replied Birot. 
 
 No one resented this blasphemous utterance, 
 neither mother nor daughter, for they were used 
 to such words. Birot pushed his chair back with 
 his foot, and began walking up and down the 
 chamber without removing his gaze from his 
 wife, who still bent over her task with bhnded 
 eyes. Davidee had turned pale, youth for a mo- 
 ment seemed to have vanished from her face; 
 there where it was wont to bloom and play over 
 the curves of her cheek, her low forehead and the 
 darkly arched eyebrows that nearly met, there 
 was now only the shade of pity for her weeping 
 mother, and the gra\aty of a child who for the 
 first time is conscious of another's grief.
 
 52 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 "You look like the directresS; yes, already!" 
 exclaimed her father. 
 
 Davidee tried to smile but did not succeed. 
 Her mother, wiping away her tears with the hem 
 of her apron, rose and said : 
 
 "Go and draw some water, Birot, for me to 
 wash my hands!" 
 
 She was making him pay for having won the 
 day. She had yielded to the man who would not 
 tolerate the least opposition to his "ideas," but 
 she now recalled to him that at home, in house- 
 hold affairs, it was she who ruled. Her husband 
 made no resistance, but descended the stairs 
 heavily, and they heard him push open the door 
 which led into their httle garden. 
 
 When he re-entered, puffing and panting, with 
 the water-pail on his outstretched right arm while 
 the left was bent to serve as a balance, he found 
 Davidee in her mother's arms; the httle one was 
 caressing the thin temples where the hau- was 
 wealing away. 
 
 "I shall come home," she said; "you will see 
 how nice it will be during the vacations. You 
 will be proud of your httle giri. Mamma, do not 
 ciy; do not put such grief into my heart that it 
 will never go away. I have a friend who is going 
 to be a teacher too. She is the best scholar in 
 the class, so you see!" 
 
 Her father set down the pail, which, being full 
 to the brim, spilt over on the floor. 
 
 "Can't you be a httle more careful, Birot?" 
 
 He pulled at the ends of his moustache and said, 
 with no ill-temper left in his voice:
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 53 
 
 "I am going out to see my friends who are 
 waiting for me at the cafe. Don't you worry, 
 Davidee; before you leave home I shall have built 
 a fine new house with a parlour, and running water 
 in the bedrooms, and the year inscribed by me 
 in the key-stone over the front door, and a porch, 
 and a garden with a fountain in it. Yes, if busi- 
 ness goes on prospering as it is doing now, I shall 
 certainly build that house. And all the ladies in 
 Blandes will envy Madame Birot. She will be 
 quite happy, your mother, in her new house, 
 where she wall spend all her time embroidering 
 underclothes for you, child, and doing worsted 
 work." 
 
 Madame Birot turned her head at this. 
 
 "And alone of course! You think I shall be 
 happy in a house where I am all alone?" 
 
 "And what of me, and our son? Don't we 
 count for anj'lhing?" And shrugging his shoul- 
 ders, Birot left the room. 
 
 Spring came at last and Davidee began her 
 studies. She had good marks and was in excel- 
 lent health. Little by Httle her mother, who from 
 the first moment had recognized the ine\dtable, 
 grew resigned to living with her grief as if wedded 
 to it, and made no further complaint. Birot de- 
 clared : 
 
 "She has grown used to the idea. She will be 
 as proud as I." But it was not so. This woman 
 who had great powers of self-control and who 
 at another period and under other conditions, 
 might have developed a deep inner fife and 
 habits of meditation, continued inwardly rebel-
 
 54 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 lious as at first, but kept silence for the sake of 
 peace. What would it have availed to struggle? 
 Their son already promised little comfort to his 
 parents; he would never attach his father to the 
 house, and, far from being a bond of union, he 
 was a subject of mutual reproaches: "He is like 
 you ! " " That may be, but it was you who spoiled 
 him. " If Davidee were made the subject of fresh 
 quarrels, Birot was capable of any violent action. 
 The mother, therefore, having once uttered her 
 grief, kept it hidden like a treasure, like a secret 
 all her own, in the depths of her soul where she 
 visited it when she was alone and wept. 
 
 But before Birot, before her friends, before the 
 "world," she wore a placid smile, which no one 
 distinguished at first from an expression of tran- 
 quil contentment, of vanity flattered by her 
 child's successes. 
 
 "She is as ambitious as Monsieur Birot," said 
 the neighbours; "and moreover, who is it that 
 rules the house? Isn't it she?" They could not 
 draw the distinction, nor recognize the curious 
 phenomenon by which this stone-cutter, docile 
 in all domestic matters, became a tjrant where 
 his "ideas" were concerned. Even before her 
 daughter, Madame Birot never showed the trouble 
 which seldom left her. She had but one little 
 hobby, which was to dwell constantly on the past, 
 as if the best of life for her was already there in 
 the years that had flown. 
 
 "I remember one day, Davidee, when you were 
 only four years old. Oh, how pretty you were 
 with your long curls, and the arms you threw
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 55 
 
 round one's neck so coaxingly ! I remember some- 
 thing you once said ... a walk we took . . . and 
 one night when you woke feverish and with a 
 hard cough, so hard that I jumped out of bed and 
 ran to your crib in my night-dress, crying, 'It is 
 croup, Birot; our darling has the croup!'" 
 
 In her heart she was constantly counting the 
 days between the vacations, and the examinations 
 which succeeded each other so rapidly. She had 
 a, horror, barely dissimulated, of all books and 
 copybooks, and of the black-board which they 
 had been obliged to purchase and set up in the 
 white chamber. 
 
 Davidee worked diligently; she brought to her 
 daily tasks a clear mind, marked taste for study 
 and pride in learning. Her father was right in 
 saying of her: "You are the picture of me — 
 flattered of course — when you are bending over 
 a book. Oh, how I should have loved that!" 
 But her kinship to her mother showed more 
 plainly still. Child of an anxious, self-tormenting 
 mother, Davidee was already a dreamer at the age 
 when most girls are thinking only of the sports 
 of to-day, or the lover of to-morrow. Possessed 
 outwardly of a cahn nature like her mother, but 
 not limited, in her capacity for dreaming and 
 suffering, to her home or her village. She pored 
 over books; she read, she sought, she divined, and 
 soon became conscious that her intellectual long- 
 ings would never be appeased by the teacher who 
 had first contributed to awaken this thirst for 
 knowing and understanding. She was but slightly 
 concerned about religious questions. Madame
 
 56 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 Birot, in the early days of her married Hfe, had 
 renounced all genuine religious observances. At 
 the great festivals, like All Souls and Easter, she 
 was to be seen in the Blandes church directly 
 under the spot where a small model of a three- 
 masted vessel was suspended as a votive offering, 
 and this sufficed to prevent her being ranked as 
 anti-religious. Her husband, on the contrar^^, was 
 openly and violently hostile to rehgion, to priests 
 and to all religious schools, and regarded the 
 Catholic Church merely as a political institution 
 opposed to the State of which he considered him- 
 self an influential adherent. Under his roof no 
 word was ever uttered in favour of religion. Sacred 
 pictures or books expounding the faith were never 
 seen. Outside her home, on rare occasions, Davi- 
 dee had heard some acquaintance complain of 
 the tyranny of the existing laws and their func- 
 tionaries, and express regret at the closing of the 
 convents, especially of the school conducted by 
 nuns, in which many mothers of families in Blandes 
 had received their education. But having no 
 comprehension of the religious life, she felt no 
 sympathy for those sufferings which reach above 
 the merety human order of emotions; she pitied 
 only those aged nuns of whom she was told that 
 they were "djdng of hunger." For her, CathoH- 
 cism was a religion which had had its day; she 
 confounded the complaints of the faithful with 
 opposition to the party in power. She heard 
 perpetual talk of "the clericals, those eternal 
 enemies of the RepubHc," and she regarded them 
 as troublesome malcontents whom Monsieur
 
 DAVIDfiEBIROT 57 
 
 Birot's journals accused of opposing all prog- 
 ress. 
 
 One religious memory alone flitted across the 
 solitude of her heaven, above her little plot of 
 earth, fertile, cultivated and overflowing with 
 abundance. The shadow of its wing was hght, 
 and yet the earth had felt it. Davidee remem- 
 bered her first communion, never renewed, and 
 ill-prepared for, but fervent. Certainly she had 
 missed many lessons in the catechism, which her 
 mother had barely consented to hear her recite 
 in her father's absence. And yet there had been 
 for one day a response of this pure young soul to 
 the touch of a divine joy w^hich left her still won- 
 dering. A solitary impulse of the heart, a desire 
 to be good forever, and a luminous peace had set- 
 tled over her. For a moment, more or less, she 
 had felt the reasonable and sweet persuasion of 
 being a soul, a power capable of the loftiest flights, 
 a frail being lost and glorified in a Greater Being. 
 
 No one ever spoke to her again of that moment 
 which so many other moments had covered up 
 and buried. Her white dress had been given 
 away; her crown of roses, preserved for awhile 
 among her girlish treasures, had lost its petals, 
 and finally, when the family moved from one 
 house to another, had been thrown away, with 
 her mother-of-pearl rosary and gold medal, with- 
 out either her father or mother's admitting the 
 least remembrance of having seen or touched 
 them. Of these sacred rehcs of her first and only 
 communion the sole remaining one was a little 
 prayer-book bound in fawn-coloured morocco.
 
 58 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 David^e was admitted to the examination for 
 the normal school in July, 1902. During the 
 vacation she paid a little visit in the south to be 
 near he-r brother, who was a clerk in the pre- 
 fecture. At the same time the master quarry- 
 man was superintending the construction of the 
 fine new house which he had long aspired to pos- 
 sess; he studied plans; he himself drew designs 
 for the flight of six broad steps leading up to the 
 porch, and for the cornices and window sills. He 
 rarely left the workshop, but received there the 
 envious homage of his cronies who now invaria- 
 bly styled him Monsieur Birot; who mentally 
 calculated the cost of the building while they 
 openly praised the quality of the materials em- 
 ployed, the size of the dining and reception rooms, 
 and the plan of the two connecting gardens, the 
 lower and smaller enclosed by an iron railing, the 
 larger which sloped upward toward the church, 
 surrounded by high walls. Along these walls, as 
 Birot explained, with a sweeping gesture of his 
 arm, was to extend a plantation of peach and 
 cheriy trees, garden grapes and even a mimosa, 
 the latter ostensibly because "Madame Birot was 
 wild to have one," but actually for the reason 
 that no one in Blandes had ever possessed a 
 mimosa. 
 
 The three years at the normal school were 
 years of success for Davidee and of pride for 
 Monsieur Birot. Davidee was now a young girl; 
 her large black eyes, her scarlet lips and the raven 
 hair piled above her forehead like a casque or 
 crown made her look Hke a daughter of the south.
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 59 
 
 She walked well, with a supple grace, though she 
 was not tall, being only an inch taller than her 
 little mother and two inches shorter than her 
 father; when she laughed she showed two rows 
 of dazzHng teeth. But there was nothing of the 
 south about her mind. She had acute sensibili- 
 ties which her reason was powerless to control, 
 though outwardly she appeared to dominate them. 
 She was never seen to shed tears, her face re- 
 mained calm, her speech clear and deliberate under 
 any stress of emotion, something of her father's 
 sturdy will revealing itself in her bearing. Her 
 friends, httle expert in reading souls, would say 
 to her: "How lucky you are to be so entirely 
 mistress over external impressions! Have you 
 any emotions which are not swayed by your rea- 
 son?" They were unaware that the immovable 
 green earth, a shallow crust, hides deep internal 
 springs, and that every oscillation of the surface, 
 every shghtest vibration, stirs these quivering 
 unknown deeps. A reproach, an injustice, a 
 sorrow, agitated Davidee for weeks, and ideas 
 and thoughts, with her, prolonged themselves 
 in emotion. She asked herself perpetually: 
 " Whence comes this feeble light which is granted 
 me? How does it serve to illuminate my path, 
 or that of others, or the world? Have I under- 
 stood such and such a daily problem? To what 
 conclusion will these principles lead me? How 
 will they affect to-morrow's actions, and in the 
 past how should I have acted if I had known this 
 earher?" Her mind wearied itself in following 
 these paths without a landmark, with no leading
 
 60 davidEebirot 
 
 by her parents, nor by any later guide. She turned 
 on her tracks amid these mazes hke a pursued and 
 panting hare which ends by faUing exhausted. 
 She felt an actual sense of pain on hearing Mile. 
 Hacquin, the professor of psychology, assert, in 
 one of her first lessons, that morality should be 
 entirely independent of all religious basis. She 
 revolted at this conclusion and during the recrea- 
 tion hour that followed the class, she went bravely, 
 for hers was the nervous courage that cannot 
 brook delay, to expose her doubts to the pro- 
 fessor. "I was expecting you," said Mile. Hac- 
 quin. "I saw by the knitting of your brows that 
 I had surprised and possibly pained you." 
 
 This preceptress, a lean, spare person, who 
 veiled her irony under a caressing manner, pos- 
 sessed the art of calming rather than confuting 
 her opponent, lea\ing the arguments she did not 
 wish to attack openly in a mid-region of vague- 
 ness and uncertainty. She thus destroyed in- 
 sidiously, counting on the gradual crumbling 
 away of those ancient edifices of thought which 
 were no longer kept in repair. And so it hap- 
 pened almost invariably. Her pupils lost hold 
 on the faith, often uncertain and barely con- 
 scious, with which they entered school. In 
 exchange they adopted the views of Mile. Hac- 
 quin, shallow views on the whole, though dressed 
 out in a specious affirmative guise, forming a 
 system which seemed at first sight to be sup- 
 ported by reason. But on being subjected to the 
 slightest practical test — as those of her pupils 
 discovered who still recalled their teacher's les-
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 61 
 
 sons — this system of ethics proved of no real 
 help in the exigencies of life, this wisdom lacked 
 the power to direct or to console. 
 
 Davidee Birot resigned herself like the others, 
 though with more reluctance, to calHng God the 
 Unknowable. She suffered at feehng herself 
 bereft of support and love, gazing up into an 
 empty sky, with no in\dsible protection above her, 
 no Judge to whom she could appeal for laws of 
 perfection and beauty in the inward life, no 
 Redeemer, no resource in the hour of death. Like 
 the others, she noted down with care and reduced 
 to formulas the contradictory philosophies of all 
 the modern and most of the ancient sceptics, and 
 she strove to find in theii' theories repose for her 
 soul. This vain attempt wearied her, but at 
 least she never relinquished it. Many of her 
 companions, who experienced none of her mental 
 disquiet, speedily learned to disdain all religious 
 ideas. Davidee could not become a mocker Hke 
 them, but constantly repeated to herself: "Later 
 on I will study, I will find out." 
 
 What remote ancestress faithful to her rosary, 
 what forbears of robust and sincere faith, still 
 influenced this lonely mind? This intellectual 
 loneliness did not, however, overshadow her daily 
 life nor prevent the yomig scholar from being gay 
 among her fellows, ardent at all their sports, 
 their walks and excursions as'well as at her studies. 
 
 Birot exulted when Davidee came home. 
 "Father," she would say, "why do you present 
 me to each of yom* friends in turn, as if I were a 
 marvel? I am no such a thing, and they have all
 
 62 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 known me from my cradle!" But in spite of her 
 protests, he never failed, at each home-coming, 
 to assemble his cronies in the grand new dining- 
 room. "Comrades," he would say, "here is the 
 Flower of Blandes, a girl who knows everything. 
 She can recite without a mistake the names of 
 all the kings of Egypt. She knows what is in 
 the earth, and in the stars, and in the inside of a 
 Hzard; she can count up to any number without 
 using her fingers, quicker than I can strike a blow. 
 She is my pride! Comrades, you see in her what 
 I should have been if I had had her education. 
 All the labour of my life has served to produce 
 that dainty tidbit there! Is she worth it? Eh!" 
 
 "Certainly she is, Birot! and 3^our labour has 
 also enabled you to build such a house that there 
 is not another to equal it in Blandes." 
 
 "That's true, too, but I am not half as proud of 
 my house as of my daughter. Come, David^e, 
 stand up and recite a fable to these friends. " 
 
 "Oh no, papa! I am no longer the age for 
 reciting fables. I am nineteen, you know." 
 
 "WeU, verses then, by — ^you know who — those 
 verses that make one want to cry when you recite 
 them in vour clear voice. " 
 
 "'The^Lake'?" 
 
 " ' The Lake,' yes ; now you shall see ! And you, 
 mother, bring along a bottle of that hqueur of 
 the Isles." 
 
 And before these heavy mates of his, while her 
 father cautiously poured the liqueur, Davidee 
 stood up and recited Lamartine. They listened 
 as they would have Hstened to a song, silent and
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 63 
 
 a little moved, without knowing why, except that 
 the human heart needs to be lulled by some 
 rhythm or other. 
 
 The mother meanwhile, who was now gray- 
 haired, stood in the door-way to Hsten, and retired 
 as soon as the applause broke out, as she did not 
 like noise; and then the careful housewife, impa- 
 tient for the hour when these men would leave 
 her clean house, which they soiled with their 
 muddy shoes, wandered restlessly from parlour 
 to kitchen, from chamber to chamber, and even 
 down to the wine-cellar which her husband had 
 confided to her vigilant care. 
 
 The mimosa on the south side of the house had 
 become a tree, while clumps of golden spindle- 
 tree formed pyramids on the lawn, under the 
 planes and lindens which had been so judiciously 
 planted. 
 
 In the month of October, 1905, David^e was 
 appointed assistant in a large girls' school at 
 Rochefort-sur-Mer. She passed three years there, 
 and at the end of that time received her peda- 
 gogic diploma with honours. But her health had 
 given out and the physician who was called in, 
 advised that the young girl should be removed 
 to a milder climate where she would not be ex- 
 posed to the injurious influences of the sea-air. 
 This was a severe blow to her aged parents, but 
 they loved their daughter. Birot, Mayor of 
 Blandes, had but to speak the word, and Davi- 
 dee received her promotion as assistant at Arde- 
 sie in the department of Maine-et-Loire. 
 
 She had been exercising her functions for three
 
 64 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 months, and had attained her twenty-third year 
 on the third of the preceding January, when 
 Maieul Jacquet came to hoe her garden, when 
 she learned of Phrosine's fault, and the secret 
 trouble of Anna Le Floch.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE HOUSE ON THE PLAINS. 
 
 On the following day, which was a Wednesday, 
 Davidee stood watching the return of the pupUs 
 who arrived in little squads and were not visible 
 from the court-yard until they had entered the 
 gate. They came from the right and left, keep- 
 ing close under the wall, then* sabots not chcking 
 as usual, for the groimd was still soft after the 
 night's fog and rain. She caught gHmpses of 
 them as they approached, through an opening 
 between two pillars; first a child's slim legs thrust 
 forward, then a knee, then the whole Httle figure 
 turning the corner of the wall. Each child, be- 
 fore she was well inside the court, cast a com- 
 prehensive glance about her, taking in the whole 
 scene; first her httle mates, then the teacher 
 on duty, and lastly the exact spot where she could 
 slip in and reach the covered play-ground where 
 her best friend was awaiting her. Some of the 
 pupils, on catching sight of Mile. Da\idee, ran 
 to greet her with beaming faces, eyes shining 
 with childish affection, innocent hps raised for a 
 kiss and a " Good-morning, Ma'm'selle ! " As soon 
 as the kiss was given they hopped away like birds, 
 with folded wings and half-turns of the neck 
 to see who was watching them, and mingled with 
 
 65
 
 66 DAVIDfiE BIROT 
 
 the rest of the flock. Others passed with a rapid 
 half-curtsy, bending only one knee; a few, in 
 haste to resume their games and chatter, took no 
 notice of the teacher; others still, who had in- 
 herited a spirit of insubordination, observed her 
 slyly out of the corners of their eyes, and skirted 
 the wall to avoid greeting her, pretending to look 
 for a ball or to call to some distant companion, 
 and when they were well out of her sight assuming 
 a self-satisfied, impertinent air. All played un- 
 consciously the game of their sex, their family, 
 and the passions they had inherited. 
 
 Da\ddee standing motionless, with her feet on 
 the wet sand, and a white woollen scarf thrown 
 over her head, was looking eagerly, not for a child 
 but a woman. Her heart was beating fast as 
 each new figm'e appeared in the angle of the wall. 
 
 "Why has she not come yet? She is not often 
 late! The fire will not be lighted in time; this 
 woman is neglecting her work and it is not sur- 
 prising." She mentally spoke of "this woman" 
 with an accent of irritation and contempt. She 
 tried to command her features, to assume in 
 advance a fitting expression of dignified but not 
 harsh reproof. Images passed before her mind 
 which she strove to banish and the effort half 
 unnerved her. The children in the background 
 rattled their sabots, as they chased each other 
 round the court, or leaned listlessly against the 
 pillars awaiting the signal for opening school. 
 
 Suddenly a cry arose. "Anna Le Floch! Anna 
 Le Floch! There she is!" And with exclama- 
 tions of joy and astonishment twenty httle girls
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 67 
 
 rushed to surround a child who was just entering, 
 and who turned paler than before at this tumult, 
 responding merely by a frightened and pathetic 
 smile. Anna Le Floch, with her faded tangled 
 locks, her startled greenish eyes, clad in a gray 
 woollen dress which fell as straight and scant 
 over her chest and hips as the cotta of a choir- 
 boy, stood shyly with her hands hanging un- 
 responsively at her sides as her companions at- 
 tempted to grasp them, and clinging closer to her 
 mother, the tall Phrosine, who held her by the 
 shoulders and gently urged her forward. 
 
 "Go child; you see they are glad to see you 
 again! Let her alone, the rest of you; she is 
 weak still. Go in little one; go!" For this 
 Phrosine was a mother after all. 
 
 "Good-morning, Mademoiselle," she pursued; 
 "I'm afraid I'm a bit late, but she wanted to 
 come. You are displeased, I see, but faith! I 
 had no carriage to bring her in." Davidee had 
 only repHed by a slight nod, and this was why 
 Phrosine had suddenly assumed a defiant tone; 
 why she pushed her child into the teacher's arms 
 crying, "I had no carriage to bring her in," and 
 hurried away toward the school-room. 
 
 The children were soriy for Anna Le Floch, 
 but they knew no way of showing it save by 
 embracing this Kttle companion, who had not 
 been able to join in their games all winter. One 
 or two rose on their tiptoes to kiss her pale cheeks. 
 The others drew back because "Mademoiselle" 
 had already passed one arm around Anna's waist 
 and was bending over her, as they moved slowly
 
 68 D A VI DEE B I ROT 
 
 toward the school-room, murmuring what seemed 
 to be words of pity, though they could not hear 
 them. Anna with hard eyes, eyes veiled by the 
 shadow of her suffering, looked before her with- 
 out seeing and made no answer. The smoke 
 was already pouring through the iron pipe, which 
 protruded from the school-room window. 
 
 When Phrosine came out again, half-past 
 eight had just struck, and the children drew back 
 and looked up at her, with her crown of bright 
 chestnut hair raised high above her forehead, and 
 the strong, grave, maternal face, which grew in- 
 credibly soft when she addressed a good-day to 
 one of her child's playmates, and took on the 
 expression of a Mater Dolorosa when she turned 
 to gaze at the pale face of the child herself amidst 
 her ruddy companions. She had no aptitude for 
 feigning and her look continued sad, as if she still 
 saw the little face, when she turned to Davidee 
 Birot and said: 
 
 • "Mademoiselle, take care of her, will you? 
 Give her some breakfast here. She can only eat 
 a few mouthfuls of bread; she is very ill." 
 . The assistant replied: "Certainly I will take 
 care of her. " Then, clapping her hands, she gave 
 the signal for the children to enter the school- 
 room. The sun meanwhile had risen higher yet 
 above the roof which sheltered the two class- 
 rooms, above the garden, and the three ancient 
 hyacinths which, hid in a warm corner of the yard, 
 raised their pulpy stalks of pallid green matching 
 the shutters, and flecked with sand from the play- 
 ground.
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 69 
 
 At noon Anna Le Floch had breakfast in the 
 kitchen, with two other pupils who paid Mile. 
 Renee for their daily board. She barely tasted 
 the hot soup which Davidee poured into her plate. 
 "Eat some; it will do you good," said her little 
 neighbours, jogghng her with their elbows. 
 
 She shook her head, as one who knows that her 
 complaint is past remedy, but turned thankfully 
 toward the fire which was blazing on the hearth 
 and held out her transparent hands to warm them. 
 The head-mistress and her assistant at the fur- 
 ther end of the table were breakfasting hurriedly. 
 
 "What ails the child?" asked Davidee. 
 
 "She is tuberculous and rickety," murmured 
 Mile. Renee. "One of those children who suffer 
 for the sins of their fathers." 
 
 "And who is the father?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "What! you have never found out, in the six 
 years you have been here?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "For my part I think she has trouble greater 
 than she has strength to bear. Have you noticed 
 her eyes, that never look straight at you, as if for 
 fear you should read her heart?" 
 
 "I have always thought she was a sly little 
 
 thing." 
 
 "Her being unhappy would be reason enough 
 for hiding her feelings. I am very, very sorry for 
 her!" 
 
 "Tell me. Mademoiselle, will you look after the 
 recess for me, as I have some letters to write?" 
 
 Davidee often took charge during the recrea-
 
 70 davidEe birot 
 
 tion hour when the children returned before the 
 afternoon lessons, and as many of them hurried 
 back to play, she sometimes took part in their 
 games. But to-day she merely watched them 
 from a distance as one by one, at a half-hour past 
 noon, they again turned the bend in the road and 
 entered the court-yard. She had gone into the 
 garden with Anna Le Floch, and mth her arm 
 around the child's waist, was pacing slowly up and 
 down the mossy alley between the box-bordered 
 beds. 
 
 It was one of the first mild days of spring when 
 in the shelter of the wall which cut off the wind, 
 the sun had power to penetrate the limbs and 
 warm the chilled blood. 
 
 In spite of their gentle pace, poor little Anna's 
 hair was moist from the slight exertion and clung 
 damply to the child's thin temples, in straggling 
 faded locks. At first she tried to draw away her 
 arm and go off by herself, but a few gentle words 
 and the sympathy which she began to divine 
 were gradually taming her. It felt good to her 
 after all : the warmth of the garden and this gentle 
 companion all to herself. 
 
 Anna Le Floch began to realize fully that the 
 heart of the young teacher was not occupied for 
 the moment by any other affection or thought or 
 interest than hers, and that she, the sick child, 
 reigned there alone. How this thought inclined 
 her to confidences! how it relaxed the strong will 
 and broke through the long habit of silence! 
 Leaning one against the other and talking of 
 school and village matters, they turned once more
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 71 
 
 at the end of the alley and retraced their steps, 
 with the sun shining now on their right cheeks. 
 The laughter of the children at their games reached 
 them more faintly on the breeze, and they felt the 
 more alone for these distant sounds. Tears had 
 risen to the child's eyes, but she felt almost happy. 
 
 "Tell me if you love me a little, Anna?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, dearly." 
 
 "Tell me why you are so sad? I would like to 
 help you. Is it your illness that makes you so?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 The little one stopped and hung her head. 
 "I am grieved," she said. 
 
 "And what about, Anna?" 
 
 "I do not know — about living, I think." 
 
 Anna felt Davidee's arm press hers more closely 
 as she spoke again. 
 
 "It is perhaps because you are longing to see 
 your papa?" 
 
 A trembhng shook the frail Httle body first, then 
 the hoarse, panting voice whispered: 
 
 "He went away and never came back." 
 
 "Was it long ago?" 
 
 "Not this year, nor last, nor the year before 
 that. I think it was when I was two or three 
 months old, perhaps even less, and now I am 
 twelve." 
 
 "Twelve years seem long when one has suffered, 
 my poor child." 
 
 "Oh, yes, but I only wish that I had no other 
 papa; and mamma has given me one. 
 
 "Does he live with you?" 
 
 7;
 
 72 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 "Yes, mornings and nights — always. It is only 
 at noon that he does not come home. He is a 
 workman at the quarries up there." 
 
 "Yes, I know." 
 
 "He wants me to love him, but I do not love 
 him." The startled green eyes w^ere raised to 
 hers and Davidee read in them a deep instinctive 
 childish aversion. The man's name was not 
 uttered. The little girl closed her eyes and the 
 corners of her lips were drawn down as she mm- 
 mured : .. 
 
 "I want to kill myself." 
 
 "What are you saying, Anna? You have no 
 right to take your own Hfe. No one has the 
 right." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 The teacher drew herself up to Hsten to a sud- 
 den uproar among the children as they chased a 
 poor terrified mouse; then as she resumed her walk 
 she noticed that the box-bordered bed near which 
 Anna was standing was the one which had been 
 dug most recently. She drew the lonely, wretched 
 child further away, sajdng: 
 
 "I will be your friend if you will let me. I 
 will go to see you when you cannot come to school. 
 Whenever you want to weep away your troubles 
 you shall weep on my heart. It knows trouble, 
 too." 
 
 Anna's face had resumed its wild, shy, dis- 
 trustful look, and as they were now approaching 
 the court-yard, Davidee turned toward the school 
 with her. 
 
 The afternoon passed like so many others, but
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 73 
 
 toward its close an incident disturbed the daily 
 routine. 
 
 Each day, when the lessons were over, Mile. 
 Renee was in the habit of repeating and expound- 
 ing to the older girls some moral maxim ; an exer- 
 cise which she called, as she had heard it called 
 in other schools, the lay-prayer. She submitted 
 a hst of subjects beforehand to the Primary In- 
 spector and inscribed them in her school diar5^ 
 On the previous day she had enlarged, with a 
 verbal facility which had brought her credit with 
 her superiors, upon the maxim "Time is money." 
 The note-book bore for to-day's text: "Lay- 
 prayer: Alcoholism is slow suicide." The five 
 and twenty pupils were listening, as they listened 
 to the last stroke of the clock at closing hour; 
 putting away their pen-holders meanwhile, closing 
 their books, and folding up their papers with a 
 continuous rusthng noise. Two or three among 
 the more intelligent, however, were paying strict 
 attention, and Anna Le Floch, the last on the 
 rear bench, directly under a ray of Hght from 
 the window, was listening with passionate inter- 
 est. Bending forward, with her elbows spread 
 apart, her hands supporting her cheeks and her 
 chin almost touching the desk, she showed merely 
 a face pale as wax, with wide staring eyes sur- 
 rounded by dark circles. What was it that 
 excited her and kept her wide-awake at the close 
 of this exhausting day? Did Mile. Ren^e sus- 
 pect the breathless interest with which her words 
 were being followed by one hearer there, under the 
 decHning light from the long window? No, the
 
 74 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 head-teacher was near-sighted, and having taken 
 off her eye-glasses, could not distinguish Anna's 
 face and the anguish in the childish eyes. 
 
 "The children of alcoholic parents," she pur- 
 sued, "are often degenerates, infirm and ill, mere 
 useless waifs, and sometimes criminals. We can 
 only pity them, but what responsibility rests on the 
 parents! To die young through the sins of those 
 who have given us life ! I hope that I may never 
 witness the death of any pupil from any such in- 
 herited taint. It would cause me too keen a pang 
 of grief. I have often asked myself what I should 
 do if I had the misfortune to lose one of my pupils 
 by death; for, as you know, I do not beheve in 
 the immortality of the soul, only in the trans- 
 formation of matter. If a child of my own were 
 to die, instead of praying for her soul, w^hich would 
 be an idle task, I should plant flowers on her grave 
 and inhale their perfume." 
 
 At this moment a shrill cry arose: "Madem- 
 oiselle! Mademoiselle! Anna is dying ! " 
 
 The whole class were on their feet. 
 
 "Mademoiselle, her eyes are closed! Mad- 
 emoiselle, how white she looks!" Some of the 
 children pulled wildly at the sleeve of their com- 
 panion who did not stir and whose face, no longer 
 supported by her hands, lay forward on her desk, 
 her forehead resting on the hard wood. "She is 
 dead! oh, she is dead! She does not hear us." 
 Piercing cries echoed through the school-room, 
 as the head-mistress rapidly crossed it, and laid 
 Anna's motionless figure at full length on a bench, 
 while she said in a tone of authority:
 
 DAVIDfiE BIROT 75 
 
 "She has only fainted; it is nothing! I can 
 feel her heart beat. Do not be frightened, chil- 
 dren, but go away quickly and make no noise! 
 Only call Mademoiselle Davidee! I promise you 
 that by to-morrow you shall see your little school- 
 mate again." i 
 
 The children rapidly dispersed, but each one 
 on reaching the door paused a minute and looked 
 back to see if Anna had moved. No, she had 
 not stirred, the eyes were closed and the lips 
 parted, revealing her teeth which showed the 
 same bluish tint as the hollows around her eyes. 
 Davidee had come and, seating herself on a stool, 
 had taken the child in her arms and was holding 
 her across her knees as mothers do an infant. The 
 little head, which had fallen back, rested on the 
 shoulder of the girl who, with her left hand, was 
 imfastening the neck of the gray frock. 
 
 "A little water. Mademoiselle; quickly, please. " 
 
 Mile. Renee hastened to dip her handkerchief 
 at the pump in the court-yard and sponge the 
 child's brow, but did not succeed in restoring 
 consciousness. 
 
 "Carry her up and lay her on my bed," she 
 said. 
 
 " Or on mine, if you will allow me," said Davidee. 
 " She has grown used to me now and may be glad 
 to see me there when she revives!" 
 
 She weighed less than a child of six, the little 
 Le Floch. Davidee lifted her without effort, but 
 with a feeling of anxiety and of almost maternal 
 possession, as she carried her across^ the court 
 and up the stairs. Before they had reached the
 
 76 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 chamber, Anna opened her eyes and said with dry, 
 scarcely parted Hps: 
 
 "It is over; let me be! I want to go home, 
 I want to see mamma!" 
 
 The head-mistress was following, with the child's 
 forgotten sabots in her hand. 
 
 "Carry her into the kitchen," she said, "and 
 set her down in a chair; she cannot go home like 
 that." 
 
 The child, seated beside the hearth where the 
 brands were still burning, refused to eat or drink — 
 the two popular remedies — or even to answer when 
 they spoke to her. She merely repeated, moving 
 her feet mechanically on the hearth ajnid the 
 warm ashes: 
 
 "I want to go home. I don't want to die 
 here!" 
 
 "You want to go home? — Can you walk?" 
 asked Mile. Renee. 
 
 For the first time the child answered directly, 
 saying "Yes" in so firm a tone that the directress 
 replied at once: 
 
 "Since you wish me to leave her to you, Mad- 
 emoiselle, you may take charge of her and lead 
 her home. I do not think there will be any dan- 
 ger. It is not far." 
 
 Oh, how slowly and silently they moved, Davi- 
 dee and Httle Anna, but quite happily, crossing 
 tJie court and emerging on the highway ! It was 
 half-past five. The sweetness of the close of such 
 a day in early spring none can foretell ; the wind 
 must have ceased blowing, so that the sun gives 
 forth a gentle warmth, and gnats and May-flies
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 77 
 
 begin to float in the long unaccustomed air; the 
 leafless branches laden with buds do not stir, for 
 the harsh gales are over and the boughs drink in 
 the gold of the sunset, while tufts of new grass 
 spring up amidst the stones. The Ardesie land- 
 scape had now a pale charm of its own, such as a 
 secret joy sometimes gives to a young girl without 
 beauty. 
 
 They were alone, the teacher and the sick child; 
 their slow steps raised a cloud of dust which 
 turned to gold in the sunset light, but before long 
 there were three together on the road to the vil- 
 lage of Eclaterie, the first of the hamlets called the 
 Justices. How did Jeannie Fete-Dieu chance to 
 be there, at the junction of the two roads? Who 
 had sent her? What was she waiting for, leaning 
 against the wall of slate, her basket hanging on 
 her arm, her apron pockets stuffed with books, 
 her round cheeks very rosy, her round eyes very 
 tranc{uil, her braids crowned with a blue and 
 white knitted beret, and her hands thrust into 
 darned woollen mittens? No one will ever know. 
 She advanced to meet her poor little playmate, 
 who was treading her Via Dolorosa, and said, 
 addressing Davidee: 
 
 "Mademoiselle, grandma Fete-Dieu would be 
 very glad if you would come and see her some- 
 time; she has scalded herself." Then she took 
 Anna by the right arm as Mile. Birot was hold- 
 ing her by the left, and assuming that leave was 
 granted to her — the best scholar, the best girl in 
 her class — she accompanied the sick child home. 
 
 Her two companions occupied the middle of
 
 78 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 the narrow road and she walked beside them in 
 the wheel ruts, taking care not to stumble lest 
 she should jar little Anna's arm. An occasional 
 whitewashed wall pierced by windows, which 
 were never opened, broke the long ribbon of stone 
 fence which bordered the road, and here and 
 there a peach-tree showed, above the jagged edges 
 of the wall, its clusters of purpling stalks. 
 "Do you not want to rest, my child?" 
 "No, Mademoiselle; I can walk on." 
 She said no more, but her eyes now sought the 
 long low roof, which almost touched the ground 
 in a fine curve like the hull of a ship. Soon one 
 could see it plainly, the great roof of Phrosine's 
 poor cottage. A hedge bordered one side, and an 
 ancient fence of chestnut wood the other three 
 sides of the small plot of bare ground on which 
 the house stood, and this shelter of the poor was 
 enclosed in the vast domain of a market gardener 
 whose house, with its barn and hedge-rows, could 
 be seen in the distance. 
 
 "I have never been here before," said Davidee 
 as she opened the wicket gate. She had ap- 
 proached so quietly wdth the two children that 
 even the mother had not noticed their coming. 
 A last breath of warm soft air was bending the 
 new wheat as it gleamed in the rays of the sun 
 about to set. 
 
 The sick child, with a sudden stiff movement, 
 disengaged her left arm, threw it around Mile. 
 Davidee's neck and, with the tenderness of a 
 heart completely won, kissed the cheek turned 
 toward her.
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 79 
 
 Jeannie Fete-Dieu had already vanished, as 
 Phrosme stepped out of her door and walked 
 along the grassy path beneath the plum-trees to 
 the garden-gate. The anxious expression of her 
 face, as of one continually questioning and an- 
 swering herself, softened as she caught sight of 
 Anna in her gray frock, w^ho cried out quickly: 
 
 "I am better, mamma; do not scold me." 
 
 "I will wager that she has been fainting again, 
 hasn't she. Mademoiselle? Oh, naughty, naughty 
 girl, come at once and be put to bed. I have just 
 put on fresh sheets for you." 
 
 So sajdng, Phrosine took in her arms the small 
 frail body, as Davidee had done in the school- 
 room, and carried her into the house. But her 
 head was bent tenderly over the child, whose little 
 head she supported with one hand, as she mur- 
 mured words of love and grief, this wild Phrosine 
 of the evil hfe. 
 
 "I have put fresh sheets in your little bed. 
 You will go to sleep soon, promise me! Look 
 there at the fresh jonquils that have bloomed for 
 you; don't you think them pretty? " But between 
 their eyes which looked into each other, between 
 their souls which had dwelt so long together, there 
 passed a secret dialogue, an habitual one per- 
 haps, for the mother understood fully what her 
 child's sad eyes were asking of her; she knew why 
 it was that her tenderness never succeeded in 
 consohng or melting the heart of the sick child, 
 who did not smile back at her now, nor at the 
 fresh jonquils, nor yield herself to the caressing 
 words.
 
 80 davidiSebirot 
 
 The pale, di^awn face of little Anna merely 
 turned toward the open door with an expression 
 of terror; so that the mother faltered: 
 
 "No, he is not there; do not put on that look 
 that grieves me. He has gone to a meeting of 
 his mates near Bel-Air; they are planning a strike, 
 so you see he is not here! I give you my word. " 
 
 The little face relaxed, an expression of grati- 
 tude, of imploring hope, dawned in the eyes. 
 Anna looked at her mother with the look she had 
 just given her teacher. The mother entered the 
 house with her little burden clasped to her breast, 
 and Davidee followed her into a small room at 
 the left of the entrance. 
 
 "There, He down for a while. You have prom- 
 ised me to try to go to sleep. I am going to make 
 you a bowl of linden tea, very sweet, and that will 
 surely put you to sleep." 
 
 It would have seemed to any one hearing these 
 words that a young mother was lulling her baby 
 to rest. 
 
 Davidee meanwhile was glancing around the 
 large outer room which served as Phrosine's 
 dwelling-place, at its smoky ceiling with heavy 
 beams, above which the steep roof rose in an 
 immense peak; at its yellowish walls on which 
 hung a looking-glass and two or three old calen- 
 dars, such as are sent as advertisements, adorned 
 with smiling heads of women in gaudy colours 
 and very low-necked gowns. Davidee recalled 
 similar chromos in the white house at Blandes, 
 hanging over her father's writing-table. A large 
 black- walnut bedstead stood in one corner; the
 
 DAVIDfiEBIROT 81 
 
 wide chimney-place, with its hood standing far 
 out into the room, must have warmed and cheered 
 numerous generations. In a niche hollowed out of 
 the thick walls, where formerly must have been 
 kept the stock of rush-lights and the stalks to 
 replenish them, hung a man's cap. Davidee 
 turned away her head, and at that moment 
 Phrosine re-entered. 
 
 "The child is going to sleep. She refuses her 
 tisane and everything I offer her." Then care- 
 fully closing the heavy oak door she added : 
 
 "Yes, eveiything. She is very ill. I thank you. 
 Mademoiselle, for having brought her home. It 
 isn't every one who would have done it." 
 
 "Oh, it's nothing. I should have reproached 
 myself if I had not come. She is my pupil, ours 
 at least." 
 
 "And one who loves you, I can truly say 
 mat. ... 
 
 "Poor child!" 
 
 The young girl recalled vividly every word that 
 Mile. Renee had told her about Phrosine, and the 
 story rose between them like a thii'd person, whose 
 presence embarrassed them both, equally con- 
 scious as they were of this hostile witness. 
 
 They exchanged formal words of gratitude and 
 sympathy, feeling their hollowness as they uttered 
 them. Davidee's hand was not held out and her 
 glance avoided encountering Phrosine 's because 
 of the evil thought that stood between them. 
 
 "Some one has been talking to you about me. 
 Mademoiselle. I can see that, and I saw it 
 already this morning." This time theu glances
 
 82 DA V IDEE BIRO T 
 
 met and clashed. Davidee raised her head Hke 
 a brave girl conscious of a pure motive, and said : 
 
 "It is true. I have known of your ill-conduct 
 since last evening." 
 
 " Well, let us talk of it then, if you are willing. 
 You need have no fear of meeting him. I have 
 already told the child that he is not here; he will 
 not be back before seven. You are in the house of 
 a woman who lives with a man who is not her hus- 
 band. I had no other means of living. Why do 
 you look at me like that, as if you were going to 
 drop? For we have hidden nothing. If you will 
 consent to sit down a few moments I will explain 
 certain things to you which you ought to know 
 before judging me. " 
 
 Davidee hesitated a moment, then seated her- 
 self near the hearth, facing the window. Phrosine 
 was in the half-light, but a gleam, nevertheless, 
 lighted up the vibrating green of her eyes and the 
 flush on her cheeks. What passion, what power 
 of will, what defiance had sounded as those words 
 flashed out: "We have hidden nothing." Yet 
 she spoke in a restrained voice so as not to be 
 audible in the adjoining room. 
 
 "I seem to you a worthless creature, no doubt, 
 one who sweeps your rooms and lights your fires. " 
 
 "No, I assure you, you are mistaken." 
 
 "One who scrubs the floors and does the dirty 
 work for you, the dainty and learned. I am not 
 of your world and you make me see it. " 
 
 "Since I am bringing up your daughter and the 
 daughters of all the women in Ardesie, what have 
 you to reproach me with?"
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 83 
 
 "Your manner, which is not the same toward 
 aU." 
 
 The young girl coloured and answered with 
 spirit. 
 
 "Until last evening I had only the friendliest 
 feehng toward you. At this moment all that is 
 changed. WTiat would you have? I cannot 
 control my inmost feelings. 
 
 "One can see that." 
 
 "Why do you not marry this man?" 
 
 "I should have to be free to do that." 
 
 "Are you not free?" 
 
 "I am married already." 
 
 "Then it is still worse. Let me go now. I 
 came to do you a ser\dce, not to discuss your 
 conduct. " 
 
 But Phrosine wished to speak again; there was 
 one avowal she was bent on making. 
 
 "No, you have no right to despise me," she 
 said; "you do not know what misery I have 
 been through. I lived three years with my hus- 
 band, a workman in the quarries, a carpenter who 
 made the beams to support the galleries. He 
 deserted me; he did worse, for he robbed me of 
 my boy, whom I never saw again, and I have 
 learned since that he abandoned him to the Board 
 of Charity in Paris. That was twelve years ago. 
 Where is my son now? \ATiere is my husband? 
 He left me just before the birth of my baby-girl, 
 the child you have just brought back to me. I 
 was left alone to support us both. Well, I waited 
 three years for his return, my husband's! Ah, I 
 have tasted want, I promise you ! I have worked
 
 
 84 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 for a few sous a day while nursing the Httle one. 
 When that time was over I could no longer live 
 alone. I had no money and no courage left. I 
 gave myself to some one and it was not Maieul, 
 you understand. Who was there to forbid it?" 
 But— the law." 
 Does it feed me, the law?" 
 
 "But customs, morals — ^you could " 
 
 "AVhatcouldldo?" 
 
 "You could be divorced." 
 
 " What difference would that make? One does 
 without their permission. Has not every one the 
 right to dispose of themselves?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" 
 
 "You believe it is the mayor who can permit 
 such things? You tell that to the children ! But 
 look you, Mademoiselle, the law is like customs, 
 morals, and all the rest. You can pay attention 
 to them when you are rich, and have the time, and 
 some one in the world who cares about you. But 
 as for me, no one cared about me. I could do 
 what I liked — die even — without its troubling my 
 neighbours. In fact, I had no neighbours. I was 
 living in the Fete-Dieu house, just below La 
 Gravelle — where he lodges now. Oh, I see that 
 I offend you in speaking as I do. But I am not 
 trying to appear better than I am. You have 
 the morals that you wish to have — I have what 
 morals I can have. Do not be so hard on others; 
 you will find many like me when you know Arde- 
 sie. However, that is not what I want to explain 
 to you. " 
 
 Davidee found no answer ready for these moral
 
 DAVIDfiE BIROT 85 
 
 paradoxes, uttered with such assurance by this 
 woman, and her irritation increased at finding 
 herself so unready in defending a cause she knew 
 to be right. 
 
 "The worst of it is," resumed Phrosine, "that 
 the Httle one hates him. He does not know what 
 to do to please her; she will not look at him nor 
 speak to him, and I will tell you truly how I feel: 
 this makes me angry with her." 
 
 "Your misconduct is killing her. Such things 
 have happened before." 
 
 "What! because I love Maieul Jacquet, and 
 because I cannot live without him? She is dying 
 for that? Mademoiselle, you are hard on us poor 
 people, but at least you do not hide what you 
 think. I do not believe a child could die of 
 that." 
 
 " I, on the other hand, am sure of it, and I can 
 understand it." 
 
 "It is true she suffers and so do I, and he, too, 
 as much as we. Look here, I want to tell you 
 this! You were astonished the other day when 
 Maieul offered to dig your garden." 
 
 "Partly so, but I thought it was a kindness he 
 wanted to show me." 
 
 "Oh, no! It was a kindness to her. You do 
 not know him. He has a heart as tender as a 
 woman's, although he never laughs. He knew 
 that she was fond of you, the child, and he 
 thought, 'If I give pleasure to the teacher, Anna 
 will be pleased. ' And he told her about it when 
 he came home at night." 
 
 "What did she say?",
 
 86 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 "As always, nothing — not one word. She ate 
 her three spoonfuls of soup and asked to go back 
 to bed. When she is in there," and Phrosine 
 pointed to the door of the child's chamber, "she 
 is happier; she coughs, she is feverish, she is hun- 
 gr}^ and thirsty, but she never calls me; she does 
 not live with us. I assure you our life is not gay, 
 and I have had enough of it." 
 
 The young teacher felt a longing to open that 
 door again, to bend over the little bed, to embrace 
 her pupO, and to whisper very low in her ear: 
 "Little child, so touching in your purity, I am 
 near you; you have a true friend." But she 
 dared not; swift and spontaneous as were her 
 impulses, habits of discipline had already tem- 
 pered her eager spirit. She asked herself: " Would 
 it not be an imprudence?" and she left the house 
 with merely a glance in the direction which her 
 heart had taken. 
 
 Outside, the twilight held sway over all things; 
 all began to grow alike in colour — the shrubs in 
 the yard, the currant bushes, the manure heaps 
 and piles of stones were similar vague rounded 
 masses a httle paler along the edges. The young 
 girl had passed before Phrosine, down the mossy 
 path, and out of the gate. An infinite silence 
 brooded in the sky, over the bare fields and the 
 quarry mounds. Only along the diverging roads, 
 faint sounds dropped one'by one into the darkness, 
 the echo of footsteps, the rumble of wheels, and 
 far-off, indistinct, dying voices. Phrosine had ac- 
 companied Mile. Birot half-way through the little 
 avenue of plum-trees.
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 87 
 
 "If she were to die — " she now faltered; "do 
 you believe it?" 
 
 "No one can tell. I spoke too hastily, in a 
 moment of agitation." 
 
 "But you think it could happen? That my 
 little girl, my Anna ?" 
 
 Davidee realized that what she was about to say 
 was a serious thing, that if she were to repeat the 
 words, "Yes, I believe this grief might cause her 
 death," what remained to this woman of an ob- 
 scured conscience might turn to remorse and pursue 
 its work, who knew how far? With an effort she 
 answered: "Yes." And with this word on her 
 lips she hurried away into the twilight. She was 
 naturally timid. The silence of this road, which 
 she now pursued alone, terrified her. She caught 
 sight here and there of a great clump of ivy, look- 
 ing Hke the head and shoulders of a man leaning 
 over the low wall. She dreaded hearing the 
 sound of footsteps behind her. Why might not 
 this Maieul Jacquet have returned at the very 
 moment she had parted from Phrosine? He 
 would need no long explanation to learn what had 
 occurred; Phrosine would only have to repeat a 
 few phrases uttered by the school-mistress. Then 
 anger would seize him, he would rush from the 
 house and down the path between the plum-trees, 
 shutting the gate behind him with a clang, and 
 breaking into a run as he reached the highway. 
 
 She had gone as far as the summit of the first 
 abandoned quarry of Champ-Robert when she 
 heard, in fact, rapid steps behind her, now loud, 
 now muffled by the dust, but coming always
 
 88 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 nearer. There was still a lingering light in the 
 sky; it was impossible, even by leaning straight 
 and motionless against the slate wall, to escape 
 the notice of the man who was approaching. And 
 this man was Maieul. She was sure of it. Who 
 else would hasten thus, at this late hour on a 
 March evening, when the fatigue of the day's 
 work and the weight of the foggy atmosphere 
 made the limbs drag? He was approaching with 
 long strides and suddenly he began to cry out: 
 ''Hold on there, lady! You, Mademoiselle the 
 school-mistress!" 
 
 She left the middle of the road and running 
 toward the right stood in the shelter of the wall, 
 with her arms hanging at her sides, and her face 
 turned toward the figure just emerging from the 
 mist and shadow which hung low above the earth; 
 her heart was beating violently. 
 
 "Here, Mademoiselle! There is no use in hur- 
 rying. I can soon catch up with you!" 
 
 She did not stir; only the tips of her fingers 
 clutched the stones to find support. She fancied 
 that her white collar would betray her at once, 
 even her pale face and the gleam of her eyes, 
 which she felt to be dilating in the darkness, and 
 she said to herself: "Since I cannot escape, I 
 will not cry out; I will not fly, I will face him." 
 
 He was already close upon her, between two 
 ruts in the road, swaying on his long legs, his hat 
 on the back of his head, his head rising high 
 above the edge of the opposite wall. He was sup- 
 porting himself with a staff, and did not see the girl 
 at once, but as he came to a stand-still ten paces
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 89 
 
 away, cursing and crying out: "Ho, there, young 
 lady!" she crossed the road and stood before him 
 saying: "What do you want of me, Monsieur 
 Maieul Jacquet?" 
 
 He turned toward her. 
 
 "What do you mean by calHng out my name? 
 I thought you more civil. You must have been 
 drinking, no doubt. " And as tliis accusation was 
 true, he took off his hat saying. 
 
 "Excuse me!" 
 
 Then for a moment he stood speechless, sur- 
 prise having arrested the torrent of reproaches 
 which he had repeated to himself as he ran. The 
 words surged back upon his mind one by one, 
 and the hand which held his hat began to tremble 
 with anger. 
 
 "I was passing by the house just now," he 
 began. 
 
 "Not your house," she replied. 
 
 "The house I choose to call mine. I learned 
 that you had brought the child back." 
 
 "Not your child either. Did I not do well?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, that was well! I am not reproach- 
 ing you for that, but you talked too much. W^hy 
 need you meddle with our affairs? Why did you 
 tell Phrosine that the little one might die?" 
 
 "Because she asked me." 
 
 "You wish her to drive me away then? It 
 will be your doing if she drives me away!" At 
 this the school-teacher forgot all conventions 
 and let her heart speak, as she, the maiden, 
 answered : 
 
 "So much the better!"
 
 90 davidEebirot 
 
 "Ah, you wish her to throw me off! You shall 
 repent saying that!" 
 
 "It is for you to repent, not for me. You are 
 living an evil life, you are the lover of a married 
 woman!" 
 
 "Who would have died of hunger without me. " 
 
 "Give her the wherewithal to live, and stay in 
 your own house, then you can talk of your charity. 
 You are driving a child to despair, Maieul Jac- 
 quet! you are killing her because she has a sensi- 
 tive heart which is worth a thousand times more 
 than yours; and it is I, a woman, who tell 
 3^ou this out here on the highway, because I do 
 not fear you. You are a coward ! you know well 
 what your duty is; it is to live honourably, it is 
 to sacrifice yourself, and you will not do it ! You 
 have not even pity. You say you love the 
 child " 
 
 "I surely do!" 
 
 "And yet you do everything except what her 
 poor aching heart asks of you. You will not part 
 from the mother, yourself, and you are afraid of 
 being driven away. Giant though you are, you 
 seem to me a poor creature, destitute of will. I 
 forbid you to follow me. Good-night." 
 
 And so saying she stopped to rearrange the knit- 
 ted scarf which she wore over her shoulders; care- 
 fully lifted her skirt although it was short, passed 
 calmly by Maieul, and resumed her way along the 
 middle of the road to Ard^sie. 
 
 The man, in spite of his state of semi-intoxi- 
 cation, had understood everything. The words 
 were obliged to make a journey through his brain
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 91 
 
 to reach that part of it which was still clear, but 
 before the assistant had walked ten paces, he 
 called out: 
 
 "There's a little woman for you!" And as she 
 was about to disappear in the darkness, he called 
 again : 
 
 "Tell me, young lady, where did you learn your 
 morality?" 
 
 She heard, but she was already far away, and 
 there was no sound of footsteps behind her on 
 the road. The houses near the school, on the 
 right hand, formed a darker mass amid the twi- 
 light shadows, like a rounded cloud, similar to 
 those above, which, heavy with rain and darkness, 
 showed scarcely a star between their overlapping 
 folds as they were borne up the valley of the 
 Loire, driven by a wind from the ocean. The 
 road dipped a little as it neared the school and 
 there in the door-wa}^ stood the shadow of a human 
 form. It detached itself from the wall, hesitated, 
 came toward Davidee. 
 
 "Ah, is that you at last. Mademoiselle? How 
 late you are! I was growing anxious!" And 
 Mile. Renee embraced her assistant. 
 
 "You are heated and trembling," she said; 
 "what has happened to you?" 
 
 The two school-mistresses closed the court- 
 yard door and entered the kitchen, where Davi- 
 dee proceeded to relate her visit to the house 
 on the Plain; but she said nothing of Maieul 
 Jacquet's pursuit of her, nor of their interview 
 on the highway. When she had repeated some of 
 the words she had spoken to Phrosine: 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said Mile. Renee, "this is a
 
 92 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 more serious story than you are aware of. If you 
 wish for peace, keep silent. See everything and 
 say nothing. Take your morals as a lesson to 
 be given in class, but outside your classes appear 
 to forget them." 
 
 "I shall find that very hard." 
 
 "You must take my ad\T[ce. I shall be sur- 
 prised if this affair of yours has no consequences. " 
 
 "What! because I took pity on a child? Be- 
 cause I told a woman she was doing wrong to live 
 unlawfully with one man while married to an- 
 other?" 
 
 "What an expression! How you go ahead! 
 What difference does it make to you?" 
 
 "And does it make none to you?" 
 
 "None whatever. It's a matter of words. 
 Morality is something I teach in school, according 
 to a changing programme; a lesson, like the geog- 
 raphy of marine sand-banks. That is what the 
 Inspector wants, and the Minister of Instruction. 
 They are the guardians of religion. It concerns 
 them, not me. My function is merely to say 
 amen. But I think just as I please on these 
 questions; I live as I think best, and let other 
 people live as they think best. My poor little 
 assistant, if you set up to have moral convictions 
 for those who have none, if you have principles, 
 hide them wtU or j^ou will be lost!" 
 
 She laughed as she said this, pleased to have 
 her companion back again. Davidee was busy 
 boiling water over the alcohol lamp, and made 
 no reply beyond uttering a few assenting phrases, 
 suitable to a subordinate. 
 
 "Do you think so? It would be hard for me
 
 DAVID £E BIROT 93 
 
 to show complete indifference; it will take time, 
 I fear, but I will try. If you could only have 
 seen little Anna, so ill and even more unhappy! " 
 
 ^Vhen she had hastily swallowed a cup of tea, 
 she wiped her eyes, moistened by the chilly air 
 and some lingering emotion, and said: 
 
 "I shall want no dinner to-night." 
 
 "AVhat a great child you are!" 
 
 "It is true that I am unnerved by all this; I 
 need to be alone." 
 
 Mile. Renee gazed at her attentively, with her 
 chin lowered, which was a habit with her, as she 
 added : 
 
 "Alone! j^ou have just experienced how ter- 
 ribly alone you are. Well, good-night ! Have you 
 any idea how pretty j^ou look when you are moved 
 and excited like that?" 
 
 The girl silently nodded good-night and went 
 upstairs. 
 
 Her room was in perfect order; it gave her 
 pleasure to see that the counterpane was spread 
 smoothly over her cot-bed, the chair drawTi up 
 close to her ink-stained writing-table, the two 
 other chairs ranged along the wall on the garden 
 side, the two ciystal vases standing on either end 
 of the chimney-piece with her alarm-clock be- 
 tween them, a neat bookcase holding all her books 
 on the lower shelves, and her Uttle ornaments on 
 an upper shelf with a copper balustrade. She 
 did not ask hei*self why she rejoiced to see all her 
 possessions in place and forming a sort of har- 
 mony. She had a vague sensation of rescue, as 
 she set down her lamp beside the inkstand,
 
 94 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 stretched her arms, and unwound the scarf on 
 her head, but did not take it off, for the window 
 on the garden let in, at all seasons whether warm 
 or cold, a draught of air which whistled or moaned, 
 caressing or cutting her cheeks. 
 
 "I am content here," she thought; "this is 
 my refuge. Eveiywhere else I encounter opposi- 
 tion and feel my helplessness. Above all what 
 corruption! I am enveloped by it; the far- 
 ther I advance in life, the more I discover. That 
 is all I gain by growing older. And there are 
 things I do not know, but seem to divine, which 
 terrify me." Davidee looked at herself in the 
 glass hanging over her clock; she saw an image 
 of youth, the ardent wilful face of one who was 
 far from having attained peace. Her thoughts 
 turned to her mother, whom no general ideas, 
 no theories of life formulated by her husband, 
 the quarryman, ever sufficed to move or even to 
 interest. "I am the opposite of that," she mur- 
 mured. "I beheve that it is moral suffering 
 more than any other which stirs my heart and 
 would destroy all happiness for me if I felt it 
 near me and could not at least try to heal 
 it." 
 
 Her heavy masses of black hair, loosened by 
 the wind and by her rapid motion, hung low over 
 her brows; she wound them more closely round 
 her head, so that they too might be in order, as she 
 wished everything about her to be, and seating 
 herself at her writing-table, she opened a drawer 
 by the key which she wore attached to her 
 watch-chain, and drew out a green note-book to
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 95 
 
 which it was her habit to confide her thoughts 
 whenever she needed a friend. 
 
 This green note-book was tied up with others 
 like it, which she had brought with her from the 
 school at La Rochelle, and with a few letters and 
 pictures and a spray of withered flowers fastened 
 by a ribbon. She began to write: 
 
 "I fear that this hfe I have chosen is not suited 
 to me. I feel myself ill-fitted for the self-efface- 
 ment which is prescribed for me. Why may I 
 not follow the impulse which prompts me to help 
 wounded souls, and why may I not judge them 
 when they implore me to do so? How little of 
 what I do here is done with all my heart, with my 
 whole self! They wish to curb me. Just now, 
 when by chance I spoke out freely, I was told that I 
 had overstepped my province. I did not go to 
 this Phrosine's house to surprise her secrets; I 
 did not question her. It was she who appealed 
 to me and I answered her as my conscience bade 
 me. I felt myself like a sister to little Anna; in 
 her place I should suffer as the child does. To 
 see her mother li\ing an evil life, not to respect 
 her, and yet be forced to go on loving her; to be 
 placed in the mother's heart lower than this man 
 who has no right to come and share it, to eat 
 one's daily bread at such a price ! ah, I too should 
 die of it as she is doing! I can never keep silent 
 before a grief so natural and so touching. The 
 incredible thing is Phrosine's assurance. It 
 seems as though for her duty did not exist; that 
 she submits to no authority; that in her eyes 
 poverty and her selfish love free her from all the
 
 96 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 obligations of an honest woman and a good 
 mother." 
 
 Having written these words, the j^oung girl laid 
 aside her pen and took from the drawer a thick 
 blank book containing the notes she had taken 
 from the lectures of Mile. Hacquin, professor of 
 psychology at the normal school. "I must re- 
 view my ethics a little," she said to herself, "since 
 I find myself consulted on moral questions and 
 my views opposed;" and turning one page after 
 another, written in a clear handwTiting, strong 
 and full of individuality, she read : 
 
 "There are four classes of moral problems: 
 (1) Metaphysical, such as the existence of God 
 and a future life; (2) formal and abstract, such as 
 the question of human happiness; (3) actual and 
 social; (4) problems in casuistics. (1) Does there 
 exist a Supreme Being? ^\^lat is His Nature? 
 This is an infinitely abstract question remote from 
 human conduct. Let us eliminate all h}'potheses. 
 Why should w^e confound true and necessarj^ ideas, 
 such as relate to morals, with purel}^ h}^othetical 
 ones? Why establish a connection between sub- 
 jects not conjoined by reason? This would tend 
 to compromise morality. If we wish our ethics to 
 be sound we must dissociate them from meta- 
 physics." 
 
 "Ah, here is what I am looking for: Duty — 
 morahty in society is what the social order exacts 
 — How am I to recognize that society exacts this 
 or that? By the sanctions attaching to it, what- 
 ever these may be, from pubhc opinion to effec- 
 tive penalties. Duty is the form common to all
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 97 
 
 activifies, whether mdustrial, economic, or hy- 
 gienic, which does not undertake to reconsider 
 indefinitely the reasoning on points of conduct 
 verified once for all by experience. Our duty is 
 merely our will disengaged from emotion — Mor- 
 ality, in its origins, constitutes a social phenome- 
 non. It is dependent on society, which may decide 
 to reject certain of its ancient ordinances." 
 
 Here Da\ddee paused with a sudden mental 
 pang. A\Tiat! was this all? Had she ruled her 
 life by such doctrines as these? To do as every 
 one about her did: was this all that was enjoined 
 upon her! And she had called this morality, and 
 had believed herself to have a moral system? No, 
 it was not so; she had hved according to exam- 
 ples of uprightness and of honour set her by her 
 mother, by her father even, by those about her 
 whom she regarded as good. But whence had 
 they, her secret patterns, draw^n their inspiration? 
 They were better than others only because, in per- 
 plexing situations, they had raised themselves 
 above ordinary^ human baseness. With what an 
 insufficient and unreasonable doctrine had her 
 teachers armed her! To follow the weaknesses, 
 the uncertainties of others, of her fellow beings 
 who groped bhndly, contradicting each other, 
 and too often yielding to counsels which tempted 
 them! To have popular opinion on one side to- 
 day and against one to-morrow, and to find the 
 same act approved yesterday and blamable to- 
 day ! What morahty was this? It seemed to the 
 girl as if she had opened a casket where she had 
 stored all her fortune and had found that her 
 treasure was gone.
 
 98 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 She threw the blank book back into the drawer 
 and buried her face in her hands. Mile. Ren6e 
 was mounting the stairs, the steps midway 
 creaking, as usual, beneath her weight. Davidee 
 feared for an instant that the directress was about 
 to enter and would perceive how greatly her 
 anxiety, fatigue, and trouble had increased. She 
 heard her pause for a moment on the landing, evi- 
 dently surprised that Davidee's light was still burn- 
 ing; then the opposite door closed and the house 
 was wrapped in the peace and harmony of night. 
 
 Davidee, bending over the table, took up her 
 pen again and WTote: "And what a guide the 
 opinion of society would be for one's inner life! 
 What 8L judge to which to appeal when one's 
 inmost purity was wounded! ^\^lat certainty 
 of con\dction or what consolation could it give 
 to me or to httle Anna? What! submit all my 
 thoughts, my sadness, my dreams to the opinion 
 of others! How could their judgment fortify 
 me against temptation, ignorant as they must be 
 of the force of that temptation, of the motives 
 of the sin or the \ictory? \Vhat! each soul to 
 be at the mercy of all! Oh, no, I refuse to be 
 subject to the opinion of Ardesie, of the town, 
 of the world; to the habits, prejudices, passions 
 of beings like myself; all they can say to me 
 is: 'We who are dust, whirlwind and empty 
 sound, we approve you to-day, free to condemn 
 when we will ! ' I can no longer understand how 
 Mile. Hacquin's lessons could have influenced 
 me. Have I ever directed a single act of my life 
 in accordance with them? I ask myself this 
 to-night for the first time, and I do not find that
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 99 
 
 I have ever accorded them anything beyond the 
 assent of a scholar, whom the search preoccupied 
 more than the result. It is chance which brought 
 me face to face with the most absolute unmo- 
 rality. \Vhen I looked into the depths of my own 
 soul, that which is my real principle of action, 
 of light and energy, protested and took posses- 
 sion of me. And to-night I discover how sadly 
 unprovided wdth weapons I should have been if 
 Phrosine on her side had been capable of reasoning. 
 But indeed her manner of Hfe is in itself a form 
 of reasoning: she eludes the duties which would 
 fetter her, because she sees no sufficient sanction 
 for them. She is not a teacher; she is poor, she 
 loves this man, and she hves with him and is 
 supported by him. ^Yhat matters to her the 
 opinion of others; and is not the opinion of the 
 community partly on her side? Her neighbours 
 do not all condemn her, and according to the 
 doctrines of Mile. Hacquin this serves to justify 
 her morally. And alas! I who thought to in- 
 struct others, what assurance can I give them? 
 Mile. Renee is right; I must be prudent. I ought 
 to be so — But I cannot! I shall continue as I 
 have done, though I feel myself so alone. I have 
 no confidence in her who should be my direc- 
 tress. Hers is a supple, imitative mind; a re- 
 ceiver of ready-made ideas; all are alike to her 
 provided they have received the official stamp. 
 And alas! I cannot believe her sincere; when she 
 kissed me to-night I was conscious of an exagger- 
 ated warmth on her part which was displeasing to 
 me. I am thrown into the midst of perplexities
 
 100 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 such as I could not foresee. To make my way 
 through them, or to conquer them, I have no guide 
 but instinct and the examples of my early child- 
 hood. I have no other lantern in the darkness, 
 but I shall go on all the same. I shall not change. 
 I will not be silent, though it is veiy hard." 
 
 For a while longer she lingered at her desk 
 under the light of her lamp, lost in thought. The 
 little incidents of the da}'- rose before her to be 
 judged one by one. She had no regrets, though 
 her mind was troubled. How should she make 
 her way through this drama which she saw opening 
 before her? AVhere was her support? She real- 
 ized fully that she, Davidee, Phrosine, Anna, 
 and Maieul Jacquet would meet again, that 
 other words would pass between them, and that 
 fate w^as about to tr}^, lightly it might be or 
 harshlj^, the soHtary soul, keeping its vigils on 
 the blue mounds of Ardesie, now wi'apped in 
 darkness.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "FLOWER 0' THE BROOM." 
 
 Only trifling events occurred for the next few 
 weeks, if the coming of spring can be called a 
 trifling event. 
 
 Anna Le Floch returned to school the follow- 
 ing Monday, but there was no improvement in 
 the malady from which she was suffering. She 
 sat on the playground during recess, some of her 
 little school-mates bringing out a chair for her and 
 setting her in it as carefully as if she had been 
 a doll, all chattering at once in order to divert — 
 as they thought — the child who could not play; 
 then, seizing the pretext of a ball that was rolhng 
 away, or a call from the playground, they bounded 
 off and took pains to frohc more noisily than 
 ever, as if they felt that they were entitled to 
 some compensation. 
 
 The sick child was used to solitude; it neither 
 surprised nor grieved her to be left alone; but her 
 wild, melancholy eyes, which formerly avoided 
 meeting those of the teachers, now sought Davi- 
 dee's and seemed to be trying to fill themselves 
 with her image, far or near. An outsider might 
 have thought it mere curiosity which kept her 
 glances always directed toward the young girl 
 who was walking with the older children or join- 
 
 101
 
 102 davidEebirot 
 
 ing in their games. Then of a sudden the child's 
 look melted and grew tender, reveahng the secret 
 of her silent heart. 
 
 Davidee suspected little of this. She saw 
 Phrosine daily; they were obliged to greet each 
 other because they both served under the same 
 superior, and in the same school, but they never 
 exchanged a word. 
 
 Mile. Renee, on the contrary, had grown so 
 expansive as to appear benevolent. She was 
 now entertaining hopes of advancement, having 
 heard rumours, at a teacher's reunion, leading 
 her to anticipate a speedy change of residence, 
 even a possible post in town. 
 
 The Primary Inspector had not pronounced 
 the word "town," but it was easy thus to inter- 
 pret the flattering allusions he had made to Mile. 
 Desforges. To leave Ardesie, no longer to vege- 
 tate, as she ex-pressed it, no longer to teach the 
 children of the poor, or of "savages" — this was 
 another of her favourite expressions — but to live 
 in the society of small functionaries and shop- 
 keepers, to pay and receive visits, to walk once 
 more on pavements; these were the joys to which 
 she aspired with an intensity of longing as to 
 eternal bliss. To obtain them there was nothing 
 she was not prepared to do. She had persuaded 
 herself, moreover, that her merits had long over- 
 flowed the measure, and no longer opened a 
 letter without expecting it to contain the looked- 
 for promotion. 
 
 "I will not forget you,'' she said to her assist- 
 ant; "I consider you far too intelligent and, let
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 103 
 
 me add, too pretty and attractive to be banished 
 forever to this desert." 
 
 ''I assure you," rephed Davidee, "that I am 
 a very home-keeping person. I have already taken 
 root here in Ardesie." 
 
 Maieul Jacquet had not taken his revenge as 
 he had threatened to do. He had never been 
 seen again at the school or even passing its door. 
 A countiywoman, who brought her Httle girl to 
 school each day, said to Davidee one morning: 
 
 "It is queer, I used to meet that big Rit-Dur 
 so often, on his way to his work, and now I never 
 see him. He must have changed his hours or 
 his road." 
 
 This was the last day before the spring vaca- 
 tion. On the following morning Davidee started 
 for Blandes to spend her Easter hoUdays there, 
 as had been her unfaiHng custom for the past 
 five years. She found her father grown feebler, 
 but more imperious and fuller of whims than 
 ever; her mother was aging too, but the fine 
 new house, which was the envy of the entire vil- 
 lage, bore no other mark of the winters it had 
 already passed through than the streaks of green- 
 ish mould, Hke slender swords or iris-stalks, now 
 staining its white foundation-stones. For the 
 first time Davidee talked with her mother on 
 other subjects than the weather, the house-keep- 
 ing, the difficulty of finding a servant, or the 
 unceasing rivalries which were now springing 
 up against Birot's fortune, his power and his rude 
 authority, rivalries which Birot, with a turn of 
 his hand, crushed one by one. Her mother had
 
 104 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 no longer any scruples about relating to her 
 daughter the latest scandal current in Blandes. 
 This time it was the story of a young wife de- 
 serted by her husband who had eloped with 
 another woman. 
 
 "How ugly it all is!" exclaimed Madame Birot. 
 
 "There are plenty of others who do the same!" 
 
 "What are you saying, child? Do you coun- 
 tenance such actions? If all Blandes were to 
 justify that woman I should blame her all the 
 more — I say she is a hussy!" 
 
 "It pleases me to hear you say that, mamma; 
 it is a very big word for you." 
 
 "Yes, a hussy! — and I may tell you that I was 
 once pretty and young too, and of a fine slim 
 figure like her," and as she spoke Madame Birot 
 complacently smoothed out the folds of her skirt. 
 "I was looked at, too, and listened to the music 
 of words like those in the verses you recite. 
 But, thank Heaven! I have not a single lawless 
 thought to reproach myself with." 
 
 "Because you are the best of women, and per- 
 haps because you never were in love." 
 
 "Oh, yes, child, I was in love with yoiu- father, 
 as much as any one could be in love with a man 
 who is disputing all the time!" 
 
 "I mean to say you never loved any one else." 
 
 "Are you craz)-? That would have been a nice 
 business indeed!" 
 
 "But what deterred you, mamma, without relig- 
 ion as you profess to be?" 
 
 "Without religion, child! But I have a little, 
 as much as your father permits me to have.
 
 DAVIDIEEBIROT 105 
 
 That is not much to be sure ! But one does not 
 need to be pious in order to be faithful to one's 
 duties. There is " 
 
 "What is there, mother?" 
 
 "There is honour, child.'' 
 
 "Oh, poor mamma! I have seen people who 
 thought that honour commanded them not to 
 give up the woman they loved, whether it were 
 a lawful love or not. We can always make words 
 serve our wishes, you see. The important, the 
 vital thing is to know their true meaning. Men 
 put into them whatever they wish, and so do 
 women." 
 
 Madame Birot, who did not feel herseK equipped 
 for abstract discussions, folded her daughter in 
 her arms, exclaiming passionately: 
 
 "You see many wretched things in your pro- 
 fession, my poor child ! I suspected it, and longed 
 to keep you near me, but you would not stay. 
 Tell me the truth, is your heart so sore?" 
 
 "No, mamma; I fear it is my mind." 
 
 Madame Birot did not seek far for an answer 
 to this; it sprang at once from her mother's heart, 
 from that dream which they aD cherish for their 
 daughters, as she said softly: 
 
 "Why do you not marry?" 
 
 After that there was no longer any discussion 
 between them of general ideas or theories of 
 morality. 
 
 Spring had come at last. When Davidee re- 
 turned to Ardesie, it had already tinged the sky, 
 which is always first to catch the radiance, and 
 was now spreading its verdure over the poorest
 
 106 davidEe birot 
 
 clods of earth. Even the slate had felt a touch 
 of spring, and warmed in the sun, which set the 
 air dancing along the mounds, it flung back the 
 rays as they fell, till the slopes appeared like cas- 
 cades of slate; such life did the sun give to 
 them, that scales of every colour of the rain- 
 bow shimmered along the stone. From out of 
 the banks of moss, which had swelled in the win- 
 ter's rain, sprang tall, slender stalks, gilded at 
 their tips. The willows raised their tufts of 
 green in the old quarry-pits. In the hollows 
 where the soil had not been buried under the 
 debris of the quarries, the little cottage gardens, 
 encircled by their blue walls, spread out to the 
 light their neatly raked beds, their well-pruned 
 trees and rows of currant bushes, the tulips and 
 gillyflowers before the doors. There was no 
 morning without the song of the blackbird nor 
 night without the nightingale. But above all, 
 the broom blossoms had burst the bud and sprin- 
 kled the whole blue landscape with gold, so that 
 the very stones seemed to rejoice. The broom 
 was triumphant everywhere, over slopes and pla- 
 teaus and bramble patches, over all the waste 
 places where the soil was buried beneath heaps 
 of shattered stone. It sprang in the thinnest 
 layer of dust, and was wrapt in the warm in- 
 cense from the earth. Its hour came early for 
 bearing pale buds on its brushlike stems, spread- 
 ing yellow sails along its branches, and opening 
 to the air all the treasures of its fragrance. How 
 generously it responded to the spring breezes 
 that embalmed it! With primroses and a Httle
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 107 
 
 hawthorn and the spearmint stems still tender 
 and half-hidden in the grass, it composed the 
 divine perfume of early spring. The broom was 
 hiding the desert which man had made — it was 
 around the most ancient quarry-pits, between the 
 enormous hollows, half-filled with water, that the 
 golden gorse flourished most profusely, and there 
 it was that Maieul Jacquet dwelt. 
 
 His house, La Gravelle, built along the edge 
 of an embankment, was flanked on the right by 
 a pavilion, crowned with a belvedere; or to speak 
 more accurately, the old master-mason, who built 
 the paviUon, in order to divide it into two stories, 
 had added to the eastern fagade an outside 
 staircase, winding around the building, and ter- 
 minating on the south front in an aerial loggia 
 with a projecting roof. Had the dwelling once 
 belonged to some noble family? So the tra- 
 dition ran, among the quarry^men. It was now 
 occupied by humble tenants only — a couple of 
 Breton famiUes who shared the lower floor and 
 the slate-cutter, Maieul Rit-Dur, to whom be- 
 longed the stone staircase and two rooms in the 
 pavilion, with long wide windows. All the win- 
 dows and doors of La Gravelle opened toward 
 the south and commanded a broad view. It 
 dominated, hke a Hght-house, the whole slate- 
 country and the sloping shores of the Loire, where 
 the smoke from the workshops sweeps down with 
 the morning fogs. A few feet further back, on an 
 embankment of the same period, stood another 
 house, far less imposing, which was inhabited by 
 grandmother Fete-Dieu, and further still were the 
 pits of La Gravelle and La Grenadiere.
 
 108 DAVIDfiE BIROT 
 
 Nowhere in the commune of Ardesie had nat- 
 ure resumed such complete sway as over the 
 abandoned mounds around La Gravelle. Between 
 Maieul's house and that of good Mere Fete- 
 Dieu, it was all one golden garden. The steep 
 slopes leading up to La Gravelle, the footpath 
 below, the billowy mounds where the traces of 
 man's labour were still discernible, were all clothed 
 in broom and its sprays were all of living gold. 
 The edges of the twin pits of "The Rabbits" 
 also wore a golden fringe, and shafts of broom 
 buried themselves like rockets amidst the reviv- 
 ing verdure of thorn and thicket. All this soil, 
 so excavated and overturned that it rang hollow 
 beneath the tread, displayed its glory before the 
 richer, deeper earth, hardly mellowed yet by the 
 sun's rays, and the traveller through these paths 
 breathed an atmosphere of joy. 
 
 It was thus that Davidee felt on a late Thurs- 
 day in April, the second after Easter, as she ap- 
 proached the hollow of La Grenadiere, where a 
 woman was busy washing, bending over the edge 
 of a plank set amidst the reeds. She followed 
 the shore of the pond, listening to the sound 
 of water gurgling through the sluice-ways and 
 losing itself beneath low branches; then she 
 climbed a steep incHne and beheld before her the 
 pavilion of La Gravelle, rising in the light a few 
 hundred yards ahead, and the carpet of golden 
 broom sloping down from the spot where she 
 stood; and at that moment the breeze, which at 
 times seemed to swing and sway its perfumes like 
 incense, enveloped her in its languid breath. 
 
 ."Ah, what a delight!" she said; "all spring
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 109 
 
 is in the air! If only it could blow like this 
 through the school and through my heart!" 
 
 She was on her way to see old Mere Fete-Dieu 
 as she had promised to do before the vacation. 
 But her thoughts turned for a moment to Maieul 
 Jacquet. 
 
 "He passes for a maker of songs and a fine 
 singer. He would do far better to live decently 
 and speak civilly to those he meets! \^Tiat con- 
 duct, to pursue me along the road, shouting my 
 name! I have met Phrosine twenty times since 
 then and she has never spoken to me; he has 
 changed his road home from his work; and that 
 is all the influence I have gained over either of 
 them." 
 
 She remembered that it was a week since she 
 had seen little Anna and she only knew, as every 
 one did, that the child had grown worse and no 
 longer left the garden. 
 
 Following the track, which wound across a past- 
 ure, at times well-trodden and then losing itself 
 in the high grass, she was soon in the midst of a 
 sea of broom. Turning to the right and climb- 
 ing a steep bank through the blossoming stalks, 
 which brushed her face as she advanced, she 
 caught sight of a long spreading roof above low 
 walls. She knocked at the door and a youthful 
 voice bade her enter. Coming toward her in the 
 dim Hght of the room, she saw Httle Jeannie of 
 the round eyes, who beamed at her and said: 
 
 "Oh, how kind of you to come! Grandmamma 
 is there. She is better, you know." 
 
 "One always grows better as one gets near
 
 no DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 the end of the road!" said a feeble voice from 
 the back of the room, where, under the green 
 baize curtains of the bed, lay the old half- 
 paralyzed grandmother. One of her eyes was 
 still bright and keen, while the other was partly 
 clouded. With her good eye she gazed at Davi- 
 dee Birot and seemed to take pleasure in the 
 sight, as if she were gazing at a spray of broom, 
 a rose geranium opening to the sun in the cottage 
 window, or a sunbeam entering the poor room. 
 Her look was equally kind, whether turned on her 
 beloved Jeannie or raised to the young teacher, 
 who bent over her with a smile and said: 
 
 "The spring is so fine, you will soon be better, 
 Mere Fete-Dieu!" 
 
 But the good woman was pursuing another 
 train of thought : 
 
 "Are you, then, the new school-mistress?" 
 
 "Yes, I have been here only seven months." 
 
 '^ She has told me already hov/ kind you are. 
 They are sharp-sighted, these little ones, they 
 can read the heart." 
 
 "But I assure you. Mere Fete-Dieu, that my 
 heart is no better than others." 
 
 "Oh, yes, it is! Your eyes answer for that — 
 they look so young and so eager to do right. 
 Sit down, Mademoiselle. What are you think- 
 ing of, you naughty little Jeannie, that you do 
 not bring a chair for the young lady?" and the old 
 woman began to talk, telling her stor}% to which 
 the younger one listened, at first out of kindness, 
 then with greater interest, for Mere Fete-Dieu, 
 after retailing a string of dates and names, of
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 111 
 
 births and deaths, and the details of her latest 
 trial, the stroke which had rendered her helpless 
 for months, began to return thanks for her seventy- 
 years of life, while permitting herself only the 
 slightest lament over her present sufferings. 
 
 "I am not over and above patient," the good 
 woman said. "Time hangs heavily when Jean- 
 nie is in school, but luckily the Breton women 
 from La Gravelle come to see me sometimes, 
 as you have done. I am completing my time 
 and winning my reward. God is the end of all 
 my pains." Then, growing a trifle weary, she 
 closed her eyes, and seemed to lose all notion 
 of time. On feeling a keener pang of suffering, 
 she opened them again, but without seeing her 
 visitor, whom she had already forgotten. Gaz- 
 ing up at the smoky rafters above her head and 
 clasping her one serviceable hand in the other 
 which no longer obeyed her will, she murmured: 
 
 "My God, I suffer much, but if thou wiliest, 
 I can suffer more," adding below her breath, 
 "just a little more." 
 
 The young teacher turned pale, feeling the 
 thrill she had often experienced on repeating to 
 her pupils the noble words of some heroic man or 
 woman. She cast a long gaze at the old grand- 
 mother, who was now dozing, and stole away 
 softly, accompanied by Jeannie, and with the 
 cat rubbing against her skirts. 
 
 La Gravelle was directly opposite, standing 
 high on its mound, plunging the jagged outline 
 of its roofs and chimneys, its walls and loggia 
 into the splendours of the late afternoon. But
 
 112 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 it was only the back of the house which was in 
 view, and the facade, with all its windows and vine- 
 trellises, its Breton tenants and their children, 
 the whole teeming life of the place, was suspended 
 along the other terrace above the Loire. Here 
 no sound was to be heard save the humming of 
 gnats, drunk with the odours of the broom ; even 
 little Jeannie's farewell was lost in their murmur, 
 though this served onty to emphasize the silence. 
 
 "I should be nicely caught," thought Davidee, 
 "if Maieul Jacquet were suddenly to descend 
 the mound toward me! This time I think I 
 should be frightened." As her plan was to re- 
 turn by the village of La Martinellerie, she took 
 the right-hand track through the broom, and was 
 about to emerge upon a little-frequented road, 
 which led in that direction, when she saw con- 
 fronting her, a little way off, motionless, and 
 evidently awaiting her, the figure of Maieul 
 Jacquet. 
 
 The quarryman was in his Sunday clothes: 
 a well-brushed coat, shoes without nails, a double 
 chain across his waistcoat and a new green tie, 
 and his moustache twisted and curled proudly 
 upward, as if he were on his way to a wedding. 
 On catching sight of Davddee, he took off his hat 
 with such an intimidated air that she no longer 
 feared him; she merely thought: "I will pass 
 him with a shght nod and he will perceive that I 
 have a distinct remembrance of our last encounter. 
 How does he happen to be here? Did he see me 
 leave the school? His workshop is not far dis- 
 tant, and by chmbing a wall or a heap of stones
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 113 
 
 it might be possible for the sharp eyes of a look- 
 out man like him to see the school-house door. 
 He must have made haste, taking the shortest 
 road while I was loitering along by La Grena- 
 diere, and he would have had time to change his 
 clothes while I was visiting Mere Fete-Dieu. 
 But what can he have to say to me? Does he 
 think it sufficient to plant himself in my path 
 to make me forget his disrespectful conduct of 
 the other day?" 
 
 She had time for these reflections, as she had 
 relaxed her steps in order not to appear alarmed. 
 She advanced slowly with eyes partly lowered 
 to escape the dazzling light, but on glancing up 
 to scan the road before her, she saw the work- 
 ingman standing beside the last stalk of broom, 
 holding his hat before him with both his hands. 
 He looked so droll in this humble attitude that 
 she smiled involuntarily, and as she resumed her 
 somewhat studied air of dignity, Maieul ad- 
 dressed her: 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he said, "I have not behaved 
 well toward you!" 
 
 "That is true," she replied, without pausing 
 in her walk. 
 
 "I was ill-mannered. I did not know what I 
 was doing, and I am ashamed of myself." 
 
 "I thank you for telling me so, Monsieur 
 Maieul," and as she spoke she continued to walk 
 on, past the fields of broom and the man stand- 
 ing there. 
 
 "And yet there is not a single person in the 
 whole parish," he used the old-fashioned word
 
 114 DAVIDEE birot 
 
 because he was speaking from his heart, "not 
 one whom I should be so sorry to give pain to." 
 
 Davidee stopped at this. 
 
 "Why so, Monsieur Maieul?" she asked. 
 
 "Because you gave me a piece of your mind 
 and right soundly too." 
 
 "And I have been thinking that I made a mis- 
 take in being so frank with you." 
 
 "Oh, no, far from it!" 
 
 "But of what good was it, since nothing is 
 changed?" And as she spoke she looked straight 
 into his eyes, with flushed cheeks and a slightly 
 haughty air. 
 
 He reflected a moment before replying. "To 
 change is harder than to speak and to confess 
 that you were right. But, all the same, if I 
 were to change ?" 
 
 He did not end his sentence, but for the first 
 time he ventured to look directly into the face 
 of the slight proud girl for whom he had been 
 waiting for the last half-hour amidst the broom. 
 And she knew well what he was trying to say. 
 
 "Then I should respect you more," she said. 
 And on the strength of these words which, though 
 severe enough, were not an actual condemna- 
 tion, he began to walk beside her, but a little in 
 the rear; and while she descended the slope, turn- 
 ing her head away slightly so that she might not 
 appear to be paying too much attention to this 
 man's words, he said, lifting his eyes above her 
 head and above Ardesie as it lay before them, 
 as if he were addressing the whole valley: 
 
 "I have not had an education like you. Mad-
 
 DAVIDfiEBIROT 115 
 
 emoiselle. I have had no mother, nor sister, 
 nor any one to speak to me as you have done, 
 of my salvation and my paradise." 
 
 "Did I speak of paradise?" 
 
 "No, but no one could mistake what you said. 
 I have friends who live as I do, and neighbours 
 who do not care. The inspector at the quarry 
 does not trouble his head about my doings nor 
 the director either. There's none but the cure 
 who would speak to me like you, and him I do 
 not know." 
 
 Davidee made no reply, and as they had now 
 reached the cross-roads where several old houses 
 stood, Maieul hastened to add: 
 
 "I see plainly that it displeases you to talk 
 with me. I did not mean to offend you. You 
 are not so talkative as the other day. But I 
 wanted to tell you also that little Anna cries 
 for you. Do go and see her. Mademoiselle! It 
 would be better for you not to go in, but you 
 can talk to her over the hedge." 
 
 They walked on a few steps, then he added: 
 
 "Good-by, for the present, Mademoiselle!" 
 
 "Adieu, Monsieur Maieul." 
 
 He descended the road to the left toward the 
 quarry, while she turned to the right. Without 
 saying so to him, she had made up her mind to 
 go at once to the house on the Plains. 
 
 "Oh!" she thought, as she pursued her way, 
 "how full of consequences is eveiy one of our 
 acts! How far each word we speak may reach! 
 Because of the indignation I felt, I assumed the 
 role of a judge between a mother and child and
 
 116 davidEebirot 
 
 that mother's lover, between a tender heart Hke 
 Anna's, a troubled conscience like Maieul's, and 
 a hostile spirit like Phrosine's. Even if I wished 
 it, I could not arrest the changes I have caused, 
 the sources perhaps of good, perhaps of mere 
 useless trouble, which I have opened up. And 
 I do not know why I showed such severity. I 
 have acted as my mother would have done, and 
 I can only defend myself by sajdng: 'It is my 
 instinct which acted, something in me, stronger 
 than the lessons of my teachers. Those whom 
 I have ventm-ed to reprove know better than I 
 in what name I have spoken: that of the one and 
 only Judge.'" 
 
 She felt herself a poor, helpless girl. She 
 watched, as she passed the low, broken wall of 
 the quariy, the slate-cutters at work behind the 
 shelter of their wind-breaks. They turned their 
 heads as she passed, the j^ounger men at least, 
 and those nearest her, and followed her with 
 their eyes, exchanging bantering words which 
 she could not hear. The old men were as in- 
 different to the sight of her youth as they were 
 to the soft spring breezes blowing through the 
 quarr}^ from the heights above. With her alert 
 step the girl went her way, past the line of wind- 
 breaks rising against a background of blue, where 
 the slate lay in piles as far as the eye could reach, 
 and amidst them, the gangs of men moving 
 mechanically, without haste, every motion regu- 
 lated by daily habits of labour. Some of them 
 had harsh faces, but for the most part, they were 
 merely serious, few of them reflecting that glow
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 117 
 
 of health, peace, and gayety which mocks at toil. 
 "I should like to bring up your children for you," 
 thought the girl, "so that they might carry into 
 your poor homes a breath of spring, such as we 
 inhale so gladly and without thought. I can 
 teach them to read, but that is for themselves; 
 and to write, and that is for themselves too; but 
 when I teach them to be good, that is for you. 
 But pleasure speaks too, and how many of them 
 could I persuade to give up a new hat or a rib- 
 bon for their parents' sake?" 
 
 When she had passed the sign-board of La 
 Martinellerie, Davidee met several of her younger 
 pupils, who gathered around her for a moment. 
 
 Some of the mothers, too, nodded a good-day 
 to her through their closed windows, but she kept 
 on her way through the \dllage, then across sev- 
 eral fields, until she reached the yard in which 
 Phrosine's house stood. She softly approached 
 the hedge-row, now in leaf, and showing here 
 and there, amid its dense shining foliage, a cluster 
 of white blossoms. The market-gardeners were 
 no longer at work; a flock of magpies were cir- 
 cling around an owl perched upon a heap of clods, 
 the only moving things on the steeply rising 
 slope, except for the tall ears of wheat which 
 tossed and swayed at every breath of wind, with 
 little shiverings and changing reflections, as if 
 to mimic the movement of flowing waters. The 
 door of the house was closed. Davidee won- 
 dered for a moment if Anna would appear lean- 
 ing on Phrosine's arm, returning home from a 
 walk; but as she approached the wicket gate she
 
 118 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 found the sick child on the other side of the hedge, 
 half-recHning upon two chairs, under the shade 
 of a plum-tree, with her head resting on a pillow 
 and a warm comforter thrown over her knees. 
 She was sleeping; her face so pale that one might 
 have thought her dead; her respiration hardly 
 stirring the worn bodice, while both little arms 
 fell limply at her sides, touching the grass. All 
 appearance of life had quitted the frail form of 
 this innocent victim of the sins of others. And 
 yet, as if through the mazes of sleep souls could 
 signal to one another and make themselves 
 known in no uncertain fashion, Anna suddenly 
 opened her eyes, her face lighted up, and life 
 and joy reappeared there together. Lifting her 
 hands slowly, with the movement of one bearing 
 a sheaf, and then clasping them together, the 
 child said; 
 
 "I was thinking of you." 
 "It was the spring day that brought me," 
 Davidee said. 
 
 The httle girl replied, as if indifferent to all 
 which interrupted her paean of love: 
 
 "Yes, the day is fine," then resumed in a tone 
 of rapture : 
 
 "You have come at last! For days I have 
 been expecting you. It was not very comfort- 
 able on these chairs, but you could not come 
 inside the house; no, it was better that you 
 should not enter mamma 's house, I thought you 
 would not want to come in again, so I begged 
 to be carried outside. The first day, I did not 
 see you, nor the second, nor the third, but now
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 119 
 
 you are here! Don't be afraid, Mademoiselle! 
 Mamma cannot hear what I am saying to you, 
 and besides, she is very good to me, now. Let 
 me look at your hat, please." 
 
 "Yes, look! Is this the way you would like 
 me to turn my head? If I were nearer, I would 
 try it on you." 
 
 "Oh, no, you are pretty — for me it is not worth 
 while — " she did not continue, but spoke as if 
 in a dream. 
 
 Davidee in the hope of diverting her, began 
 to talk of the school, but at the first words Anna's 
 brow darkened, the inner light withdrew from 
 her eyes, the clasped hands trembled. It seemed 
 as if youth vanished from the childish face, and 
 the soul of a sensitive, anxious woman informed 
 the tin}^ features. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said the pleading voice. 
 
 "What is it, little one?" 
 
 "I want to know from you, because you are 
 good, because you come to see me " 
 
 She hesitated as if oppressed, the green of her 
 eyes turning deep as the green of sea waves. 
 
 "Must I pray?" she murmured. 
 
 "Yes, child." 
 
 "Mademoiselle, is there not a good God?" 
 
 The girl felt a shudder pass through her, shak- 
 ing the blackthorn hedge on which she leaned, 
 as she thought: "Can I say no? Have I the 
 right to drive her to despair? Do I know, I, who 
 have voluntarily neglected all these things?" At 
 last she replied, using the tender "thou" uncon- 
 sciously because the intimate words she spoke
 
 120 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 seemed to require it, and all inequalities of age 
 and condition had vanished between them. 
 
 "Anna, dear little one, I love you dearly." 
 She felt herself cowardly and cruel for giving no 
 direct answer. The child only replied: 
 "I, too, Mademoiselle, love you dearly." 
 Davidee hastened to add: "I will come back. 
 You shall see me soon again. But you must 
 promise me to sleep as soundly as if I were not 
 to come." 
 
 The pale face was lifted a little, then fell back 
 amid the thin braids of hair. 
 
 "Promise not even to think of me." 
 The Httle head tossed upon the pillow as if to 
 say "no." And at the same time the lips parted 
 in a childish smile so pure, so tender, in its re- 
 fusal not to think of her, that Davidee turned 
 away to hide her tears. 
 
 "Good-by, for the present, darlmg." 
 The hedge soon hid her from the sick child's 
 sight; the row of plum-trees and the low roof 
 disappeared behind the wall bordering the road. 
 Davidee was soon in Ardesie; she found the school- 
 house deserted. Mile. Desforges having gone to 
 spend her half-hohday in town. 
 
 From the Green Diary. — "Here I am alone in the 
 house! My window is open upon the court- 
 yard and the perfume of the invisible broom is 
 brought in on the breeze. It blows from the 
 mounds of La Gravelle and La Grenadiere. It 
 brings with it the dust of the roads and of the 
 court-yard trodden by children's feet, and the
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 121 
 
 perfume loses half its sweetness, as life does. I 
 am troubled at finding myself so unequal to the 
 task I have not undertaken voluntarily, and which 
 grows constantly harder and more complex, driv- 
 ing me to form resolutions and to utter words for 
 which I am ill-prepared. I no longer fear the 
 vengeance of Maieul Jacquet, but I fear some- 
 thing worse : a passion which I have unwillingly 
 aroused and which repels me. I perceived it in 
 his look and gestures, in the care he had taken 
 to dress himself in his best, in the spot he chose 
 to meet me in — far from witnesses — in the tone 
 of his voice. What an insult! To speak as he 
 dared to do, to me who knew the life he leads and 
 with whom! And yet I did not show him fully 
 the indignation I felt. Why did I allow him to 
 go on? How weak I have shown myself, in spite 
 of an outward show of strength! How Mile. 
 Renee would scorn me if she could know or guess 
 all! But alas, I was far more a coward when 
 Httle Anna questioned me. What she asked in- 
 cluded everything — the whole enigma of her 
 life and mine. Her reason has grown in suffer- 
 ing and soHtude, she was seeking some support 
 — a consoler, a to-morrow to this life which she 
 feels fleeting from her — and she chose me to 
 answer her. I was her teacher. Could it be 
 possible for the teacher not to know if there be 
 a Heaven? The child wished to believe in order 
 to bear her sufferings better. She had prepared 
 her question ; she was thinking of it while I talked 
 to her of other things, and she received no answer. 
 I feared to say no, I was not brave enough nor
 
 122 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 pitiful enough to say yes. I told her to pray 
 because that committed me to nothing. But 
 pray to whom? Before the great trouble I gave 
 half the answer of the Christian which I am not. 
 How pitiful, how contradictory! but how pitiful 
 above all! Poor sick child, who thought you 
 had come to a fountain and found it dry! I am 
 a fountain without water, with only mire and 
 dust to offer, like these dried-up pools about us, 
 drained of all hope, of all that slakes the world's 
 thirst. I have only a little draught for myself 
 which will soon be dried. And since I have 
 mingled with actual life, I see that there is no 
 knowledge to equal that; all is there: to know 
 whence we come and whither we are going. 
 
 "I do not know. My httle friend will leave 
 me; her wild green eyes will close, and I shall 
 have given no answer to the question she had 
 prepared for me. And for three years I have 
 been teaching children! These httle ones, when 
 they have passed through my classes and Mile. 
 Renee's, will in a few years become the wives 
 of labourers, artisans, or farmers. With what 
 strength shall I have fortified them? I do not 
 know; I doubt everything to-night, myself and 
 them. I ask myself whether I shall not have 
 made heavy hearts heavier and added moral pov- 
 erty to the lot of the poor." 
 
 During the following ten days, Davidee re- 
 turned twice to the house on the Plains. She 
 longed to go oftener, but her duties, the papers 
 to correct, the visits of parents, as well as the
 
 DAVIDfiEBIROT 123 
 
 warnings of Mile. Renee that she was away too 
 much, all kept her at the school. No one spoke 
 of the child any longer, now that she had ceased 
 coming to the play-ground. In the morning 
 Phrosine, avoiding the assistant, would say to 
 Mile. Renee: "Things are going worse with us 
 all the time. We have no luck." She almost 
 always arrived early, before the teachers had come 
 down, and having done her morning's work, 
 sweeping and airing the rooms and sprinkling the 
 floors with a watering-pot to lay the dust, she 
 disappeared, leaving the court-yard gate open for 
 the children to enter. 
 
 On her next visit to the Plains, Davidee had 
 no expectation of finding her little friend out-of- 
 doors. Warm spring showers were falling at 
 times, over a few fields only, driven across the 
 clear sky by distant thunder-clouds. 
 
 But Anna was there, sheltered by an umbrella 
 which Phrosine had hung above her head among 
 the branches. She was breathing more easily and 
 a tinge of colour had come to her cheeks. 
 
 The child had barely greeted her friend when 
 she said eagerly: 
 
 "Tell me, I beg of you, what I asked! You 
 did not answer my question the other day." 
 
 Davidee, who had anticipated this persistence 
 on the child's part, replied: 
 
 "Have you made your first communion?" 
 
 "Oh, surely!" 
 
 "So have I. Pray then to Him, since the 
 desire moves you." 
 
 "Oh, Mademoiselle, what are you doing? 
 Take care!"
 
 124 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 For Davidee, with a sudden movement, had 
 thrown open the gate and was crossing the grass, 
 holding up her skirt with both hands to avoid 
 making a rusthng sound among the leaves. She 
 came close to the child and kissed her on the cheek, 
 and in doing so she inhaled her feverish breath. 
 She involuntarily drew back and as she did this 
 the thought crossed her mind with wonder: "If 
 I had faith, I should bend over her again with a 
 smile." But she only said very gently: "It is 
 you, Anna, who do me good!" 
 
 The sick child in her joy had closed her eyes, 
 she now opened them again, and made a sign 
 that her friend must not stay, that there was 
 danger there. 
 
 " I had to beg very hard to be allowed to come 
 out in the rain. But I am happy, oh, so happy!" 
 
 "At what I have just said to you, Anna?" 
 
 "Yes, but above all at what you said before. 
 As happy as a queen!" 
 
 "As a queen!" 
 
 The httle one murmured as Davidee turned 
 to leave her: 
 
 "My beloved Mademoiselle Davidee!" 
 
 A moment longer above the hedge her teacher's 
 eyes met hers and saw that they were beaming 
 and that the lips still murmured: "Beloved! 
 Beloved!" 
 
 Davidee long treasured these words in her 
 heart and many thoughts sprang from them. 
 
 She went back once more, on the 2d of 
 May, which was a Sunday. Vespers had just 
 finished ringing from the church tower of Ar- 
 desie, the sun was still warm. Anna lay with
 
 DAVIDfiEBIROT 125 
 
 her body bent double between the two chairs, 
 and her face, only half-raised, had lost all trace 
 of colour in the cheeks, all light from the eyes. 
 At the moment when Davidee arrived, Phrosine, 
 ha\dng perhaps caught the sound of approaching 
 steps, half-opened the door of the house at the 
 end of the alley of plum-trees and peered out, 
 her /ace, habitually hard, now wearing a hostile 
 expression. She did not wish that the child's 
 teacher should lean over the hedge; she was about 
 to speak rudely to her, to drive her away, to 
 catch up the child in her arms and carry her 
 inside the house, where no stranger could speak 
 to her of her mother. But the Httle one, though 
 unable to turn round, or to utter a cry, had per- 
 ceived, from the look in her friend's eyes, that her 
 mother was behind her, and feared that if Davi- 
 dee were driven away she might not return. And 
 knowdng this, she raised one arm above her head 
 like a little ivoiy sceptre, and made a sign to her 
 mother, several times repeated, which plainly said: 
 
 "Go back; leave me my only joy!" and Phro- 
 sine obeyed without a word. Without laying 
 aside the expression of hostility and defiance 
 which she wished should be seen and understood, 
 she drew herself up and retired within the house. 
 
 Anna, realizing that all danger was over, that 
 she should not be carried in against her will, 
 closed her eyes and seemed lost in thought. Davi- 
 dee, fearing to weaiy her, withdrew a little from 
 the gate, but the child at once beckoned to her 
 to return. Pressing both hands to her lips and 
 throwing her whole soul in a kiss to this half-
 
 126 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 unknown friend, who was about to disappear, 
 she murmured very tenderly, Uke a prayer or a 
 last wish: 
 
 "I give mamma to you." 
 
 The young girl threw open the gate and ran 
 to the child, kneeling beside her in the grass and 
 embracing her. This time she did not draw back, 
 she felt beating against her breast the tired heart 
 which revived a little at the sweetness of her 
 words : 
 
 "I accept, Anna; I give you my promise, and I 
 will love you forever." 
 
 When she returned from the house on the 
 Plains, on that 2d of May, she felt her heart 
 crushed and emptied of joy as a bunch of grapes 
 crushed in the ^\dne-press. She looked at the 
 blossoming hedge-rows, at the branches peeping 
 over the wall, at the tender blue of the sky, with 
 no sense of pleasure in them. In the road close 
 to the school, she was enveloped in a sudden breath 
 of warm air laden with the scent of broom, and 
 she said: "Pass on! my child is djdng; pass on 
 to others, you have no power over those who 
 are really suffering. A heart must be half happy 
 to expand at your touch." She saw men and 
 women coming out from the church, where they 
 had attended vespers. Their faces wore a firm, 
 tranquil expression. Most of them belonged to 
 a colony of slate-cutters settled for generations 
 on the borders of the valley, people of worth 
 and dignity, and of ancient race; and mingling 
 with them were a few Bretons who remained 
 loyal to their faith, though far from the country
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 127 
 
 of the open spires. As they passed the assistant 
 teacher, a few bowed to her, others glanced at 
 her distrustfully, because she was not one whom 
 they met at religious services, and of her per- 
 sonally they knew nothing, as her family were 
 strangers, and the school was a closed and for- 
 bidden spot to them. Davidee understood all 
 this, she had the gift of divining sympathies and 
 antipathies. She opened the door of the school- 
 house, of her "home," and, as Mile. Renee, on 
 hearing the chck of the latch, appeared on the 
 threshold, she cried out to her: 
 
 "Ah, Mademoiselle, I am very unhappy!" 
 
 The blonde Mile. Renee, who still had her best 
 hat on, and was removing the glittering hat-pins, 
 rejoined, with her mind full of other thoughts: 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "We are going to lose little Anna Le Floch. 
 I have just seen her, she cannot Uve." 
 
 "I was expecting it." 
 
 "You are not grieved over it as I am then? 
 It does not matter to you?" 
 
 " What a state you are in, my poor Mademoi- 
 selle Davidee! You are not at all reasonable! 
 Come in." 
 
 The directress took the young girl's hand and 
 led her into the parlour, where she seated her in a 
 chair, and sat down near her in the solitary arm- 
 chair, which was usually reserved for the inspector, 
 when he made his rounds two or three times a 
 year. 
 
 "You are much too soft-hearted!" 
 
 "But the child is dying, I tell you."
 
 128 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 "In the first place, j^ou cannot be sure of it. 
 She is young! And then, you cannot be the 
 teacher of twenty or thirty childreji without one 
 of them dying some time. Death comes to all 
 ages." 
 
 She spoke in an amiable tone of voice, as one 
 who wished to please, but not to express sympathy. 
 For sole answer Davidee burst into tears, and 
 instinctively laid her head on the shoulder of 
 the one human being who might possibly com- 
 fort her. Mile. Renee kissed her and patted her 
 hair, and there was in her caress an evident ad- 
 miration for these soft dark tresses and an ex- 
 treme complaisance of manner. 
 
 "Do not weep, child. It is bad for you. You 
 will wear yourself out, and no one will thank you 
 for it. At your age one should not weep too 
 much, one should tiy to enjoy life. Drive away 
 these sad thoughts; let us talk of other things. 
 By the way, tell me the first steps in your love- 
 affair with Maieul Rit-Dur." 
 
 Davidee rose to her feet and pushing aw^ay the 
 directress, cried: 
 
 "What are you saying. Mademoiselle? I can- 
 not permit you — you insult me — I am in love 
 with no one, and least of all with that man. But 
 if I should ever have a confidence to make, I 
 swear to you " 
 
 The directress had risen also. 
 
 "Go on, Mademoiselle; go on, I beg of you!" 
 
 The assistant had already reached the door, 
 and as she opened it she heard a burst of mock- 
 ing laughter following her.
 
 DAVIDfiE BIROT 129 
 
 "You are prostrated, are you, Mademoiselle? 
 Ah, you strike me as utterly ridiculous! Look 
 me in the face, I insist upon it. I have the 
 right to give orders here." 
 
 Davidee turned her head and saw a face pale 
 and convulsed with passion, with deep lines 
 furrowed in it, and eyes blazing with hatred; 
 while this woman, standing there in her fine at- 
 tire, clenched her hands, calhng out in accents 
 broken by rage: 
 
 "It is all over, I tell you — I have been too in- 
 dulgent. Ah, you dare to treat me in this fash- 
 ion! You shall pay for it, I promise you! For 
 the moment I merely give you warning that your 
 intimacy with that Phrosine is regarded as abso- 
 lutely disgraceful. Your virtue. Mademoiselle, 
 stands in need of lessons. It prefers to give 
 them, but will have to receive them too. You 
 are compromising yourself. And you would do 
 well not to converse on the road with Maieul 
 Jacquet, your gardener while awaiting something 
 better. But you think I know nothing; I know 
 everything you do; take care!" 
 
 The assistant made no reply; she turned and 
 went up to her chamber, no longer weeping. 
 Standing before her window, her eyes fixed on 
 the distant prospect, a fever in her blood, she re- 
 viewed the incidents of the past few weeks. They 
 poured through her mind tumultuously ; fear had 
 no part in the emotion which, while it held her 
 trembling and oppressed, left her completely mis- 
 tress of her reason and her will. The girl was 
 striving to recognize the motives which had in-
 
 130 davidEebirot 
 
 spired her actions, to recall the impulses of her 
 soul at each meeting with Phrosine, with Maieul, 
 and with Anna, and the fancies which had filled 
 it. She would have been glad of some external 
 aid, some witness who could assure her that she 
 had not yielded to an excess of irritation, perhaps 
 to a secret and hitherto disguised antipathy, 
 when she had broken just now with Mile. Renee. 
 Henceforth the hostility of the directress was 
 declared; it would be open and implacable; and 
 yet Davidee regretted nothing, neither her words 
 nor her indignant gesture; for what had caused 
 them but her wounded sense of honour, over- 
 sensitive perhaps, but which she could not dis- 
 avow. She would never yield, cost what it 
 might; in utter solitude though it were, she 
 would maintain her right to live as she thought 
 best, and to act, outside the school, as she had 
 done hitherto. More than all her reasonings, 
 it was the memoiy of Anna Le Floch which 
 helped her through this moral and physical crisis. 
 It was often the custom at nightfall for the 
 \illage children to wander from one hamlet to 
 another, by twos or in httle groups. On Sun- 
 day especially, those who had been spending 
 the day with a friend rarely failed to return home 
 for supper. Remembering this, Davidee now 
 descended the stairs and seated herself on a 
 stone at some httle distance from the school- 
 house door. The evening sky was cold and 
 pure; the wind which had been spring-like all 
 day, light and warm, now blew in sudden gusts 
 which made the late strollers along the country
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 131 
 
 road shiver. The broom flowers had doubtless 
 withdrawn their perfume into the depths of their 
 golden calyxes, for the wind bore upon it only 
 the odours of upturned earth and fresh sods. 
 What stubble fields, high upon the plateau; what 
 fields of young wheat were sending their mes- 
 sage to the world below, that bread should not 
 fail? The young girl wrapped her arms closer 
 within the folds of a cape she had thrown over 
 her shoulders. She raised her head and showed 
 the worn and weary face of one emerging from 
 a sorrow of which the anguish is a little spent, 
 but without strength and without consolation. 
 She looked toward the west where the sky was 
 darkening, and thought of httle Anna. She was 
 like a mother parted from her child, who still 
 sees her everj'where. 
 
 One or two stars began to twinkle between 
 two gnarled old willows in the pasture opposite. 
 Suddenly she heard a clattering sound which 
 seemed to come from the direction of the quar- 
 ries; now nearer, now further, to the right, to 
 the left of the old houses; one could not tell 
 whence came this noise, which approached, then 
 died away, then returned again, sounding like 
 the clapper of a great mill wheel. But those 
 wheels belonged to her own country', where the 
 water sets the mills singing on the plain of Cha- 
 rente, and where the sea pours her torn sea-w^ed 
 in through so many streams and channels to be 
 swept out again by the tide. There, in her fine 
 new dwelling far too large and too white for her, 
 sat an aged woman, who, having dusted, brushed.
 
 132 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 waxed and set her house in order all the week, 
 was now waiting until the day should be quite 
 spent; and she, grown one day older, could forget 
 in slumber her only daughter, this Davidee, who, 
 seated by the roadside of Ardesie, was sighing 
 as she used to sigh when a tiny child, a long while 
 after having wept. 
 
 Three quaint httle figures, three shadows hold- 
 ing each other by the hand, were approaching 
 from the direction of the mounds, their sabots 
 clicking all together as they hesitated half-way 
 between the school-house wall and the stragghng 
 hedge, terrified at the sight of that crouching 
 immovable figure, with a white drapery about 
 its head. But a well-known voice called to them 
 so softly that not a bird fluttered in the bushes 
 near by. 
 
 "Louise Tastour, Lucienne Gorget, Jeannie 
 Fete-Dieu." Then the dance of the wooden 
 shoes set in again, and fear fled across the em- 
 bankment of La Fresnais, while the three chil- 
 dren rushed forward as boldly as if in broad day- 
 light, and surrounded their teacher where she 
 sat. Louise Tastour wore in her hat an enor- 
 mous feather, evidently picked up in the barn- 
 yard; Lucienne Gorget's felt toque was encir- 
 cled with a wreath of flowers; little Jeannie was 
 bareheaded, but her brush of hair stood as usual 
 erect upon her forehead. The three children 
 were so happy at meeting a friend on the de- 
 serted road where they had feared to pass but 
 now it was a sad disappointment to find that 
 their teacher had been weeping. What! Weep-
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 133 
 
 ing when one can command others! when one 
 has no lessons to learn! What could ail her? 
 They could not ask except with then* eyes, which 
 did not half speak in the darkness, even though 
 they bent over her and were quite, quite near. 
 
 "Your school-mate Anna Le Floch is very 
 ill, children." 
 
 They understood now why Mademoiselle had 
 been crying and they became a Httle sad too, 
 but much less so than she. 
 
 "Yes, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "I fear that you may never see her again." 
 A little sob broke from one of the listeners, but 
 no one could have told which it was who was so 
 grieved, for all three were hanging their heads, 
 with their chins on their breasts. 
 
 Their teacher longed to say, "Pray for your 
 little friend," but she dared not; she never spoke 
 that word before her pupils, nor elsewhere, even 
 in her own heart. If it came to her mind that 
 evening it was because the sick child herself had 
 spoken it. 
 
 "You love her very much, do you not?" 
 
 The three httle heads nodded all at once. "Yes, 
 Mademoiselle." 
 
 "Think of her then, will you not?" 
 
 One of them alone understood what Mad- 
 emoiselle meant; this was Jeannie Fete-Dieu, 
 whose round eyes ghttered in the darkness like 
 those of a httle gray owl. She alone repeated, 
 more gravely this time: "Yes, Mademoiselle." 
 
 Davidee put out both hands and softly— as she 
 would have pushed away two pet lambs, with
 
 134 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 her hand buried in their wool— she pushed aside 
 Louise Tastour and Lucienne Gorget, while she 
 drew Jeannie closer to her. 
 
 "Bend down so that I can whisper in your 
 ear; lower still! I want you to deliver a message 
 for me, but you must tell no one whom it is from 
 — no one!" 
 
 "No, Mademoiselle." 
 "You promise me? Then listen." 
 She murmured a few words in the child's ear. 
 Jeannie drew herself up, making httle signs to 
 show she imderstood, and so pleased that her 
 grief for Anna Le Floch was quite forgotten. 
 
 "Now, children," the teacher said aloud, "run 
 home quickly; I shall hear your sabots clicking 
 till you have turned the corner. By the way, 
 Jeannie, how does it happen that you have left 
 your grandmother alone so long?" 
 
 "Some one is taking care of her, you see!" 
 said the child looking up; "if it were not for 
 
 that " 
 
 "A\Tio is it?" 
 
 The little one laughed as she answered. "It 
 is a man, a neighbour. Monsieur Maieul!" And 
 she hastened to add: "For more than a week 
 he has never left the hill. Sunday, Monday, 
 he was there — we have never seen so much of 
 him! He passes all his evenings on the hill now. 
 So he promised the Breton women, those, you 
 know, who hve at La Gravelle, that he would go 
 down twice at least while they were away, and I 
 too — and see how grandmamma was. It was kind 
 of him, wasn't it? Good-night, Mademoiselle!"
 
 DAVIDfiEBIROT 135 
 
 The three children ran off with a sound of 
 sabots clattering, now louder, now softer, as on 
 their approach. The young girl had leaned her 
 head back against the wall; she realized that 
 a feeling of joy had entered her sad heart. Was 
 it possible? In return for her httle effort of 
 courage in throwing aside her apathy, in being the 
 maiden who dares to speak for purity in the name 
 of eternal laws — ^for had she not said some such 
 thing, hardly conscious in her agitation what 
 words she spoke? — here were ruined souls rising 
 and obeying those laws — one of them at least 
 had obeyed. What a struggle with themselves! 
 And what secret strength must have aided them! 
 What mysterious power had intervened, by which 
 the word of a mere girl, the grief of a child, 
 had triumphed — even once, even for a time — 
 over passion, over habit, over the pity for a shat- 
 tered tie? It was not to be explained, but it 
 was beautiful. It was the same power which 
 had given to little Aima's face that look of in- 
 ward joy and ecstacy. The child had said no 
 word. Who had implanted such purity in her 
 soul that bad examples, heredity, neglect, the 
 absence of all higher teaching, had been power- 
 less to corrupt it or to harden and render it in- 
 sensible? \Vhat compassion had listened to the 
 prayers of the dying child? Could there be in 
 the universe a watchful tenderness which listens 
 to the poorest souls and aids the feeblest impulses 
 of charity, repentance, doubt, desire for purifi- 
 cation, or even the mere weariness of being bad 
 and a burden to oneself? Davidee meditated,
 
 136 DAVIDfiE BIROT 
 
 her heart penetrated with the sense of obscure 
 destiny, and mysteriously, on this night, she felt 
 growing within her that store of hope which each 
 of us needs to carry us through this human life. 
 
 The stars had risen above the branches of the 
 old willows — the earliest ones visible — and shone 
 upon the lonely road. "All his evenings now 
 he passes on the hill." Davidee looked up to 
 where La Gravelle and Mere Fete-Dieu's house 
 were sleeping together under the same shred of 
 sky in the vast darkness. 
 
 She entered the house, where Mile. Renee had 
 left a lamp burning for her on the kitchen table, 
 and a little bowl of soup on the smouldering 
 ashes of the hearth.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ANNA'S FUNERAL. 
 
 On the three following days of May there was 
 bad news from the house on the Plains. On the 
 sixth, Mile. Birot was busy distributing books 
 from the school Ubrary. Several of the pupils 
 and a few village girls who had left school, had 
 arrived at eleven o'clock on this first Thursday 
 in the month to bring back the books they had 
 read, and ask for others. The young teacher 
 was standing before the varnished pine bookcase 
 in which were ranged a couple of hundred vol- 
 umes, bound in cloth, and protected by a wire 
 netting and green baize curtains. 
 
 She knew most of these books by heart, and 
 could lay her hand at once on any she sought, 
 as the pupil entered and, bowing to her, said: "I 
 would Hke a novel, something a httle jolly!" 
 How often she had heard that word and how she 
 detested it! She had just heard it again from 
 the stout Lucienne G^boin. David^e watched 
 the older girls who walked away, reading as they 
 went, and the little ones who trotted off with a 
 book stuffed into the pocket of their apron or 
 tucked under their arm. 
 
 She was about to close the Hbrary and return 
 to the house, when Ursule Morin entered, Ursule, 
 
 137
 
 138 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 slim as a sheaf of oats, indolent and shy, who 
 blushed and bridled at the smallest comphment; 
 at this moment she was looking sad, 
 
 ''WTiat! you, Ursule? You have taken to 
 reading, then? What shall I give you — a fashion 
 book?" 
 
 The teacher had spoken before looking at 
 Ursule Morin's long thin face, always bent to one 
 side like that of a stubborn young goat; it was 
 now stained with newly shed tears. Stepping 
 quickly toward her, Davidee exclaimed: "What 
 ails you, child? Is Anna Le Floch worse?" 
 
 Ursule, with her lips tightly closed, merely 
 bowed her head. 
 
 "Is she very ill, then?" 
 
 The child bowed her head once more. 
 
 "She is dying? I must see her again; I must 
 go to her at once." 
 
 "No, Mademoiselle, it is not worth while to 
 go; it would be too sad; she is dead." 
 
 It was a long and cruel afternoon for Da\'idee, 
 such as are hours of grief when there is none to 
 share it. Mile. Renee, on hearing the news, began 
 immediately to plan for the funeral. 
 
 "WTiat would you have, Mademoiselle? It 
 was to be expected, was it not? It must be a 
 relief to the mother." 
 
 "Oh, Mademoiselle, say rather a remorse, a 
 terrible blow which wiU change everything in 
 life for her." 
 
 "How little you know these people! But it 
 does not matter — I shall leave it to you to look 
 after the, children on the day of the funeral. You
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 139 
 
 must see that every child in the upper class wears 
 a white dress, if she has one. To-day I must 
 remain at home for I have a headache; moreover, 
 it is not fitting that you or I should go inside 
 Phrosine's house. If you chance to be walking 
 
 in the direction of the town " 
 
 "I hardly know. I have no plan." 
 "I merely suggest that if you go that way you 
 had better order a wreath of flowers. My chil- 
 dren will contribute enough for that and I suppose 
 yours will do as much. Something suitable, with- 
 out extravagance; no excess of sentiment^ you 
 understand?" 
 
 Davidee made no reply. As soon as she was 
 free to leave the school she went out, and to make 
 it evident that she was not on her way to Phro- 
 sine's, she started in the opposite direction, toward 
 the village of Malaquais, where she intended to 
 take the tramway. The thought of Anna was 
 constantly with her; the child was more present 
 to her than the landscape around her or the men 
 and women she passed, who were working in 
 their gardens, or beating their clothes beside the 
 pond; or walking along the same white ribbon of 
 road with her. The child had vanished from 
 amidst these visible sights, but was it possible 
 that she was gone forever? Not to have bloomed 
 for a single hour and to die, thus! What injus- 
 tice, if compensation were not granted her at 
 once and forever — assured, eternal! These brief 
 unhappy Hves, how they seem to call for an after- 
 life! The thoughts which filled Davidee's mind 
 were not cruel ones; there was consolation min- 
 gled with them, an intimate persuasion, hidden
 
 140 DAVID^E BIROT 
 
 in the depths of her soul, which formed itself 
 into words — into a voice which spoke to the girl 
 with no conscious will on her part. "I have not 
 lived in vain," it seemed to say; "my suffering 
 is over and it has been fruitful suffering. I was 
 placed near souls in peril, my mother's, yours, 
 others' perhaps. The whole meaning of my Ufe 
 has been in its purity. I was filled with a mys- 
 terious love for laws of right which I hardly knew; 
 I have suffered for that love. I have died for 
 it, and through it I am a conqueror — a conqueror 
 for her who formed my body and whose soul I 
 may save, if you will help me, my beloved teacher. 
 I have given her to you. Do not look upon her 
 as others do through her sin, but through my 
 suffering. Try to raise her! She is weeping to- 
 day; continue the w^ork which I alone could 
 begin. Do not listen to your aversion, let noth- 
 ing repel you!" And Davidee's soul overflowed 
 with a sudden tenderness, which was her answer. 
 
 On reaching the suburbs of the town she 
 stopped at a shop where they sold funeral wreaths. 
 A stout man behind the counter addi'essed her 
 with effusive poHteness. "If Madame will ex- 
 amine our latest novelties, I am sure she will be 
 satisfied." Behind him, in cases, were suspended 
 rows of wreaths made of beads or artificial flow- 
 ers, as well as zinc medals, cast-iron crosses, and 
 marble tablets with inscriptions. 
 
 "It is for a child," she said. 
 
 "Of what age? The age is a very important 
 element. This year, for instance, for the new-born 
 what we use most is " 
 
 "You may make," David^e broke in, "a
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 141 
 
 wreath of white flowers and tie it with a ribbon 
 bearing the name of the school. Make the 
 wreath large for it will be the only one, as the 
 mother is poor." 
 
 On the morning of the second day following, 
 the assistant was leading a band of forty little 
 girls between the sun-steeped walls along the 
 road to the house on the Plains. There were 
 but forty in line when she left Ardesie, but at 
 every cross-road, at the gate of every field, at 
 every house door they passed, stood a child clad 
 in white, or black and white, or blue, who joined 
 the procession. For fear of creating a scandal, 
 the two teachers had agreed that they would not 
 go to the house, which was, moreover, one of 
 the farthest away from the village. It would 
 be unfortunate if they should have to encounter 
 Maieul at the house on the Plains, gi\4ng orders 
 as if at home. The evening before, a woman 
 had passed through the cluster of hamlets, bear- 
 ing a paper on which were these words in an 
 unformed handwriting: "The burial of my child 
 mil take place to-morrow at ten o'clock. You 
 are asked to be present — Mother Le Floch." 
 
 Who would answer this summons? WTiat 
 consideration or pity would be shown toward this 
 woman, who was rarely seen now outside the 
 school-house or her own doors? At the second 
 cross-road, where the children, with Davidee lead- 
 ing them, were drawn up beneath the wall, which 
 afforded just shade enough for their height, the 
 breathless chant of the Ardesie chorister arose
 
 142 DAVIDfiE BIROT 
 
 and floated over the glowing fields. The tall 
 white cross, borne by a choir-boy, appeared at a 
 turn of the road, flashing as it turned; then came 
 the cure preceded by his chorister, and lastly the 
 black horse drawing a small hearse, without fringe 
 or ornament or initial letters, but richly adorned, 
 all the same. 
 
 All the little girls peered out from the shadow 
 of the wall into the sunny road, murmuring: 
 ''^\^lat is it? There are showers of it ever}-- 
 where, to right and left, dropping and shining 
 on all sides. Oh, how pretty it is! When it 
 comes nearer we can see what they have placed 
 around her." 
 
 To the slow steps of the one horse, the car 
 drew nearer, the jolting and rumbling of its 
 wheels audible between the words intoned by 
 the chorister, and soon they could plainly discern 
 the flower-decked casket of little Anna. Scat- 
 tered over the white cloth were great sprays of 
 broom, the most profusely blossoming of the 
 golden spindles forming a garland more sumptu- 
 ous than any that could be bought, more daz- 
 zling than the wreath hanging below them tied 
 with its white ribbon. How marvellously spring 
 had adorned the dead child! Some hand must 
 have been busy all day ransacking the thickets, 
 choosing only the sprays without one faded 
 blossom. Some one doubtless had paid the 
 authorities for leave to surround the child with 
 the flowers she loved. 
 
 Behind the car walked a woman, her head 
 covered with a long black veil, and leaning on
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 143 
 
 the arm of an older woman, one of her neighbours; 
 beside them walked a man who had known the 
 child's father, wearing his Sunday suit and tall 
 silk hat; there was no one else. The school- 
 children formed in a double file behind the two 
 women and the man. They were scarcely think- 
 ing now of the little companion who had played 
 with them, laughed with them, recited the same 
 lessons; mourning lasts but a moment at their 
 age. They no longer spoke of Anna, but, softly 
 among themselves, knowing that they must be 
 on their best behaviour, they whispered the names 
 of the quarrymen who stood outside their straw 
 shelters as the procession passed, raising their 
 caps respectfully and with feeHng — both young 
 and old — while some of the women looking out of 
 their windows crossed themselves — but not all — • 
 and thought of more things than the men, es- 
 pecially of the stricken mother. 
 
 The children whispered too: "There are the 
 bells toUing; they have caught sight of us from 
 the belfry tower." The broom swayed Hghtly 
 with each turn of the wheels, and flights of mar- 
 tins, though it was not yet their hour, circled 
 around the church steeple. Davidee, who now 
 walked last in the little procession, said to her- 
 self: "To-morrow there will be only her mother 
 and me to remember her." She felt grateful to 
 Maieul for not having shown himself. "What a 
 power there is in death! How it holds in check 
 those feehngs which have no right to express 
 themselves, or to greet its coming. I thank 
 you, Monsieur Maieul, in the child's name."
 
 144 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 It was the first time since her coming to Ardesie 
 that Davidee had been present at a child's funeral. 
 Before setting out she had taken from her locked 
 drawer the only book of piety she had ever owned, 
 her little morocco-bound prayer-book. When they 
 entered the church she opened it, while several 
 of the little girls nudged each other and pointed 
 with a laugh to the teacher who was reading the 
 mass. 
 
 Davidee read veiy little. She lowered her head 
 and raised it by turns; now and then a word, 
 a sentence in the liturgy, brought her thoughts 
 back, enriched by their depth of meaning, to the 
 child whom she saw so plainly and who had as- 
 sembled all her little playmates around her for 
 the last time. Who among the pupils was pray- 
 ing? They were so young, so unreflecting! One 
 or two perhaps had recited an Ave Maria at the 
 opening of the mass. 
 
 Phrosine, seated with bowed head in the first 
 row of seats, was such a stranger to the rites of 
 worship that her neighbour was obhged to touch 
 her on the arm when it was time to rise or kneel. 
 The man, the father's friend, was doubtless await- 
 ing, at the tavern opposite, the conclusion of the 
 mass. And thus the young girl, moved by this 
 loneliness of the newly dead, felt herself the only 
 friend who was pra}dng and joined with her 
 whole heart in those thoughts which seemed to 
 her beautiful in the unfamiliar service. Was hers 
 a prayer? To whom was it addressed? It was 
 the cry of a great pity and of a friendship which 
 had no longer any human means of expression
 
 DAVIDfiEBIROT 145 
 
 or of service, and which sought the beyond. " De- 
 liver her not into the hands of the enemy and 
 forget her not forever, but ordain that she may 
 be received by thy blessed angels. . . . We would 
 not have you ignorant concerning the dead, that 
 ye be not as those who sorrow without hope. . . . 
 Now is Christ risen from the dead and become 
 the first-fruits of them that slept. ... I am the 
 resurrection and the life; he that beheveth in Me 
 though he were dead, yet shall he live. . . . Let 
 the hght eternal shine upon her!" The greatest 
 words the world has heard bore upward the mem- 
 ory of a child and the name that was heard 
 amidst these prayers : Anna ! Anna ! 
 
 When the service was over, the humble pro- 
 cession reformed, having but a few rods further 
 to go. The graveyard of Ardesie was a long nar- 
 row field where, in the shelter of high walls, mosses 
 and shrubs, broom and live-oak, flourished in 
 profusion, taking the place of the funereal yew. 
 The oaks with their low branches formed a wide- 
 spreading roof through which came glimpses of 
 the sky as through stained-glass windows. These 
 boughs served as a shelter to the carriers of Ar- 
 desie, like those thickets which rise on the hill- 
 sides of Provence to protect the traveller from the 
 southern sun. Crosses rose beneath them, half 
 hidden at this season by masses of red fumitory 
 and golden buttercups. There were foot-paths 
 here and there amid the dense grass, and spots 
 worn bare by the knees of those who had knelt 
 there. 
 
 It was here that they laid little Anna's coffin
 
 146 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 while the priest and the chorister chanted a final 
 psalm. The mother standing beside the little 
 grave gave one wild cry and leaned sobbing upon 
 the shoulder of the woman who had never left her, 
 and who now led her away across the fields, say- 
 ing softly, "Poor soul! poor soul!" while Davidee 
 thought within herself, "I wish that I had been 
 the one to comfort her!" 
 
 She watched her pupils filing by, grown serious 
 for a moment, as they sprinkled holy water over 
 the white cloth and the open grave and then 
 turned away, resuming their accustomed order, 
 two by two, with the smallest ones ahead. The 
 sound of steel hammers falling upon slate filled 
 the quiet air and died away. Davidee was so 
 full of sorrow, she felt herself so strongly drawn 
 toward the childish form resting there, that, hav- 
 ing given the signal for departure, she turned back 
 to gaze once more on the live-oaks, the open grave, 
 and the trampled grass. 
 
 At that moment the cure of Ardesie was leav- 
 ing the cemeter}^, wearing his shovel-hat and car- 
 rying, tucked under his arm, his starched surplice, 
 which bent like a bow at each step. She had 
 never spoken to him, though sometimes they had 
 exchanged bows as they met upon the road, she 
 taking care to show by her stiff, slight nod that 
 she was saluting an adversary of state education, 
 and he, not entirely able to hide the displeasure 
 he felt on meeting one of the pair of women who 
 were instructing the children of his Ardesie flock 
 without any religious belief, and probably — as 
 he supposed — with the secret design of turning
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 147 
 
 them aside from the path of salvation. He could 
 not look at Mile. Renee or her assistant without 
 reflecting that he was too poor to have a free 
 school of his own, without regretting, envying, 
 and suffering. And as he had never hitherto ex- 
 changed a word with either instructress he could 
 not fail to hold them in equal suspicion. He was 
 a man past middle-age, tall and gaunt, with red 
 hair and eyebrows and a face furrowed by trial 
 and opposition, pale lips accustomed to silence 
 and to hard crusts, and eyes of an extraordinary 
 limpidity. These intensely blue eyes, in their 
 deeply hollowed orbits, seemingly distrustful of 
 themselves and habitually cast down, were like a 
 child's eyes in their candour and a man's in their 
 gravity; eyes which would have liked to see the 
 world all beauty, and consequently rested on the 
 sights around him and on humanity with pre- 
 caution and with brief glances. When he spoke 
 of God and of heavenly things his face showed 
 how fidelity to ideals can transform the most 
 unpromising countenance. Mile. Birot had hith- 
 erto noticed only the abbe's stiff bow and his 
 faded cassock; she now saw both nearer; but it 
 seemed to her that it would be a discourtesy not 
 to speak a word to the priest who had just uttered 
 his benediction over little Anna's grave, and who 
 had hastened, as she knew, on Sunday evening 
 to the house on the Plains. 
 
 "I thank you, Monsieur," she said. 
 
 He gave a little start on hearing this unknown 
 and unhoped-for voice. 
 
 "What! For administering the sacrament to
 
 148 D A VI DEE B I ROT 
 
 the child? But it is I who have to thank you, 
 Mademoiselle. It was yon who sent word to 
 me on Sunday, was it not, by Jeannie Fete-Dieu? 
 That was very well done; it was, in fact, admi- 
 rable; yes, truly admirable." 
 
 "What else could I do. Monsieur? I knew 
 Anna's sentiments and I loved her." 
 
 "She was a martyr. Mademoiselle; there are 
 many such who are little known, many, many; 
 they mount straight upward!" 
 
 Davidee looked at the abbe, and he at her, and 
 each perceived that the other had a tear on their 
 eyelashes. The girl was touched ; she said quickly, 
 wishing to rejoin the children: 
 
 "Can you do anything for the mother?" 
 
 "Humanly, nothing, Mademoiselle. She only 
 received me on Sunday for her child's sake. But 
 I shall pray for her to-morrow at my mass. Really 
 it was admirable on your part — admirable!" 
 
 Davidee was tempted to smile, in spite of her 
 grief, but at the same time she saw on the abbe's 
 face the radiance of a thought which kept his soul 
 as serene as the air of spring. She bowed and 
 walked away rapidly, for her httle charges had 
 already passed the first houses beyond the church. 
 
 All that afternoon Davidee was thinking by 
 turns of Anna, of Phrosine, and of Maieul Jacquet. 
 What was to become of this woman who had 
 nothing to live upon — if she had really broken 
 with Maieul — beyond the paltry sum which the 
 Municipal Council voted yearly for the sweep- 
 ing of class-rooms and school premises? Davidee 
 felt herself a novice in the role of counsellor which
 
 DAVIDfiE BIROT 149 
 
 she had assumed; she foresaw that the counsels 
 of poverty would soon be more potent than hers, 
 that the memory of the child would fade, and the 
 evil life be resumed with one or another. How 
 could this woman succeed in earning two francs, 
 or even a franc and a half, a day? That was the 
 chief problem. Could she do washing by the 
 day in one of the deserted quarries? No, Phro- 
 sine would never accept such heavy toil as that. 
 Could she do sewing for the neighbouring farm- 
 ers' wives? But seamstresses were already nu- 
 merous in Ardesie, each having her patrons, and 
 it was only young women who could secure work 
 as their assistants, and, besides, there were long 
 intervals when no such work was to be had. What 
 could she do? Take a place in the match-factory 
 or some other large factory in the neighbour- 
 ing town? What a risk for a woman with her 
 past and her still striking beauty! These proj- 
 ects and others like them passed through the 
 assistant's mind while she sat in the school-room 
 till evening, having papers to correct and next 
 week's classes to prepare. Yet the brightness of 
 the spring day outside was tempting; all the facets 
 of the slate piles and the roofs glittered in the sun, 
 and the belfry was wrapped in a sheath of warm 
 rays; none could tell which way the wind was 
 blowing, for each weathercock told a different 
 tale. Peace descended upon the earth with the 
 fall of day. 
 
 In the vicarage garden, which was almost 
 wholly uncultivated, as the soil was poor and 
 thin, the cur^ had been reciting his breviar>^
 
 150 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 He was seated under a trellis of wild vine bearing 
 small hairy' leaves upon its enormous branches. 
 With his thumb slipped between the pages he 
 marked the place where, by and by, he would re- 
 sume his interrupted reading. Above the aged 
 mossy pear-trees and the crest of the wall soft- 
 ened by hanging weeds and grasses, he was 
 watching the clear light gleaming over his Ardesie. 
 Absorbed in thoughts and cares for his small and 
 scattered flock, he sighed as he turned his eyes 
 toward the distant chimneys or gables or the tops 
 of the cherry-trees, which hid some invisible house 
 whose dwellers he knew; then he murmured gently: 
 "Oh, God, I take these cares too much to heart; 
 I vex myself too much! In our lamentations 
 over the wickedness of man we forget that thou 
 art God, that thou art ever present, that thou 
 lovest us, and that where thou art, there is hope. 
 Thou hast shown it to me. The child thou hast 
 taken to thyself was a dove of innocence and 
 purity. Who could have looked for it there? 
 Nothing had armed her against life, but thou 
 didst provide thy grace. And thou didst touch 
 the heart of this young girl who summoned me. 
 Turn her soul now toward thee; and sustain mine 
 which is too keenly alive to the extent of evil and 
 its deep blindness. Men would rob me of my 
 charity, didst thou not replace it by another, 
 new at each moment. I no longer complain, I 
 no longer seek my own will. The bell that rings 
 the sweetest chimes has passed through fire. I 
 shall ring my chimes some day. I must force 
 m.yself not to despond. How clear the sky is!
 
 DAVIDJEE BIROT 151 
 
 There is heavenly seed everjrwhere sufficient to 
 sow every field — even this parish of mine — even 
 France. And have I not my consolations too, in 
 such an one as poor Mere Fete-Dieu, that hum- 
 ble witness to the eternal gospel? The evening 
 air is sweet; nature is like man, now in sin and 
 now in grace. The blessed sleep of childhood 
 enwraps the world. Deliverance! Deliverance! 
 The wind, that tired wagoner, has finished his 
 daily work; we hear no longer the voice of the 
 north and west, but the sounds of life close around 
 us, and the weary labourers returning home. The 
 air is sweet; the day is dying well. Magnificat.'^
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A TALK WITH PHROSINE. 
 
 The day after the funeral Phrosine came as usual 
 to do her daily work at the school. She was no 
 longer in mourning, but wearing the dust-coloured 
 livery of every day. Davidee, who saw her as 
 she entered the school-rooms and as she came out 
 again, was touched by the look on her face, so 
 li\dd and furrowed by grief that the children, 
 mistaking suffering for anger, drew away from 
 her, without their customary "Good-morning, 
 Madame Phrosine!" She never ceased to think 
 of her while hearing her classes. It seemed to 
 her that it was cowardly not to speak comfort 
 to this misery for which no one cared, and she 
 was concerned how best to do it. Meanwhile 
 the children were restless and inattentive and she 
 herself very wear>\ At the moment of leaving 
 the school-room she saw Mile. Ren^ coming 
 toward her, surrounded by a buzzing swarm of 
 children. The directress said: 
 
 "Your friend, Madame Phrosine, wishes to 
 speak to you. Mademoiselle." 
 
 The pupils tittered at these words, without 
 fully comprehending the emphasis thrown by 
 Mile. Renee on the words "your friend." 
 
 The assistant crossed the court-yard, opened 
 
 152
 
 DAVIDfiE BIROT 153 
 
 the garden-gate, and at the end of the box- 
 bordered alley saw the woman whom Maieul had 
 left, the mother who had lost her child; she turned 
 pale and strove not to show that she was trem- 
 bhng, for Phrosine was staring at her fixedly, her 
 body bending forward, her elbows on her knees, 
 her chin supported on her two hands; and there 
 was something in those staring eyes, in that im- 
 movable figure, a sort of madness of grief and also 
 a hatred going straight to its aim, which wounded 
 the young and timid heart of the girl. She had 
 approached close to Phrosine before the latter 
 stirred or spoke or ceased to fix her with her eyes. 
 Davidee seated herself beside her on the bench 
 and said: 
 
 "You wish to speak to me, Phrosine?" 
 
 "Yes, I wish to tell you how I hate you and 
 your bigotries. You have done me such injuries 
 that I ought " 
 
 "What ought you to have done?" 
 
 "To have burned your house over your head!" 
 
 "But I have no house." 
 
 "The school-house, then! Do you think I 
 could not have found two or three sturdy lads to 
 help me if I had wished! But I care nothing for 
 men now, only for my misery. I hate you, do 
 you hear?" 
 
 "Say it, if such words soothe you; repeat it, 
 if you will. It is enough for me that I have not 
 deserved your insults, Phrosine." 
 
 "Do not call me Phrosine. I am no longer 
 the drudge who sweeps your school-rooms. That 
 trade is done with; all is done with between us.
 
 154 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 I am Madame Le Floch, deserted by her husband 
 and, through your doing, deserted by her lover. 
 I am, above all, a mother whom you robbed of her 
 child's love, and then of her child's joy and her 
 life." 
 
 "Who— I?" 
 
 "You, no one but you! Look here! it is all 
 veiy well for the priests to despise and condemn 
 a woman like me. They have their gospel, their 
 God, their prayers. But you! how does it con- 
 cern you? Where did you learn that we cannot 
 lead our lives as we will?" 
 
 "From the laws." 
 
 "What laws? Those that can be made and 
 unmade? I know who they are who make those 
 laws; much they trouble themselves if these same 
 laws stand in their way! You are all hypocrites, 
 you and those like you. It was not your place 
 to judge me and it was you who taught my child 
 to judge me." 
 
 "No, she judged you herself." 
 
 "But you encouraged her in it, you. Mademoi- 
 selle Birot, and she is dead, dead, dead! And for 
 a long while I have only held her body in my arms 
 when I embraced her. I hate you for all the 
 hollow kisses she gave me, for all the tears she 
 shed — which wet my cheeks! Without your les- 
 sons she would be living now." 
 
 "Alas! she had other reasons for dying." 
 
 "What were they then?" 
 
 "The blood in her veins. But if I helped to 
 make her soul purer I do not regret it, even if she 
 suffered; even now, when you reproach me for
 
 david£:e birot 155 
 
 it. I wish all my children in the school were like 
 her." 
 
 "You see! You upheld her in it! Besides, 
 you told me, beneath my own roof, that I was sin- 
 ning. You must change your ways, lay-teacher 
 as you are, or else " 
 
 "Or else ?" 
 
 "There are fellows who are afraid of nothing 
 here; they will report to your chiefs and you will 
 march!" She said this without moving, in a low 
 sinister tone, without ceasing to stare at the court- 
 yard, whence came the cries of Anna's living play- 
 mates. It was by a visible effort that she re- 
 strained the sobs which shook from time to time 
 the head propped on her hands and the loosened 
 masses of her hair which glistened in the sunshine. 
 
 Davidee, in order to restrain her impulse of 
 indignation, spoke as few words as possible. She 
 felt all there was of bitter grief, but also of revolt 
 against everything, and of moral perversion, in 
 this anger and these threats of Phrosine's. These 
 two women appeared to any one watching them 
 from a distance, as Mile. Renee did, to be talking 
 calmly enough, one of them bending over wearily, 
 the other sitting erect beside her in the brilliant 
 morning light. Davidee, on hearing herself threat- 
 ened — what mysterious feeling of generosity was 
 it that had taken possession of her? — was moved 
 only to pity. She bent over the woman and 
 said : 
 
 "Madame Le Floch, since you do not wish me 
 to call you Phrosine, I am only a poor girl who 
 is trying to teach others. I know little, I doubt
 
 156 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 many things. What I teach is perhaps Chris- 
 tianity, though I am little of a Christian myself, 
 but I am very sure that there can be no happiness 
 in a Hfe of disorder, and that, you see, is what made 
 me speak. I loved your child, I guessed why she 
 suffered, though it was not I who planted those 
 seeds of suffering in her heart. But no one can 
 make me say that she was wrong. I may have 
 to 'march,' as you say, but nothing can prevent 
 my justifying my little friend, who wished her 
 mother not to have a lover." 
 
 Phrosine broke in: "You will give me a living, 
 then?" 
 
 "I would gladly, if I could. I would willingly 
 share what I have with you." 
 
 The green eyes opened wider as they turned 
 upon Davidee, and one could see in them the 
 ignoble spirit, suspicious of all good in others and 
 confident only in itself. Phrosine shrugged her 
 shoulders with a scornful laugh. 
 
 "Innocence! I am not one to be led by you. 
 You need not try to do me good, it was enough 
 for you to preach to the child. I am of harder 
 stuff, I don't beHeve in words and I did not come 
 here to ask alms of you. But I wish you to know 
 something besides what I have already told you. 
 You have succeeded in separating Maieul Jacquet 
 from me. You think that a fine victory?" 
 
 "For him perhaps." 
 
 "You are mightily mistaken; he loves me still. 
 It was he who wished to leave me, I won't deny 
 that. As for me, I let him go on account of the 
 child who was so ill. But if I had chosen to keep
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 157 
 
 him he never would have left me. He had me 
 in his blood!" 
 
 "I have no wish to hear your secrets." 
 
 "And what if I want to tell them to you? This 
 very day I need only make a sign to him. If I 
 come back some day " 
 
 "You are going away then?" 
 
 " If I come back, and if I wish it, I need not even 
 make a sign. I have only to throw him one glance 
 across the old pit of La Grenadiere, and he will 
 come back to me as a dog runs back when you 
 call him." 
 
 " Why do you tell me this?" 
 
 "You are warned, that's aU!" 
 
 "I have no need of a warning." 
 
 "I know what I am saying! Yes, I am going 
 away. You wiU hear no more of me for many a 
 long day, perhaps never. I cannot do without 
 a child; my daughter is dead, I must have my 
 son. I shall go until I find Le Floch and make 
 him tell me what he has done with Maurice." 
 
 "What will you live upon meanwhile?" 
 
 "I can surely earn ten sous a day, anywhere, 
 by sweeping houses as I did here, can't I? Don't 
 begin again giving me moral lessons. It is a good 
 riddance for you when a woman like me goes 
 away. I shall hunt for my first child, the one his 
 father robbed me of. Good-by, Mademoiselle." 
 
 She rose to her feet as she spoke and Davidee 
 took her hand. "You have not succeeded in 
 wounding me," she said. "Tell me where you 
 are going?" 
 
 "Straight before me!"
 
 158 DAVIDCEBIROT 
 
 She did not draw away her hand as she spoke, 
 however, but left it in the young girl's. The 
 children were at that moment forming in line to 
 enter the school-room. 
 
 "Have you at least some reason, Madame Le 
 Floch, for believing that your husband is alive, 
 and if so, where he is likely to be working?" 
 
 "I heard something about him from the man 
 who was at the child's funeral." 
 
 "Have you any money for your journey? Is 
 it far from here?" 
 
 "I shall work my way." 
 
 "But you will not know any one. ^Y\len shall 
 you start?" 
 
 Phrosine made no answer. 
 
 "I must see j^ou again; when do you go?" 
 
 Without turning her head the woman replied: 
 "To-morrow at sunrise"; and sajdng this, she 
 turned to go, and Davidee entered her class- 
 room at the same moment that the servant, in her 
 working clothes, but with a sunbeam falHng on her 
 hair, opened the gate leading into the highway 
 and disappeared. 
 
 From the Green Diary. — "How hard this day 
 has been for me ! If I could only have had leisure 
 and freedom to think over what I should say to 
 Phrosine, this morning, and decide what I had best 
 do. But the rest of the morning was spent in 
 suppressing noise and chatter in the class, in pun- 
 ishing some of the girls, and listening to answers 
 which showed clearly how little interested the 
 parents are in their children's work, and how it is
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 159 
 
 left to me to deal unaided with these undisciplined 
 minds and untrained impulses. When I said this 
 to Mile. Renee, whom I scarcely speak to now, 
 she merely laughed at me. What coarse natures 
 there are among these children! And when I 
 reprove them, I am conscious that I do not reach 
 them. They fear me, that is all. My words 
 have no influence, they are met only by sullen 
 indifference or a spirit of irony and defiance, which 
 seems born in them, which they breathe in with 
 the air around them and which is like Phrosine's 
 laugh. And yet some of them show affection as 
 they gather about me after the lessons. But, 
 alas, what will their affection for me weigh ten 
 j^ears, or two years hence? Even if I succeed in 
 making them really love me, what shall I have 
 given them to make them better? I have dreamt, 
 like so many others, of surviving in my schol- 
 ars. I used to say in myself: 'My thoughts, my 
 strength, my judgment, will Hve in the minds of 
 these girls and these mothers.' What thought? 
 What strength? WTiat real authority will Da\i- 
 dee Birot's judgment have over them, when self- 
 interest is involved or passion carries them away? 
 "It is growing late. I find it hard to collect 
 my thoughts after the emotions and tumult of 
 the day. I still hear the sound of the children's 
 voices, as I sit alone here in my room, and Phro- 
 sine's voice as she spoke to me this morning. 
 What did she mean when she boasted of possess- 
 ing a power over Maieul which no one could shake? 
 'I have only to look at him,' she said, 'across the 
 pit of the Grenadiere, and he will come to me as
 
 160 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 a dog to its master.' Why did she say that to 
 me? It must be that gossip has been active here, 
 among the quarry-pits, and that my name has 
 been mixed up with their wretched slanders. Ah ! 
 how base it all is! And yet I must see Phrosine 
 again. AATiat do his threats matter to me? I 
 cannot let her go without some proof of interest 
 on my part. I have given her my promise, and 
 now that she has been deserted, she is even more 
 alone in the world than I. I have twenty francs 
 here in my drawer, I will give them to her, and I 
 can beg mamma for more. To-morrow morning 
 — at what hour? I will leave my shutters open 
 so that the sun pouring in may wake me."
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A CLANDESTINE DEPARTURE. 
 
 At dawn of a clear bright morning, Davidee had 
 risen and left the school. No one was stirring 
 yet, among the mounds, nor along the roads. The 
 only sound that recalled men's labour was the 
 whistle of an exhaust pump, throwing off its puffs 
 of white steam, at regular intervals, at the en- 
 trance to a quarry-well at Trelaze. The fields 
 lay wrapped in slumber and the grass was heavy 
 with dew and sleep. The girl walked onward 
 rapidly. Should she meet Phrosine? She barely 
 glanced at the scene around her, her heart was 
 heavy at the thought of this woman setting out 
 alone, without help of any sort, leaving behind 
 her the house where little Anna had lived. Had 
 Phrosine given notice to any one of her departure, 
 she wondered? Perhaps some neighbour was help- 
 ing her at this moment to tie up her bundle 
 of clothing and close the house. Here was the 
 long roof and the hedge! The market-gardeners 
 were not yet at work; a sparrow was twitter- 
 ing on the roof, but there was no smoke rising 
 this morning from Phrosine's chimney. What si- 
 lence seemed to surround the departing woman! 
 The morning mists were melting away, overhead, 
 
 161
 
 162 DA VI DEE BIROT 
 
 and blue sky peering through, as the sun was 
 about to rise. Davidee heard no sound but the 
 neighing of a horse turned out to pasture and the 
 distant slamming of some housewife's shutters. 
 As she pushed open the little gate and took a step 
 or two along the mossy path, Phrosine appeared 
 on the threshold, closed the door and turned the 
 key. She had no longer any hold upon her poor 
 dwelling except this key which she turned slowly, 
 slowly, standing motionless for a moment as if 
 she could look through the closed door. Then 
 she turned away, holding the key in one hand and 
 cariying on her arm a large white wicker basket 
 whose double lid was gaping; for everything she 
 owned was in that basket — her clothing and food 
 for the journey, a pair of shoes and a few memen- 
 tos of her dead child. As she caught sight of the 
 assistant teacher her face, which had been merely 
 sad, grew suddenly hard. After casting a last 
 glance around the silent garden she approached 
 her, saying: 
 
 "Don't make any noise! I haven't given the 
 landlord notice. He can sell whatever he finds; 
 I have nothing to pay him with, but I will write 
 and ask him to have patience." She had on her 
 black dress, the collar of which was fastened with 
 a gold pin, the sole remnant of her wedding 
 fineries. She always went bareheaded along the 
 Ardesie roads, and to-day as usual she wore no 
 cap nor bonnet. She was well aware how beau- 
 tiful her hair looked in the sunlight. Davidee 
 could not restrain her admiration as she gazed 
 at her.
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 163 
 
 "How young she looks!" she said to hei-self; 
 "what a pity it all is!" 
 
 "I will walk part way with you," she said in a 
 low voice. "Let me help you carry your bas- 
 ket." She took hold of the handle as she spoke, 
 and walking a Uttle apart, with their burden 
 swinging between them, the two women took the 
 road toward the town. The houses they passed, 
 standing amid their gardens, were some of them 
 old and fine, with pointed turrets and muUioned 
 windows commanding a wide view over the val- 
 ley. Phrosine turned her face away to avoid 
 being recognized by the farmers' wives who dwelt 
 in these old houses. As the road made a bend 
 among the orchards, Davidee asked: "Are you 
 sure of finding your husband?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "Nor your son?" 
 
 "Just as little. But I will find them. If I 
 have to make the tour of France and enter every 
 house where there is a boy fourteen years old, I 
 will see my son again." 
 
 "You may not recognize him!" 
 
 "He was the image of me. Do I look like 
 other people?" 
 
 "You are on your way to the station, are you 
 not? How far do you expect to go to-night?" 
 
 Phrosine walked on a while without replying. 
 Just then they heard a sound of wheels behind 
 them. It was a peasant woman driving her 
 small cart laden with milk-pails. 
 
 "Shall I give you a lift," she cried, "you. Mere 
 Le Floch, and your companion?"
 
 164 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 "Thank you," answered Phrosine. "I am not 
 going far." And turning toward Da^ddee she 
 began to address her volubly: 
 
 "Two years ago, he took our son away from the 
 Board of Charity Home where he had left him. 
 He went to Paris for him, he can't deny that; no, 
 for those who manage the home sent for informa- 
 tion about him and me to Pere Moine, the man 
 you saw at my child's funeral. My husband 
 was at Orleans then, or in the neighbourhood. I 
 shall take a ticket for Orleans and hunt for him 
 there; but you must tell this to no one." 
 
 "I give you my word, Madame Le Floch." 
 
 The woman shrugged her shoulders. ' ' Oh, come ! 
 You might as well call me Phrosine, you won't 
 have long to say it." 
 
 They had reached a height, in their steady 
 climb, where the air, blowing across the hills, 
 fanned their faces. And on feeling this keen air 
 from the slopes beyond the Loire, where broader 
 roads cross the wide valley and lead into the 
 wider world beyond, the two women paused with 
 a sudden sense of weariness. They set the bas- 
 ket down in the dust by the roadside. 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed Davidee, "we are far enough 
 now from Ardesie." 
 
 "The wind no longer smells of the broom," 
 Phrosine answered. "It is all over. I have set 
 off this morning on the longest journey I ever 
 took." 
 
 She raised her hard, resolute eyes toward the 
 valley, but she no longer saw it clearly. 
 
 "Come, come!" she said, "I mustn't flag now.
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT' 165 
 
 I think it must be the air of this new country 
 which makes the basket so heavy. My arm is 
 hke wool. If only I could leave it all behind." 
 
 "Yes, all the evil of the past, Phrosine." 
 
 "All the poverty, to be sure!" 
 
 " But not all the sorrow. Take that along wdth 
 you, Phrosine; it will protect you on your way. 
 The sun is already high; only look!" 
 
 The tiled roof of a cottage by the roadside was 
 flushed with pink like a newly opened rose. The 
 two women stooped and set off again, keeping 
 step, as they swung the basket between them on 
 their out-stretched arms. They walked on thus 
 for a couple of hundred paces till they reached 
 the rusty gate of an old brick chateau, closely 
 shuttered now, but which had formerly looked 
 far out across the valley. Here they paused 
 again and turned their heads with one accord 
 to the left, whence came the breeze and the 
 morning light. Under their feet was the last 
 plateau of that vein of slate which here sinks into 
 the depths of the earth; before their eyes was a 
 deserted knoll, clothed wdth a thin herbage al- 
 ready scorched by the heat, which dipped down- 
 ward to mingle with the light soil of the plain. 
 Below them rose long hues of poplars, showing 
 where the clay and ooze of the stream fed their 
 roots. Farther still could be discerned another 
 curve of the valley, now veiled in mist, where 
 white houses rose amid the joyous landscape, 
 with its wide highways and rich pastures inter- 
 spersed with budding boughs on the hedge-rows 
 bordering the fields, on grove and woodland, and
 
 166 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 with sharper pinnacles of foHage emerging here 
 and there. The wide expanse was half-swathed 
 in a veil of mist, as far as the line of hills which 
 follow the windings of the Loire and the pale 
 blue circle of the horizon. The two women ex- 
 perienced, perhaps, a kindred emotion, as they 
 breathed in the air of this wide landscape and 
 followed with their glance the sweep of the val- 
 ley curving toward the east, and the river flowing 
 through it from the farthest borders of France. 
 They could see the hill of St. Saturnin, which 
 alone loomed mountain-hke in the scene, its 
 wooded slopes rising like faint blue smoke above 
 the dazzhng mists of the valley. Phrosine asked : 
 "Is Orleans over yonder?" 
 
 DsLvidee gave an affirmative nod. 
 
 "If I could only find my boy!" 
 
 "Oh, yes!" cried Da\ddee fervently; "only to 
 find him!" 
 
 "And take him away from my husband. He 
 shall not have him! And yet to think that I 
 cannot see my Maurice except by means of that 
 man!" She said this with a smouldering rage, 
 long nursed in soHtude, and ready to break out 
 at any moment. Her eyes followed the line of 
 the valley and the houses dotted along the high- 
 way, seeing, perhaps, nothing of it all, absorbed 
 as she was in her bitter thoughts and the uncer- 
 tainty of her future; nothing save the far-off vil- 
 lages which she would enter, seeking her faith- 
 less husband and a son who might be dead or 
 lost to her. There were no witnesses near them 
 now, and her heart spoke out.
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 167 
 
 "Mustn't he have been a wicked man! To 
 snatch my little boy away from me, when he 
 was barely three years old. To carry him off 
 at night, when I was coming home late from a 
 hard day's washing and my baby was so soon to 
 be born!" 
 
 "He had not even threatened you? There 
 had been no quarrel beforehand?" 
 
 "No — as to quarrels, one can't be married 
 without them — but he had made no threats. 
 He had only said when I told him my news: 
 'What! two brats! No, not for me.' And when 
 I came in that night, dead tired, I found the 
 house dark and empty — as it is now — ^with only 
 a cold hearth awaiting me." 
 
 "What a coward!" 
 
 "Just as they all are, a bit more or a bit less." 
 And Phrosine laughed aloud, showing her white 
 teeth and tossing back her masses of golden hair. 
 "And yet I was a handsome girl, I can tell you. 
 He had courted me and spent money for our 
 wedding, as though I had been a queen. But 
 there are plenty of such two-year queens about 
 the world ! I don't know why I tell you this, but 
 it seems to me as if I should see him there, at the 
 end of that lane, and as if we should kill each 
 other when we meet. How I have cursed him! 
 He was the cause of all! — of all!" 
 
 Davidee stretched out her hand toward the 
 hills across the Loire. 
 
 "Who knows, Phrosine? He may be quite 
 changed now!" 
 _ "Oh, no! not he!"
 
 168 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 " WTiat if you were to find him sick or in poverty?" 
 
 "That man, never! He is having his sport with 
 some other woman. I am as sure of it as that I 
 am alive." 
 
 "What if he should be touched at meeting you? 
 If you could win him back? Onty try." 
 
 "My poor young lady! we should need to have 
 fresher hearts than ours for that. We hate each 
 other now, he and I, with a bitter hatred." 
 
 "But even if you come back with your child 
 only, it will be the sa\dng of you. You will begin 
 a new life, with your boy to aid you ; even with a 
 little help from me if 3^ou are willing. They for- 
 bid my seeing you, but I shall manage to see you 
 all the same. You will not be lonely and desper- 
 ate then as you are now. There will be friendly 
 people around you." 
 
 Phrosine hstened to these words with her lips 
 contracted by the old, bitter mockery. She 
 scarcely knew the sound of words of pity. She 
 did not want it, she distrusted it. Was she being 
 laughed at? she wondered. 
 
 "Look here. Mademoiselle Davidee; do not play 
 the innocent. It's not for your interest to look 
 after me, quite the contrar}^" 
 
 "I do not understand you." 
 
 "Enough! you would do much better to look 
 after yourself." 
 
 "I shall have time to think of that after you 
 are gone." 
 
 "You had better be seeing about your position 
 in the school or you will lose it. You have been 
 denounced."
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 169 
 
 "Denounced? For what reason?" 
 
 "I am merely warning you. You have been, 
 I know it." 
 
 "Very well then, I will defend myself." 
 
 "Look out for that, in the first place. And in 
 the next place, do not wish me to come back. It 
 will be far better for you if I never come." 
 
 "AVhyso, Phrosine?" 
 
 The woman stooped, seized the handle of her 
 basket, and began to walk on, with her eyes fixed 
 straight before her on the first houses outside the 
 town; then she spoke without turning round: "I 
 am not worth much. Beware of me, I tell you; I 
 am not your kind. If I were ever to come back 
 you would be sorry you had known me; do not 
 doubt it! Now let us talk of something else. 
 There is the high-road, over yonder." 
 
 The answer did not come at once. 
 
 "You do not like me, Phrosine; I know that 
 now. But if you ever need me, call on me ail 
 the same." 
 
 Phrosine merely shrugged her shoulders. They 
 had reached the spot where the road joined the 
 high-road from Angers to Briare. The tram-car 
 was approaching, rumbHng and snorting along the 
 rails like a huge bumblebee caught in a spider's 
 web. 
 
 "I thank you," said Phrosine. "What you 
 have done was in memory of the little one. I 
 know that well." And with these words she stopped 
 the passing car, boarded it, and, having set her 
 basket on the rear platform, she called back over 
 the railing:
 
 170 davidEebirot 
 
 " It will be better for you if I never come back. 
 Good-by." 
 
 A cloud of dust and steam followed the car, 
 but through it David6e could see the gleam of 
 Phrosine's eyes, still full of Ardesie.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 LYING IN WAIT. 
 
 Denounced! The word is quickly spoken, but 
 the sensation of anxiety it arouses lingers long 
 in the mind. Nothing happened, however, to 
 confirm the warning given by Phrosine on the 
 morning of her departure. A spell of oppressive 
 heat had succeeded to a week of cold rains and 
 hail showers. Thunderous clouds hung in the 
 sky and cast a tawny light all day long, weary- 
 ing to the e3^es. All living atoms seemed to vi- 
 brate more keenly. The air was filled with the 
 humming and buzzing of gnats and flies, the chil- 
 dren could not study, and even the teachers had to 
 suppress their yawns and struggle to keep awake. 
 
 "If the inspector were to arrive on one of 
 these exasperating afternoons," David^e said to 
 herself, "I should be lost. He would grow impa^ 
 tient and I should respond with a bm-st of tears, 
 which, from an official point of view, is the worst 
 of answers." 
 
 Mile. Renee no longer addressed a word to her 
 assistant and showed in every look and gesture 
 an unappeasable irritation. Rural guards were 
 patrolling the shores of La Grenadiere, where 
 troops of young workmen plunged into the pond 
 at ail hours without bathing suits. Gossip was 
 
 171
 
 172 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 rife at evening, among the neighbours, gath- 
 ered on their slate door-steps, all along those bits 
 of road rambling across the fields which consti- 
 tute the hamlet of Ardesie. Rumours of a strike 
 began to fill the air. In his house of La Gravelle, 
 one evening about this time, Maieul Jacquet sat 
 WTapt in thought with his elbows on the stone 
 rails of his belvedere, hanging high above that 
 torn and cloven earth which is never suffered to 
 rest. Maieul had little taste for the taverns. 
 Not that he was never seen entering the Little 
 Poland or the Pere Pompette on the general 
 pay-day which, occurring only twice a year, 
 must be fitly celebrated; or even sometimes 
 on a Saturda}^ after he and his mates had re- 
 ceived their weekly instalment of pay at the 
 office. But a certain dislike of expense, a canny 
 desire to amass a few sous in order to pur- 
 chase a garden, with a small lodging at one end 
 of it where he could live by himself, had survived 
 in this grandson of peasants. He had neither 
 the bearing nor the speech of a rustic, but rather 
 resembled in his carriage, his glance, and his 
 words some dismounted cavalier of former days. 
 Yet he had in his blood this streak of the peasant; 
 and so at this mid-May season, w^hen an electric 
 current seemed to flow through men's veins and 
 arouse them to a feverish pitch, instead of sit- 
 ting with his comrades on a tavern bench, Maieul 
 was perched at the top of his winding stair. Hav- 
 ing no house-keeper and being careful of his ap- 
 parel, he often busied himself with sewing on 
 buttons or mending a torn vest or jacket — a slow
 
 DAVIDfiEBIROT 173 
 
 and difficult operation, to be struggled with on 
 his return from work — or else he fastened fish- 
 hooks to his fines, stooping behind the parapet, 
 so that the neighbours should not see him pre- 
 paring his fishing tackle for the evening and night 
 of the Feast of the Ascension: excellent nights 
 for fishing — as every one knows — since then the 
 fish always rise to the surface of the water. From 
 time to time, his neighbours in the main building 
 called out to him, in the silence of these stifling 
 evenings: "Ho, there. Monsieur Maieul! is it 
 cooler up where you are?" 
 
 "None too cool," he would answer. 
 
 "You say nothing, then?" 
 
 "It must be because I have nothing to say." 
 And so the colloquy was soon broken off. The 
 women all said of Maieul Rit-Dur: "There is one 
 who does not waste his words, nor his money, nor 
 his time! What a husband he would make if he 
 chose, but he does not choose!" 
 
 Nine o'clock, half after nine, ten struck; one 
 could hear all over La Gravelle the sound of sup- 
 pressed yawns, scraps of talk and the light foot- 
 steps of mothers and children moving about the 
 house, while in the sky dayfight lingered as if re- 
 luctant to depart. 
 
 On Wednesday evening, the vigil of Ascension, 
 the women having called out as usual to the lodger 
 in the pavilion, and received no answer, a small 
 boy climbed cautiously up the outer flight of 
 steps, in his bare feet, for fear of a cuffing from 
 Maieul, who had no mercy on spies; but he was 
 soon down agaiU; capering and shouting: "No-
 
 174 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 body at home, and the door locked awful tight." 
 Whereupon the women said: "He must have 
 gone to set his Imes, as the night is so fine." 
 
 As it happened, however, he was much nearer 
 home, in that hollow, filled with fading broom, 
 which nearly concealed the house of Mere Fete- 
 Dieu. He was seated before the entrance on 
 a bowlder, with his hat off on account of the heat 
 and also out of respect for the infirm old woman, 
 whom he had helped drag herself as far as 
 the door-way and who was seated beside him, 
 enveloped in a strange assortment of petticoats 
 and shawls which he had caught up hastily. The 
 little gray eyes of the old woman never ceased to 
 wander over the fields of sky above her, which 
 were the only landscape visible from where she 
 sat, and where a few pale stars were twinkling. 
 Yet the eyes smiled as they looked up, for they 
 had emerged from the darkness inside and, on 
 feeling the light strike them, assumed an expres- 
 sion of curiosity as regards all \isible things, and 
 at the same time of a sort of repose and beatitude 
 such as is rarely seen save in the eyes of children. 
 Three steps away from her, poised beneath the 
 grape-vine on a low chair, which she had tilted 
 back so that her head rested against the wall, 
 while her feet dangled without touching the 
 ground, was Httle Jeannie Fete-Dieu, intently 
 watching Maieul and her grandmother, the som- 
 bre cluster of broom along the edge of the hollow, 
 the three tufts of gillyflowers on the wall and the 
 prowling cat, but rarely glancing at the sky. In 
 the last few weeks Jeannie had grown taller
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 175 
 
 and her colour brighter. She blushed more 
 readily and put on little airs of archness and 
 coquetry, together with a self-consciousness which 
 was quite new to her. Maieul paid no attention 
 to the child, which was the cause of her seeming 
 indifference. He talked, with httle pauses be- 
 tween his sentences, to the old woman, for whom 
 this was a moment of rare pleasure. 
 
 "This is the time to set the bees to swarming," 
 said Mere Fete-Dieu. " In my youth we used to 
 watch for them in the heat of the day, and as 
 soon as they had flown, it was I who ran the fast- 
 est after the swarm, clicking my sabots together 
 between my two hands; you should have seen 
 me! At Ascension time everything stirs; in the 
 air, in the water, and I may even say in men's 
 hearts." 
 
 "You may well say that," responded Maieul. 
 
 "Even the little beasts have a way of their own 
 of keeping the feast of our Lord's ascension to 
 paradise. They do it better than many a Chris- 
 tian!" And so saying the good woman cast a 
 little glance at the slate-cutter, who laughed as 
 she proceeded: 
 
 "And so Monsieur Maieul will be setting his 
 lines in the pond of La Grenadiere?" 
 
 "No, Mere Fete-Dieu." 
 
 "In the Authion, then? No? As far as the 
 Loire? Oh! it's many a long day since my good- 
 man used to go and set his, on the eve of Ascen- 
 sion Day, where the brook of Belle-Poule flows 
 into the river." 
 
 "You've not hit it yet, mother. I am not out
 
 17G DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 with my lines, that will come later. I am out 
 with my gun to-night." 
 
 At the same moment he gave a significant nod 
 toward little Jeannie, who was still tilting back 
 and forward in her chair. 
 
 The grandmother spoke at once. " Jeannie, my 
 pretty one, will you go just for a moment or two 
 up the hill and see if the neighbours are in bed yet?" 
 
 The child rose with a sulky air and began as- 
 cending the little paved path that led up the hill. 
 "You don't want me to hear what you are going 
 to say," she muttered, "but if you think I can't 
 guess!" 
 
 "Run along! run along! Did ever one see such 
 a rogue! The truth is, Monsieur Maieul, that 
 she's far sharper than I if she can guess what you 
 want to tell me." 
 
 "The httle maids begin to be sly at her age, 
 Mere Fete-Dieu." 
 
 "They are not dull, it is true. She is a good 
 child, with no mischief in her, only a few little 
 airs; such a short while ago she was as simple as 
 a little lamb or a young chick, and now she is 
 more like a lapwing with a new crest! What 
 was it you were going to tell me?" 
 
 "Mere Fete-Dieu, I want to shoot a hare to 
 send as a present to Mademoiselle Birot, the as- 
 sistant teacher here! It's easy enough to shoot 
 the hare, but when it's shot, how am I to get her 
 to accept it?" 
 
 "She will never accept it in the world!" 
 
 "Ah, you feel as I do! You think her a young 
 lady?"
 
 DAVID]i]EBIROT 177 
 
 "Better than that, Maieul Jacquet; she is a 
 girl of a high spirit. Ah, look here! Is it about 
 her you have come to speak to me?" 
 
 "Yes, it is." 
 
 "Oh, my poor lad!" And, so saying, the old 
 woman clasped her hands over her many wrap- 
 pings, as if to quiet the beating of her heart. 
 Then she was silent for a long minute, and the 
 world about her kept silence too. There were 
 stars in the sky that appeared to be listening, and 
 Jeannie listened behind the fringe of broom. 
 
 " Maieul, it is a good thing, all the same, if you 
 are off with that other!" 
 
 He made no reply, but sat as one who is hear- 
 ing his sentence pronounced, with eyes fixed and 
 lips parted. What had she still to say — she who 
 had the right to judge, being so near the boundary 
 of this life and already above it? 
 
 "You have siimed, Maieul, and given a bad 
 example to others." 
 
 "That is true, mother." 
 
 "It may be that God will pardon you, when 
 you ask him, but she, this Davidee, who is only a 
 woman, will she pardon?" 
 
 " I had not known her, and besides. Mere Fete- 
 Dieu, I am young, you know, and weak — and 
 that other is like a fate, one can't escape her." 
 
 "That is always easy to say. Do you re- 
 nounce her in your heart, that Phrosine?" 
 
 "I don't renounce her. No one could do that 
 but a sort of saint. I can only say that all is 
 over." 
 
 "Because you have left her?"
 
 178 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 ''No." 
 
 "Merely because she has gone away? Oh, 
 my poor boy, you are young indeed! What if 
 she were to come back? Our poor human hearts 
 are so weak!" 
 
 "No, Mere Fete-Dieu; there is the dead child 
 between us. I see her ever}' night." 
 
 "Little Anna, yes, yes! I see her too, with 
 that look of hers which was beyond her years." 
 
 "Don't speak of her! She is my regret. I 
 tell you that it's over forever." 
 
 "So be it! Listen, Maieul, it is a sacred thing 
 what one says to a young girl who has kept her 
 heart pure, like that one at the school." 
 
 "So I think. Mere Fete-Dieu." 
 
 "She is pure-hearted; that can be guessed. 
 There is the promise of great goodness in her; 
 that can be read in her eyes." 
 
 The man added very low as if dreaming: 
 
 "And in her hands too!" 
 
 The old woman gave a short laugh, for she 
 could not understand how any one could admire 
 a hand. She thought this Maieul very deep in 
 love, and something tender and maternal in her 
 urged her to praise Davidee still more and to as- 
 sure herself that the young man meant honestly. 
 
 "I have known several of her profession here 
 in Ardesie, but not one who could hold a candle 
 to her. She is so good, too, in the words she 
 knows how to invent; to one, one thing, and to 
 another something quite different!" 
 
 "Yes, even when she's scolding you; I know 
 something about that."
 
 DAVID:eE BIROT 179 
 
 "Yes, there's a something in her voice and her 
 air which makes those who have seen her enter 
 their home regret her when she goes." And the 
 poor old woman shook her aching head slowly 
 from side to side. 
 
 "You would like to have her friendship, would 
 you?" she went on. "Well, you are not worthy 
 of it." 
 
 "I had thought of that before you said it." 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 "I can become so," he said proudly. But she 
 made no reply. 
 
 " Don't you believe that I can become so. Mere 
 Fete-Dieu?" 
 
 He bent his ardent gaze upon her as he spoke; 
 he had half risen and she saw the pupils of his 
 eyes quiver in the midst of their light blue iris. 
 A sigh of the wind was wafted down the hollow 
 and stirred the young leaves on the trellis, which 
 rustled against the wall, while the old woman, 
 her hands trembling with the inward dread she 
 felt at what she was about to say, reflected for 
 a moment longer. Then she spoke gravely: 
 
 "I think it would require a good many things." 
 
 "I will do them all. I have even thought of 
 several already." 
 
 An observer might have fancied that Maieul 
 had just been asking for Davidee's hand, and 
 that she had not positively refused him. He had 
 risen, and all his youth glowed in his face. And 
 yet the woman who had spoken was merely a 
 stranger, with no rights in the matter; who had 
 only seen for one short hour out of her whole life
 
 180 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 the girl whom she was defending thus. The very 
 old have sometimes this mysterious authority. 
 At this moment a clear distinct voice reached 
 them: 
 
 " Grandmamma, they are all going to sleep. I 
 am back again!" and a sound like the scamper- 
 ing of a young doe rang along the hollow mound, 
 as, bounding over the tufts of broom and heather, 
 Jeannie reappeared in sight. 
 
 "I cannot tell you what I shall do," pursued 
 Maieul. "I have more than one plan which I 
 mean to carry out by myself, without aid or coun- 
 sel from any one, because it is my own idea. You 
 will see! For to-night, if I should catch a hare, 
 have you any one who can do my errand for 
 me?" The old woman pointed toward Jeannie 
 who was approaching, stepping now with pre- 
 caution, in the hope of overhearing the end of 
 the conversation. Her grandmother's gesture 
 signified that Jeannie would be ready to do his 
 errand and, to show that she had a basket, the 
 old woman's shaking hand formed in the air the 
 rounded curve of the handle. 
 
 ''Yes, yes, it's understood," the child cried; 
 ''I have a basket, but Monsieur Maieul will have 
 to fill it. Where shall I carry your game?" 
 
 "Hush, my child, you shall know presently. 
 The gendarmes may be making their rounds. 
 It's as well not to mention names." 
 
 Jeannie laughed below her breath at this poor 
 pretext. Her grandmother made an effort to 
 rise and go back to her bed, but Maieul cried: 
 
 "Lean on me; my arm is strong." And having
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 181 
 
 led her inside the house, he soon emerged alone, 
 passing lightly and rapidly along the bank with- 
 out a sound. For greater precaution on leaving 
 his room at nightfall, he had put a pair of sandals 
 on. From out of a clump of heather, on the 
 edge of the path winding around the mound, 
 he picked up his gun, an old-fashioned fowling- 
 piece, long and slender, with a single barrel, which 
 had long served one or more slate-cutters of 
 Trelaze, before becoming the property of Maieul 
 Rit-Dur for the sum of twenty francs. 
 
 He turned sharply to the left and, skirting a 
 woody plateau above the pit of La Gravelle, to 
 avoid a sleeping farm-house, he descended into 
 a triangular meadow, the point of which was 
 held, as in a \dce, between the last rocks of an 
 old quarry and the embankment, rising black in 
 the darkness, of the Orleans Railway. Maieul 
 climbed with some difficulty through dense thick- 
 ets and over high banks, until, having crossed 
 the railway tracks, he found himself in the open 
 country where he was entirely at home. 
 
 The fields, surrounded by lines of trees and 
 hedge-rows, sloped upward toward the north. It 
 was in that direction that the young man was 
 bound, as leaving on his right the village of St. 
 Barthelemy and crossing the highway, he soon 
 struck into a densely wooded region which grew 
 constantly wilder and more lonely, and where 
 he was sure that a gunshot would not arouse any 
 watch-dog nor a farm-hand jealous of an intruder 
 poaching on his preserves. 
 
 Dense forests once clothed this deep soil, pierced
 
 182 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 by veins of clay and iron, where the oaks swell 
 with sap, and ferns, mosses, and mulleins spring 
 up in their shadow and preserve the moisture 
 round their roots. The woods which form the 
 parks of Pignerolle and La Marmitiere are sur- 
 vivals of this primeval forest; they must formerly 
 have been connected with the woods of Echar- 
 bot, and between these two belts of woodland, 
 like a peninsula between tilled lands, stretch 
 the birchen copses of Bouleaux. As Maieul was 
 skirting these copses, partridges, hidden in the 
 stubble, flew across his path. He perceived in 
 the distance the great farm of Haye-le-Roy, and 
 finally sprang down into the road which passes 
 behind this farm, and forks, at the extremity of 
 the woodland, into several branch roads of equal 
 antiquity, contemporary with the oldest cathe- 
 drals in France, and which go their way like wind- 
 ing streams across these solitudes. 
 
 Are they hollow ways, these ancient roads? 
 No, they have no side banks, but are rather like 
 avenues connecting peasants' houses, long dis- 
 tances apart. Lofty trees, oaks especially, abound 
 along their edges; they have never been levelled 
 and are grass-grown, being less often trodden 
 by the feet of men than by those of animals, such 
 as flocks of sheep and cattle, which, ha\dng ex- 
 hausted their pasturage, are making their way to 
 new meadows, stray dogs bent on marauding ex- 
 peditions, and game of every kind. It was here, 
 at this crossing of the ways, that Maieul knew 
 an excellent hiding-place where he could lie in 
 wait; this was the inside of a hollow stump, the
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 183 
 
 opening of which was just wide enough for a man to 
 slip in and keep himself half hidden, to one side. 
 Bushes rose around it, completing the shelter with- 
 out masking the view. Before climbing the bank 
 and gaining his post of observation, the young 
 man plucked a sprig of holly from a hedge and 
 stuck it upright in an open spot where the grass 
 was cropped close, near the centre of the road. 
 Then he slipped into his hiding-place, loaded his 
 fowling-piece, and waited. 
 
 He began to recall words which Mere Fete- 
 Dieu had spoken to him; one sentence above all 
 came back to him in the solitude and darkness: 
 "I think many things would be required for that!" 
 Poor fellow, he had invented a very singular proof 
 of affection ; a strange token to offer her of whom he 
 was afraid and whose gentle hands he so loved. 
 He shrugged his shoulders involuntarily as he 
 thought of the contrast between her and a poacher 
 such as he, in hiding on the outskirts of the copse 
 of Bouleaux on Ascension night. "What a fool 
 I must be!" he thought. "With her it is neces- 
 sary to know how to talk, and that I dare not. 
 I only know how to make songs, and I have no 
 heart to sing them now. She has already passed 
 judgment on me. She despises me because I 
 lived with Phrosine. She is right. It is not the 
 gift of a hare which will change her toward me. 
 I was indeed a fool to come, I was better off under 
 the roof of La Gravelle." And yet he did not issue 
 from his hiding-place, and took care not to move 
 the barrel of his gun; he had already denied him- 
 self the pleasure of smoking, by the simple device
 
 184 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 of leaving his tobacco at home. Suddenly a long 
 black shape bounded noiselessly along the grassy 
 road. The leaves about him quivered, as he instinc- 
 tively lowered his weapon, but he raised it again 
 immediately, sure that the flying shape could only 
 have been a watch-dog from one of the farms, one 
 of that dangerous sort which pursues its prey in 
 silence. A sudden rebound of bent brambles and 
 a noise of twigs lashing the air without visible 
 cause, showed Maieul that the dog had hurled 
 himself into the wood and started the game. "I 
 might as well be off," he thought; "my chance 
 of sport is over!" But the slight noise died away; 
 not a breath of air stirred. The night was grow- 
 ing cooler; the grass was heavy with dew-drops; 
 he could discern, a short distance away, the out- 
 line of field and hedge-row like two shadows of 
 differing values, the one densely black, the other 
 gray and without the slightest gloss. Beyond 
 the road was a Hghter line where the dew was 
 lying, or the grass had been worn away by passing 
 feet. But the sky above gleamed like a night-lamp. 
 High up in the zenith a veil of diffused light 
 seemed to hang beneath the stars, transparent 
 as water lying in the hollows of the sand when 
 the tide is low. This light was leading the pass- 
 ing day into the coming dawn; it cast no deep 
 shadows like the moon; it was not the aurora; 
 but its radiance dominated the land, from west 
 to east, and paled the stars. All nature was 
 sleeping; it was that hour without fear, the mid- 
 hour of the brief summer night. 
 
 Maieul, who had been peering at the sky be-
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 185 
 
 tween the branches, on lowering his eyes toward 
 that part of the road which was enveloped in 
 mist, saw emerging from it a Httle shadow, which 
 made one bound, then stopped. He softly raised 
 the barrel of his gun, and as he did so, the hare 
 lifted its head and pricked up its ears; then, re- 
 assured by the stillness, took three more leaps to 
 the summit of a little green mound, where it sat 
 erect with its fore paws as stiff as rods, amazed 
 at encountering that unknown tuft of holly 
 which Maieul had planted there. And as it 
 paused, a sudden flash rent the night air. The 
 shot resounded as far as the woods of L'Hopital, 
 where it was deadened by the foliage, and up to 
 the farm of Haut-Moulinet, at the top of the 
 hill, where it was lost in the distance. Maieul 
 Jacquet, with limbs stiffened by the cool night 
 air and his motionless watch, descended the bank 
 slowly and, having scanned the road to right and 
 left, came out mto the open. The hare lay on 
 its side with its nose against the spray of holly; 
 its white breast, touching the grass, still stirred 
 with a faint breath. Maieul, with one turn of 
 his hand, drew the four paws together and lifted 
 the httle creature, head downward, its supple 
 body swinging at each step as he walked away. 
 By two o'clock in the morning the young quar- 
 ryman was back at La Gravelle, having met no 
 one on his way, save at the entrance of a wood- 
 road, where he caught sight of a doubtful shadow 
 resembling the form of a seated man which 
 dropped suddenly into the ditch. 
 
 At eight in the morning, as the sun rose high, 
 little Jeannie climbed the steep pitch behind her
 
 186 davidE:e birot 
 
 grandmother's house which led to the summit of 
 the broom-clad mound. She looked more serious 
 than usual. On her arm — instead of the small 
 black satchel in which she usually carried her 
 lunch, consisting of a sandwich, a couple of apples 
 or a handful of cherries — hung a huge and heavy- 
 basket; one of those wicker baskets, without a 
 cover, in which the peasants gather potatoes. It 
 was full of clover and lucern which dangled over 
 the edges. Jeannie hastened her steps and had 
 already reached the high-road and passed the 
 church when a school-mate called out to her: 
 
 " Where are you going so fast? It is not school- 
 time yet." 
 
 "But I am in a hurry." 
 
 " What are you carrying there?" 
 
 "Grass and clover for the rabbits." 
 
 She went so fast that her little mates had not 
 time to slip on their sabots and hurry after her, 
 before she was out of sight. She was as red 
 as her clover blossoms before reaching the play- 
 ground, where only three little girls had arrived 
 before her. All three rushed up to her with hands 
 out-stretched, crying: 
 
 "What are you bringing to the demoiselles? 
 Let me see!" 
 
 With a half turn of her shoulder which brought 
 her basket round in front, so that they could not 
 peep into it, Jeannie hurried on. She nearly ran 
 into Mile. Renee who was standing in the middle 
 of the yard, looking amused and amiable and a 
 little curious; and who, quite sure of her power, 
 cried out: 
 
 "Come, child, show me the basket!"
 
 DAVIDfiE BIROT 187 
 
 The little one turned on her heel, shaking her 
 head vigorously, and ran toward the porch. "It 
 is not for you," she cried, with the tears start- 
 ing to her eyes. 
 
 And now she is calling in the corridor, calling 
 with all her might for Mile. Davidee, whom she 
 does not yet see. She is there, however, half- 
 way down the stairs, fresh and bright, fastening 
 her bodice as she descends. 
 
 "You need not call so loud, dear child; the 
 house is not ten stories high. One would think 
 you were a chickweed seller. What have you 
 there?" 
 
 "A present for you, Mademoiselle!" 
 
 "Who sent it?" 
 
 "I am not to tell." 
 
 "Let me see too," said the blond Mile. Renee, 
 suddenly entering the room. "It seems that it 
 is not for me, but I suppose you have no secrets, 
 Mademoiselle." 
 
 The assistant shook her head to signify "no 
 secrets whatever." Jeannie looked from one 
 teacher to the other, blushed a deeper red, then 
 set down the basket on the table, from which 
 Mile. Renee hastily slipped off the blue-braided 
 cover, and all three stood, with the basket before 
 them, appearing equally embarrassed. 
 
 "You might venture to open it, Mademoiselle, 
 since it is for you," said the elder one; "the school 
 bell will soon ring." 
 
 With the tips of her fingers, as if she were 
 turning over the pages of a book, Davidee tossed 
 aside the sprays of lucern and clover, reveahng
 
 188 DAVIDSEBIROT 
 
 tufts of white hair, a drop of blood, then a ghmpse 
 of tawny hairs. There w^as no longer any doubt, 
 both had guessed who the poacher was. Da\adee 
 turned pale and bit her lips. 
 
 Mile. Renee laughed below her breath, mur- 
 muring, "Very pretty! Yery pretty, indeed!" 
 
 "It's a handsome hare, isn't it, Mademoiselle?" 
 said Jeannie, who had recovered her spirits. "It 
 was grandmamma who arranged him in the bas- 
 ket, but I picked all the clover." 
 
 Mile. Renee, taking infinite precautions to 
 avoid blood-stains, and spreading out her fingers 
 like a rake, uncovered the hare completely. She 
 was quivering with mahcious triumph, but on 
 account of the child, she contrived to modulate 
 her voice to an amiable pitch as she said: 
 
 "I congratulate you, Mademoiselle Davidee. 
 You are the object of attentions which leave no 
 doubt as to the sentiments you inspire, and doubt- 
 less share." 
 
 "I beg of you " 
 
 "But why not? Nothing could be more hon- 
 ourable, only this happens not to be the open 
 season for game; so I must ask you to have your 
 little feast cooked elsewhere, will you not? Being 
 a state servant, I have not the right — Listen to 
 me, Jeannie! Do not breathe this, nor tell any 
 one what you have been doing. Do not speak of 
 what you had in the basket, nor mention the 
 name of the — gentleman." 
 
 Jeannie raised both hands with palms upward. 
 
 "Oh, no. Mademoiselle!" 
 
 Davidee, who did not choose to reply to Mile.
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 189 
 
 Renee's sneers, took a five-franc piece from her 
 purse and put it into the child's hands. It was 
 evident that her mind was firmly made up. 
 
 "Here, little one," she said, "you may give 
 this to the person who sent you." 
 
 Jeannie, being a rustic, understood the full 
 gravity of this affront: to pay any one who has 
 made you a present! She hesitated and did not 
 even venture to close her fingers over the silver 
 piece. 
 
 "Do as I tell you, and go straight into school." 
 
 The child raised her skirt and let the five-franc 
 piece sKp into a black pocket she wore under- 
 neath, then hurried away. The two mistresses 
 passed out behind her, Davidee, who came last, 
 locking the door and taking out the key. 
 
 From the Green Diary. — "I can no longer 
 doubt that Maieul Jacquet has raised his eyes 
 to me. The thought made me shudder this 
 morning. I felt insulted by this love which does 
 not even choose at first, and then chooses far too 
 suddenly. It is not his being a workman that 
 shames me, nor his lack of culture. I see too 
 plainly what the other sort are often worth. But 
 I am not a Phrosine. I am not moved by ha\ang 
 compliments paid me or presents like this offered 
 me. What could he have thought? How could 
 he believe that I would accept his gift? And 
 what recklessness! In a village hke this where 
 scandal is the only news! Jeannie, I am sure, 
 has not spoken of the errand she was sent on; 
 Mile. Renee has said nothing; Mere Fete-Dieu
 
 190 DAVIDfiE BIROT 
 
 receives no visits, and yet the whole village, or 
 cluster of villages, will be entertaining them- 
 selves to-night with the story of the slate-cutter's 
 game; and my name will be pronounced. Words 
 and plans and adventures wall be attributed to 
 me such as will fully justify Mile. Renee's ill- 
 treatment, in spite of her having nothing she can 
 truly reproach me with. The answer I have made 
 has irritated this young man who was so self- 
 confident. This is not a suspicion on my part; 
 I am sure of it. At six o'clock, the hour when 
 the men go home from the quarry, we were sit- 
 ting. Mile. Renee and I, in the parlour, not for the 
 pleasure of each other's society, but to correct 
 papers together — or rather I was helping her to 
 correct her older girls' themes, for I try to give 
 her reasons for not detesting me. As it was very 
 warm, we had left the windows open, but had 
 shut the door on the road. I had shut it myself. 
 Suddenly we heard a sharp sound, and a pane of 
 glass was shattered to atoms. I sprang up, cry- 
 ing: 'This is frightful, they are throwing stones 
 at us!' But the directress took me by the arm 
 and pointed out an object which had rolled along 
 the floor and hit the wainscot. 'No, Mademoi- 
 selle; it is 3^our five-franc piece come back to you,' 
 she cried. 'You have a very polite admirer.' I 
 could not refrain from replying: 'At any rate, 
 he has a certain sense of honour about him; I 
 have humiliated him and he refuses to submit 
 to it. I like him the better for that; as to the 
 rest, you know that Monsieur Maieul Jacquet 
 is nothing to me, absolutely nothing. I have
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 191 
 
 not the power, unfortunately, to prevent people 
 from paying me unwelcome attentions or from 
 persecuting me.' 
 
 "'And what would you do if you had that 
 power?' 
 
 "'I should beg them all not to trouble them- 
 selves about me, and to leave your assistant in 
 peace.' 
 
 "Yes, that is what I answered, and yet I think, 
 in spite of myself, of that poor Maieul and the 
 pain I have given him. I was obliged to do it, 
 I could not help myself. But what of him who 
 had passed the night out-of-doors, lying in wait 
 for his hare; who had thought of me, uttering 
 my name in his heart, hoping I know not what; 
 perhaps a little beginning of friendship, perhaps 
 less, merely a little confidence in him. And I 
 have made him suffer! Why is it so hard for me 
 to feel this? I am sure that of us two, it is I who 
 suffer the most, I who do not care for him. How 
 absurd it is! When shall I cure myself of this 
 excess of feehng? The cloud has passed and still 
 the rain is falling. Oh, heart that loves to weep !"
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 TROUBLED SOULS. 
 
 From the Green Diary. — ''June 6, Trinity Sunday. 
 I could no longer endure that life of perpetual 
 hostility. We had a little hoHday at Whitsun- 
 tide and I ran away to spend it at home. My 
 brother was there. He was full of complaints 
 of the ill-temper of his chiefs, and of the injus- 
 tices he has had to endure at their hands. My 
 mother lamented the solitude in which she had 
 lived for months and in which she would have 
 to live once more after we had left her. She com- 
 plained also of my father, who now passes half 
 of his days at the tavern. He was complaining 
 of his health, which is, I fear, greatly undermined, 
 and of his political friends who are relaxing their 
 attentions toward him, and, what my father 
 cannot pardon, no longer stand in fear of him, 
 now that their former master is growing old. I 
 should have liked to bring my troubles too, into 
 that fine new house which is so far from gay; 
 fainthearted grumbling is so natural to all of 
 us. But no, I found myself a child again. I 
 forgot every^thing that had come since. I was 
 the one they all turned to. 'Won't you come to 
 walk with me?' said one. 'No, stay at home with 
 me/ said the other. 'Look at me, console me, 
 
 192
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 193 
 
 will you not? or at least sit beside me while I 
 work, even if you say nothing!' So I taxed all 
 my energies to keep peace and tranquillity among 
 these weary, dissatisfied souls. They all long des- 
 perately for happiness, but do not know where 
 to look for it. This made me think deeply. I 
 was their happiness once, but for how short a 
 time, and with what effort on my part! How 
 sure I felt that I could not long fill that role which 
 required more strength and greater reserve power 
 than I have. I felt myself so poor for such an 
 arduous life, requiring a constant giving out of 
 oneself. The ardour and the impulse are there 
 and the will, but it is soon exhausted, and when it 
 is not weariness that conquers, it is the clear, too 
 clear, sense of how poor a thing I am. I can 
 make myself loved, but to induce my Httle folk 
 or others to do as I wish, through love for me, is 
 not to guide them! Whenever I have won the 
 race against egotism, dulness, moral apathy 
 among those I have lived with, there or here, I 
 have won it by maintaining noble truths which 
 I could not support by reasoning, but which were 
 instinctive in my soul, or implanted there I know 
 not how. 
 
 "To-day the Ardesie children communed, or 
 renewed their communion. I was present at 
 the ceremony, seated in the background with the 
 parents, and on their account. I saw my chil- 
 dren, the very^ smallest ones of ten or less, com- 
 ing back with clasped hands, and downcast eyes 
 filled with a joy which we cannot give them, and 
 which has no resemblance to that we can give.
 
 194 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 Not all of them wore this look of ecstasy, of bodies 
 which are mere shells over the flame of their 
 adoration, shades above a lighted lamp, but it 
 was the greater number. I was deeply moved. 
 'Cathohcs!' I thought, 'you will soon have to 
 lower the communion table to the stature of these 
 little ones, whose Hps sometimes scarcely reached 
 above the white cloth, while the priest had to 
 bend very low. If I were one of you, how beau- 
 tiful this would seem to me; to lower all barriers, 
 to multiply the divine visits, to pour love into 
 the prison-house newly built and still undefiled!' 
 
 ''I thought: 'There is an undeniable relation 
 between these budding souls and the mystery 
 offered to their faith. They so weak, with such 
 wretched inheritances, who have meditated so 
 little and received so little religious teaching, have 
 to-day taken the same flight, and to what heights?' 
 
 "I thought: 'And I? What part have I in 
 that which raises them thus? I have not de- 
 stroyed faith like Barrentier, who cannot see a 
 crucifix without foaming; like Judemil, who 
 makes his pupils sing "To the gutter with 
 Christ!" hke some of my own colleagues, who 
 nourish a secret, dry, erudite hatred of reUgion. 
 No, I have not led my little ones astray, but 
 I have done nothing to help them to believe; I 
 have not led them into regions nearer to belief, 
 where I might have guided them; I have spoken 
 vain words. I feel myself a sower of empty seed 
 which cannot spring up in joy.' 
 
 "And yet these children love me because they 
 still have hope. They had been told that, like
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 195 
 
 all their teachers, I possess the secret of hap- 
 piness. They believe, they must believe, that 
 what I teach them suffices for their life. Their 
 mothers beheve it also, and their fathers and 
 some among my chiefs. Mile. Renee believes 
 it too, with her poor narrow mind, a garden shut 
 in by high walls. Oh, no, it all suffices merely 
 for the material commerce of life: I am not mak- 
 ing women. I have not caught the whole secret. 
 There is something else, which is the chief thing 
 of all, and which I have not grasped, either for 
 them or for myself, which I only divine. For 
 a long time I was fully persuaded that the name 
 of peace could be truly apphed to the state in 
 which I lived, absorbed in my professional duties, 
 living for my classes, a life of text-books and 
 manuals, with no thought of what it all leads to. 
 But I have been thrown, all at once, into the 
 conflict of good and evil; it is around me, press- 
 ing upon me, urging me to take sides, and I do 
 so ; but when the moment for action comes I real- 
 ize my poverty. JVIere Fete-Dieu is rich, some 
 of my children were evidently rich to-day, and I 
 am not like them. Phrosine, whom I feel to be 
 guilty, whom I see to be morally so destitute and 
 adrift, had only to remind me that my morahty 
 was founded on human conventions, for me to 
 be sure that she was in the right as against me, 
 but that we were both wrong in face of a higher 
 morality: that which has the right to command 
 this ever-rebellious world, that which can oppose 
 another power to our cruel and insatiable self- 
 love, that which alone can dare to speak of purity. 
 I have seen pure faces and the sight has troubled
 
 196 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 me. To be morally clean is so far, so very far, 
 from that marvel: perfect purity! 
 
 "I ask myself whether true happiness has not 
 its roots in this secret force? That would help 
 us to understand why it is so rare. And for me, 
 how can I protect mine? What shall I say to 
 Maieul Jacquet if he comes to offer me a real 
 love? I am not one of those — and I have 
 proved it! — who hardly wait for the end of the 
 first tender speech to answer: 'Yes.' But if I 
 sought to demand from him some proof of regret 
 for the past, something better than mere words, 
 what could I ask which would give me assur- 
 ance? Would he not still have his heart of yes- 
 terday, the heart he gave Phrosine? Where can 
 I find help outside myself, beyond that of the 
 eyes and cheeks and lips which will soon fade, I 
 who wish to be loved forever. I think of all this 
 and find no answer. 
 
 "Mile. Renee declares that I have compro- 
 mised myself. I believe that she would gladly 
 do the same. — No, I am like one who is on 
 the watch in a time of disquiet. I am like those 
 sailors' wives in Blandes who come out of their 
 houses and walk up and down the shore, tread- 
 ing the mussel shells with their bare feet, looking 
 up to the sky heavy with clouds and crying : ' And 
 yet it is dawn! What will become of us? There 
 is no daylight left ! What storm is about to burst? 
 AVhat gale will follow the storm?' 
 
 "On Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, as the 
 heat was intense and my throat was parched 
 by reading, dictation, and reprimands in the ex- 
 hausted air of the school-room, I walked home
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 197 
 
 with a group of children beyond the church, I even 
 went a Httle further and entered for the first time, 
 alone, the graveyard, where the Spanish-broom be- 
 side the gate was in bloom. I sat there, my back 
 against the low wall and my arms stretched out 
 along the warm stones. Anna's grave was just be- 
 fore me, like a tiny bit of stubble amid a wilder- 
 ness of tall grass, funeral crosses, and live-oaks. 
 I sat gazing at it quite alone. The one among my 
 little charges who lived farthest from school had 
 entered her mother's door and I had heard the 
 latch fall as it closed behind her; there was no 
 sound to warn me that any one was near, and 
 yet I felt certain that I was being watched. I 
 turned my head very shghtly, and there he stood, 
 just across the road. He was in his working 
 clothes, and bareheaded; even now I can see his 
 look of passionate reproach. He did not speak, 
 but when I turned back toward the little grave, 
 I could still feel his eyes fixed upon my hair and 
 upon my hands; then I heard the sound of his 
 retreating steps. The following day I descried 
 Maieul again on the farther side of the deep 
 green pool near the church, and on the next day 
 also. He was sitting on a rock with his feet 
 hanging over the water. He did not stir on my 
 approach, but his whole heart spoke to me. I 
 did not return that way. I believe that this 
 sombre, passionate Maieul has almost ceased to 
 work, and that it is on my account." 
 
 At the same hour that David^e was inscribing 
 these words in her diar}^, Maieul was returning
 
 198 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 from a working men's meeting at Tr^laze, where 
 he, with the others, had insulted and threatened 
 a foreman who had been accused of trampHng and 
 crushing to atoms several rows of slate piled up 
 outside the wind-break of one of the workmen. No 
 one knew positively who had committed this spite- 
 ful deed. At early dawn one of the mechanics, on 
 his way to the machine-shop, had passed the hut 
 and noticed the havoc which had been wrought 
 there in the night. There were no positive proofs 
 against any one, but this particular foreman was 
 detested because some five years before he had 
 openly trampled on several hundreds of slates 
 which he pronounced to be rotten, and which the 
 workman was obliged to replace. In the tena- 
 cious memory of the slate-cutters nothing is for- 
 gotten; the man was accused of this new misdeed 
 as a punishment for his former act. He denied 
 the charge. For two long hours he had stood with 
 his back to the wall in the long low hall where 
 two hundred of his comrades held him prisoner 
 striving to defend the position he had earned by 
 fifteen years' labour, and, with it, his daily bread, 
 his family, his right to reside among the blue vil- 
 lages where he had a garden and a little group of 
 friends, and which was endeared to him by habit. 
 Meanwhile the crowd facing him had not remained 
 seated ten minutes, but after listening to a few 
 brief words from the leader, who had first said: 
 "This is he!" they had risen, all together, and 
 formed themselves into a compact howhng mass, 
 bristling with uplifted hands, advancing and 
 receding hke waves beating upon their victim,
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 199 
 
 who stood on a chair, his arms crossed on his 
 breast; his mouth open, shrieking out words to 
 which no one hstened. A shower of blows rained 
 upon him, some stealthily, some directly, but he 
 made no attempt to return them, nor to hold 
 on his clothes which were dropping off him. The 
 buttons had been torn from his vest and his hairy 
 chest showed between the opening of his shirt. 
 His trousers were falling off his hips, his necktie 
 was gone, and rags of shirt-sleeves hung from his 
 shaking arms as he poured forth his hoarse cries: 
 "It was not I, cowards! it was not I!" After 
 two hours of this torture, as he had not yielded, 
 they decided to declare a strike in order to force 
 the slate company to dismiss this man who re- 
 fused to resign. He had then crawled out between 
 two lines of his tormentors, who struck at him as 
 he passed. Finally he had plunged into the night, 
 with the free air and open space before him, and 
 groping painfully along the wall with his hands, 
 he had passed down the street — a forlorn shape 
 recognized by the women at their windows where 
 they were watching wearily for the return of their 
 husbands — and seeing his bent, crushed, lamenta- 
 ble figure, they threw their windows open, leaned 
 out, and spat after him, crying, "Scab! Traitor!" 
 Maieul also was returning at this hour; he had 
 left the town behind, and was crossing the mounds, 
 where the scales of slate crackled under his feet 
 with a sound like the faint chirp of crickets. He 
 walked slowly, and when the full moon emerged 
 from clouds which looked heavy and hot as stones 
 in the glare of sunlight, his glance sought the
 
 200 davidEebirot 
 
 portal and roofs of the school-house, the class- 
 rooms extending along the road, and the gable 
 overlooking the neighbouring house on the left, 
 where Mile. Rente's room was. He thought of 
 the woman who had rejected his gift; he imag- 
 ined Davidee sleeping, as she must be at that 
 hour. An intensity of feeling, stronger than was 
 habitual with him, filled his soul this evening. 
 He was dissatisfied with himself. Toward the 
 end of the meeting, he had experienced a sensa- 
 tion deeper than pity when the foreman had 
 turned pale, and on that corpse-like face a few 
 drops of blood had trickled slowly, as if the 
 veins were wrung dry. At that moment he had 
 ceased to join in the cries; shame and remorse 
 had swelled within him. It was the memory of 
 his base and sluggish life which rose from the 
 turbid depths of his soul and overflowed it. " How 
 fine it is — what you are doing here!" he thought. 
 "You have joined two hundred men against this 
 one, and you have half murdered him; he has 
 but one thought and one cry left, and you look 
 on and see him suffer because you have not the 
 courage to kill him outright. What will-power 
 have you of your own? what energy? You make 
 no resistance when your mates call on you. They 
 say you have character; yes, because you are 
 quickly angered, but for what reasons do you 
 get angry oftenest? Are they creditable ones?" 
 And the thought of Davidee came to mingle with 
 his self-reproach over his past life. "You pre- 
 tend to be astonished when the demoiselle from 
 the school despises you. But she is right. What
 
 DAVIDfiEBIROT 201 
 
 are you beside her, Maieul ! you, who made love 
 to her servant? She has a heart hke httle Jeannie 
 Fete-Dieu's; it is proud, and you are not much 
 compared with her." Pausing in the great 
 bramble patch close to La Gravelle, Rit-Dur re- 
 flected first on what a worthless being he was; 
 then he thought how he felt for this woman — 
 who was not even from his part of the country — 
 a friendship so strong, so strong, that it roused a 
 fever in him. He saw, with the eyes of his love, 
 those dark eyes, that pale, firm face; he saw her 
 hands. If he had known how to put his dream 
 into words he would have said — and such ideas 
 did pass vaguely through his mind: "Your 
 hands take of themselves the gentle curves of 
 pity; when you clasp them together it is as if 
 they held a lighted lamp. Is it youth? Is it 
 goodness? Is it pardon which you hold in those 
 hands? I have never seen any others so dehcate 
 and white and touching." But as he was a very 
 simple fellow he found only one small thing to 
 say, and he said it over and over before the dis- 
 tant vision of the school-house roofs: "If I held 
 that hand in mine I should w^alk straight, very 
 straight." 
 
 The heat was penetrating; it filtered through the 
 blades of grass, and even the thistles drooped their 
 heads. There must have been a thunder-storm in 
 the distance, for in the south the flashes of light- 
 ning were frequent; but the sound died out be- 
 fore reaching where he stood, and all seemed to 
 sleep; and yet what passions were awake amid 
 that silent scene ! How many loves, hates, envies,
 
 202 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 ambitions! The suburbs of the town stretched 
 out their sparkHng Ughts into the night. When 
 Maieul had chmbed his outer staircase and had 
 paused at the top for one last look at the school, 
 a resolution which he had been turning over and 
 over in his mind began to rise to the surface. 
 He pushed the door open with his shoulder, re- 
 ceiving full in his face the icy air of the closed 
 room, lighted his spirit-lamp, opened the window, 
 and, amid the hum of gnats, began to compose 
 a letter to Davidee Birot.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MAIEUL'S SONG. 
 
 The letter was not long; it was as follows: 
 
 "Mademoiselle:— I should be very much hon- 
 oured by having a few words with you. I cannot 
 ask to see you at the school because the other 
 teacher would insult me. And yet I must see 
 you. There is one thing I might do, but I should 
 like, before venturing on it, to ask you if it will be 
 right. Mademoiselle, at one o'clock on Thurs- 
 day next, which will be the tenth of June, I shall 
 be crossing the hill near the pit of La Gravelle. 
 I shall have with me Jeannie Fete-Dieu and a 
 Breton woman who comes from near my old 
 home. If I could meet you there I should be 
 very happy. The pain of having displeased you 
 hes heavy on my heart. I am. Mademoiselle, 
 with respect, your servant, 
 
 "Maieul Jacquet." 
 
 "P. S. — There will probably be a strike on by 
 that time, but that will make no difference. When 
 I have said a thing I seldom fail to carry it out." 
 
 David^e received this letter by the morning 
 mail; she read it through twice — the first time 
 with a feeling of impatience, but on the second 
 
 203
 
 204 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 reading she reflected a little over the words: 
 "The pain of having displeased you lies heavy 
 on my heart." And she said to herself: "I will 
 
 go." 
 By Monday the strike had already begun; it 
 
 amounted to very little at first; the men gath- 
 ered in groups about the wells, cursing, threaten- 
 ing, and attempting to gain over the unskilled 
 and lower-paid men. 
 
 The slate-cutters, who are the higher-class 
 workmen, the aristocrats of the quarry, had all 
 quitted work. Their huts looked as dead as the 
 deserted tents of an army during manoeuvres. 
 The slate had ceased to grind under the knives; 
 the horses, amazed to find themselves standing 
 idle in their stalls, stretched their necks each 
 time the door opened, to see if some one was 
 coming to take down their harness with its blue 
 tassels, which was hanging over their heads, and 
 seemed to ask each other: "\\Tiat do you 
 want, old boy? See! the man hasn't touched 
 the harness ; he has only throwTi a handful of hay 
 into the manger, and is going out again. Feast 
 away, stuff yourself full, lazy-bones! There's 
 no more work for us." Meanwhile the pot- 
 houses were full; the topers, who at first had all 
 shouted at once, were now tired of talking and 
 of hearing others talk; above all, of guzzling, and 
 breathing in that wine-reeking atmosphere. They 
 now sat back against the wall, with their heads 
 sunk on their breasts and their eyes fixed in a 
 vacant stare upon the indefatigable orator who 
 was holding forth steadily without any need of
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 205 
 
 relays, his Adam's apple rising and falling like 
 a weaver's shuttle, his scanty beard wagging with 
 the flow of his eloquence. 
 
 At home, the housewives were far from con- 
 tent, knowing that there would be little money 
 on hand when pay-day next came round. They 
 kept mostly out of sight and tried to find com- 
 fort in scolding the children, or in hiding in some 
 safe nook any stray two-franc pieces they found 
 lying about too conspicuously. 
 
 If they were obhged to go out to dry their hus- 
 band's shirts in their small clothes yard paved 
 with slate, they turned an anxious ear in the 
 direction of the cafe. Was the noise growing 
 louder? What was that distant sound of shout- 
 ing from the well of La Fresnais. "Thank 
 Heaven, it is d}ing down again! Say, neighbour; 
 how do you like having a husband who won't 
 listen to a word of reason? As for me, it makes 
 my blood boil." 
 
 At the same moment a troop of handsome 
 girls were promenading the streets, blooming 
 young creatures, linked arm in arm, so that they 
 formed a chain across the road, not pausing, but 
 slackening their pace a little where the groups of 
 working men were densest. The tall girl in the 
 centre wore a red scarf round her white throat; 
 it was she whom the men were cheering, while 
 their wives at home listened anxiously. Did the 
 sound come from the well of La Fresnais? No, 
 the women had been deceived by the direction 
 of the wind. It was from the Plains — that quar- 
 ter where the town joins the country. Night
 
 206 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 was about to fall; the twittering of sparrows and 
 the uneasy cries of house-martins had superseded 
 the usual cheerful sounds of men returning from 
 their day's work. 
 
 The second day was as still as death until two 
 in the afternoon. The rain of the morning had 
 ceased. A procession had formed in the village 
 of Justice; one group, carrjdng a red flag, had 
 terrified the peaceable spectators at first, but was 
 soon augmented by a number of them who had 
 joined the thi'ong. Some carters had been met 
 at the outer limits of the quarries bringing in a 
 load of slate; they were surrounded and beaten, 
 the harnesses were cut and the horses let loose.   
 From far and near the rumour spread and terror 
 increased. The mothers began to look out anx- 
 iously for any child who had strayed from home. 
 The executive committees, which had been se- 
 cretly in existence for a long time, began to 
 emerge from the masses, who awaited their 
 orders and had only changed masters. Report- 
 ers had been seen in Ardesie, and even a gen- 
 darme! He was not a native, however, but a 
 harmless visitor, taking a holiday walk with his 
 wife. But on being greeted with scoffs and jibes 
 he began to understand the situation; his wife 
 was alarmed, but took pains to smile whenever 
 any one looked at her, always with the same 
 forced, dehberate smile to show that she was 
 not afraid. At nightfall a cartridge burst here, 
 another there; children awoke crying with fear. 
 All the men who would have liked to go on work- 
 ing were anxious for their homes. There were
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 207 
 
 strange noises in the darkness, a heavy tramp of 
 feet along the road; but it was not a martial tread. 
 The troops had not yet arrived; these men tramp- 
 ing by in the darkness were civihans. Within 
 the tightly closed and barred houses the old men 
 recognized voices outside and named the strik- 
 ers as they passed on their way to the meetings. 
 "Things are going from bad to worse," they said; 
 "these are the bellows that blow the fire; to- 
 morrow morning there will be troops in Ardesie." 
 
 And, in fact, on the morning of the third day, 
 there was a sprinkling of poppy-red among the 
 mounds: an infantry company was encamped on 
 the square and in the half-ruined storehouses 
 where, by night, owls chased the rats. 
 
 The reporters came to interrogate Mile. Renee, 
 and rang the bell of the school-house door during 
 lessons. Mile. Renee opened to them herself; 
 she was pale, but held firmly to her resolution 
 to tell nothing; to treat them as if they had come 
 on professional business. She knew nothing, ab- 
 solutely nothing, she said; "my duties have kept 
 me with my pupils." 
 
 Thereupon the reporters proceeded to inform 
 her that dragoons had been patrolhng the lines 
 of the Paris-Orleans Railroad, that soup distri- 
 butions had been going on since daybreak, that 
 funds were pouring in from Paris, from the north, 
 from the west. Then, when the newspaper men 
 were gone, it was the children's turn to relate 
 what they had heard at home. As soon as the 
 teacher re-entered the school-room, they all 
 raised their hands, as they were in the habit of
 
 208 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 doing when asked a question they could answer, 
 and the legend began to form. How was it pos- 
 sible to oppose it? How punish them for this 
 partisan spirit which the youngest have in their 
 blood? They all in turn hastened to contradict 
 or to confirm each other, to mingle with this 
 opening drama the voices of their homes. How 
 ardent they were already for or against the strike ! 
 How one could read their hearts! These inno- 
 cents said: "Yes, Mademoiselle, they have 
 sworn that if a single workman is hurt there will 
 be soldiers killed. The slate-cutters will join 
 hands; they will push the soldiers into the great 
 pits which no one ever comes out of ahve. It is 
 true. Mademoiselle; my father said so. On the 
 edge of the ancient pit near our house the earth 
 is all undermined, ready to sink into the pool 
 at the bottom. That is where they wdll push 
 them, and then they will throw stones; there 
 are plent}'- about — and bricks too! And there 
 are wires to trip up their horses if they march 
 on us — and dynamite bombs." 
 
 "And there are men too, who don't want harm 
 done to any one," repUes a fresh young voice, 
 \abrating with emotion. "My father voted for 
 the strike, like the comrades, but he says that if 
 they hurt a single soldier or even a gendarme, 
 he will beat the cowards." "Who are the cow- 
 ards?" "You!" Voices are raised in protest, 
 there are cries, then of a sudden all is still. The 
 soimd of horses' hoofs is heard under the win- 
 dows which open on the high-road. The chil- 
 dren stand upon the benches, they jostle each
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 209 
 
 other. Through the doors they can hear noises in 
 the adjoining room; there, too, they are cHmbing 
 on the tables. "Mademoiselle, it is the troops 
 going by. The dragoons! There are twenty, 
 thirty — no, thirty-two. The officer doesn't look 
 very pleasant. He has on a pretty uniform 
 though, and such a little moustache! Look at 
 the rider over yonder! He is from our way: 
 'Francis!'" And Francis has turned his head 
 and shown his white teeth, his hand on his horse's 
 crupper. 
 
 At noon the teachers had decided to give 
 the children their dimier at the school instead 
 of sending them home to their parents. "How 
 could one tell what might happen at such a 
 moment?" 
 
 Davidee, who was not afraid, went out with 
 one of the big girls to buy bread. They dined 
 as best they could; the afternoon lessons began 
 very late; what did it matter? The school had 
 become merely a place of refuge for the scholars. 
 At half past four the teachers led two bands of 
 little girls, one toward the right, the other to- 
 ward the left, for a hundred yards or so, and then 
 allowed them to disperse among the lanes and 
 by-paths between the mounds where, to the east, 
 men were still gathering in throngs. 
 
 The heat had become torrid. The assistant 
 mounted to an attic above Mile. Renee's room, 
 where there was a dormer-window commanding 
 a view of the country, whence she could see the 
 scarred blue earth, the workshops, the little 
 orchards nestling between the slate mounds, the
 
 210 davidEe birot 
 
 ruins of the old abandoned pits, and the tracks 
 which could be divined by the paler Hne of turf. 
 
 Piles of stacked muskets were gleaming on 
 the square of Ardesie, the foot-soldiers sleeping 
 beside them. An officer could be seen standing 
 on guard in the distance, his figure outlined 
 against the sky, which had the tint of hot ashes. 
 He was looking through his field-glass. Black 
 dots, which were slate-cutters in motion, isolated 
 or in groups, were \dsible mounting and descend- 
 ing the mounds in the direction in which the 
 oflicer had turned his glass. It was that first 
 week of June, when the grass in the mowing-lots 
 turns rose-red at the tips. The meadows lay 
 sleeping, ripe and warm, in the evening air. 
 
 Horny-handed lads whom the strike had turned 
 into loafers, were trampling down the tall grain, 
 careless of the harvest which was not for them. 
 They stooped now and then to pluck daisies for girls 
 who were in wait for them at the turnpike-gates. 
 
 At last the tenth of June arrived. It was a 
 Thursday and the feast of Corpus Christi. Luckily 
 the children had a hohday. Would they return 
 to school on the morrow? ^Yho could say? With- 
 out their fathers or mothers, without the reas- 
 suring tenderness of home, they would doubtless 
 be terrified by the great uproar filling the air, 
 the hoarse cries, the tinimpet calls, the hootings 
 which threaten some \'ictim — no one knows whom 
 — the imposing march of processions through the 
 hollow roads of Ardesie. None of these noises 
 proceeded from the immediate neighbourhood of 
 the school; but they broke out on all sides.
 
 DAVIDfiEBIROT 211 
 
 The school-house, with a few cottages around 
 it, formed a sort of island amid the rising tide. 
 Mile. Renee was keeping her room, under pretext 
 of a headache, and would not be down till the 
 mid-day breakfast. It was Davidee who went 
 out to fetch the milk; for the farmer's wife from 
 La Mouronnerie had not passed that morning, 
 seated in her little cart amid her tin cans, rais- 
 ing her hooded head and calling: "Fresh milk! 
 Fresh milk!" This was a bad sign. She must 
 have taken a shorter cut to town to avoid the 
 winding lanes among the quarries where the 
 strikers were in force. When the assistant pushed 
 open the gate of La Mouronnerie and entered 
 the court-yard, holding in her hand her well- 
 scoured earthen jug, she was roughly greeted by 
 the farmer's maid, who was badly frightened, 
 though she had not lost the ruddy hues which 
 glowed equally on her cheeks, her arms, and hands. 
 
 "Shut the gate closer than that, Ma'm'selle! 
 You must know that they have been firing around 
 here all night. No ? Did you sleep through it all ? " 
 
 "Yes, pretty nearly." 
 
 "Good Lord! What! with those bombs going 
 off, and the stones whizzing through the air? 
 Well, don't go to sleep now! They say that the 
 big fight is coming off this afternoon." 
 
 "Why are you trembling so, Mariette? Your 
 fright prevents your giving me good measure." 
 
 But the girl refused to smile. "You are new 
 to this business, Ma'm'selle," she said. "You 
 don't know yet that in a strike it is always the 
 women who weep."
 
 212 DAVID£EBIR0T 
 
 Davidee returned to the school more agitated 
 than she cared to show. She walked with meas- 
 ured steps and head cast down, apparently ab- 
 sorbed in contemplation of the white full-moon 
 of milk oscillating in her jug. But in reality 
 she was pondering intently over the rendez- 
 vous she had promised for the morrow. Was it 
 possible that at one o'clock she would be climb- 
 ing the high embankment overlooking the whole 
 wdde expanse of the slate country? To await 
 Maieul there would have been a daring act of 
 charity even a week ago, now it had become the 
 height of imprudence; and, after all, would it not 
 be a useless risk? JMaieul might not be free, 
 as by reason of his great physical strength, as 
 well as of the ascendency which he exercised over 
 his comrades, he was one who could not be spared 
 from the strikers' battahon. They would not 
 suffer him to go. 
 
 The young girl had reached the school-house 
 door when the thought of Mile. Renee, sick with 
 terror, brought a smile to her lips, and finally de- 
 cided her. "No," she said to herself, "I will 
 not miss this meeting. I have given m}^ prom- 
 ise, and Maieul w^ould never have written to me 
 "Without some serious reason. He may have a 
 service to ask of me. He may have received 
 tidings of Phrosine, which might be dangerous 
 for him, but will be so no longer when he has told 
 me. And even if he merely intends to renew 
 his declaration of the other day, and ex-press his 
 feelings toward me, I shall not regret ha\dng met 
 him, for I shall make him understand that I am
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 213 
 
 not like some women, that I can guard myself — 
 for whom I know not — ^perhaps for a life of 
 soHtude only, but a sohtude at least free from 
 remorse." She pushed open the Kttle chestnut- 
 wood door, framed in the great portal, and turn- 
 ing for a final glance over the expanse of stony, 
 desolate, blue-gray landscape around her, she 
 thought again: "What a strange destiny mine 
 is! I have been forced to take sides against a 
 pair of lovers and have made them my friends 
 by my very severity, or if they are not my friends, 
 I am their confidante, which is no less compro- 
 mising." 
 
 By half-past twelve, Davidee, having washed 
 the breakfast dishes and set them away on the 
 closet shelves, had gone up to her room to put on 
 a straw-hat, her last summer's hat newly trimmed, 
 which looked like an inverted harebell. She was 
 on her way downstairs when she came face to 
 face with Mile. Renee looking doleful and dishev- 
 elled, and holding a cup of tea in her hand. 
 
 "You are going out, Mademoiselle?" she cried. 
 
 "Yes, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "I thought I heard you in your room and 
 wished to make sure. You are actually going 
 out into the midst of a strike?" 
 
 "I wish to see it nearer." 
 
 "And wearing that white hat!" 
 
 "I have no red one." 
 
 "It is simple madness." 
 
 The tone was so tragic that Davidee could 
 hardly refrain from laughing outright. But the 
 inclination left her when she had once more closed
 
 214 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 the school-house door, and was fairly on her way 
 to the rendezvous. She turned at first toward 
 Trelaz^, then having crossed the square of Ar- 
 desiC; which was occupied by a detachment of 
 troopS; she bore to the left, and choosing the 
 short cuts through the quarries, which the strik- 
 ers used, she had soon reached the region of steep, 
 abandoned mounds. Thus far she had encoun- 
 tered only a few workmen, placed as pickets 
 outside the workshops, a group of women here 
 and there, and a couple of children — for them 
 there was no strike — picking Easter daisies at 
 the foot of the hill. Now there was no longer 
 a being in sight and she was alone on the high 
 plateau, overgrown with gorse and thorn-trees, 
 whose seams and furrows were filled with water 
 from the long-abandoned quarries, and from 
 whose heights the new slate works were visible. 
 Here was the abandoned pit of La Gravelle, with 
 its deep sombre pool, and beyond it rose the 
 sparsely grown woodland to which Maieul had 
 referred in his letter, saying: "At one o'clock 
 I will be in the thicket of La Gravelle." 
 
 Da\ddee had cUmbed so rapidly that it still 
 lacked ten minutes of the appointed hour. She 
 entered the grove, and approaching its further 
 edge, she peered out between the bare boughs. 
 Everywhere before her and beneath her lay 
 stretched the barren lowlands with their work- 
 yards and wells, their ponderous machinery and 
 scattered houses; the whole busy, dusty, noisy 
 region which was to be the scene of the approach- 
 ing conflict.
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 215 
 
 Why had she met so few people on her way? 
 She knew the reason now. The thronging masses 
 were below her, beyond the valley, amid the 
 deserted work-yards and neglected piles of slate; 
 yonder where the slopes began to rise again, and 
 where blue-gray walls and roads, and masses 
 of debris surromided the gaunt scaffolding of the 
 quarry wells. Above the valley rose a confused 
 murmur which spread over the mounds and across 
 the fields; no words could be distinguished; the 
 air carried only a jumble of discordant notes and 
 disconnected fragments of speech which did not 
 blend. All at once a great cry arose and was 
 borne upward on the wind. Ah! this time they 
 have all shouted the same words. Davidee can 
 make out their meaning. "Down with Tremart! 
 Death to traitors!" It is impossible that Maieul 
 should be coming, he must be one of that dark 
 swarm, filling the road and besieging the enclos- 
 ure around the quarry mine. Assembled before 
 the door which opened each morning for the 
 day's work, but which is tightly barred now, 
 were the quarrymen, their wives, and a swarm 
 of children. This living mass was moved by 
 sudden impulses; it eddied hither and thither, 
 advanced, recoiled, scattered, and collected again 
 without any reason apparent to the on-looker. 
 Even with a field-glass Davidee could not have 
 recognized the faces, but she could recognize at- 
 titudes. There was Madeleine Bunat's father, 
 there was Guillemotte, whose daughter was in 
 the upper class, and those gigantic arms and 
 shoulders over there, which hide several others.
 
 216 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 and rise like one of the monumental stones at 
 the entrance to the works, must belong to Geboin 
 or Le Derf . On the further side of the wall, half- 
 way up the slope of the hill crowded by machine- 
 shops, a detachment of dragoons was drawn up, 
 motionless in their saddles, guarding the flight 
 of steps leading up to the works; further down, 
 the works were defended by squads of infantry; 
 officers dashed back and forth between them. 
 Ah! there was another cry. A handful of sol- 
 diers, making a ladder of each others' shoulders, 
 attempted to scale the wall; they fell back, a roar 
 deep and full of passion greeted their fall. Then 
 stones must have been flung at the troops; the 
 lines wavered, horses reared, a party of besiegers 
 filed along under the shelter of the wall, in search 
 of some weak spot in the long enclosure where 
 they could make their way into the shops. Davi- 
 dee followed them with her eyes, saying to her- 
 self: "Maieul must be somewhere in the midst 
 of that torrent." She saw in imagination the 
 carbines lowered, the first ranks of the assailants 
 fallmg, the others scaling the hill, and then flames; 
 a mighty colunrn of flame rising from the_ rafters 
 steeped in petroleum, and she shivered with ter- 
 ror at the picture she had conjured up. She was 
 amazed at the stohdity of the crowd opposite her, 
 on the further heights, who had apparently come 
 as lookers-on at a show; one would have supposed 
 that they had hired seats for the occasion. They 
 thronged the orchards bordering the road, where 
 they formed patches of bright colour; there were 
 women with gay parasols and summer hats, look-
 
 DAVIDfiEBIROT 217 
 
 ing as if a bed of gillyflowers had suddenly sprung 
 up on those far-away terraces. And above this 
 scene, high into the air, rose the gaunt scaffold- 
 ing of the quarry wells, with their cables, their 
 immense pulleys, the chambers containing the 
 windlasses, pumps, and dynamos; the wealth and 
 power, in short, against which this whole assault 
 is directed. The mob no longer cried "Down 
 with Tremart!" No petty new grievance could 
 have such power over them. This is the old 
 leaven which has always stirred the masses; the 
 revolt against masters, the rage to seize and to 
 destroy, the memory, perhaps, of a cruel word 
 spoken by a dead foreman to his workmen — all 
 of whom are now dead — the promise of new social 
 conditions and a new prosperity, a reversal of 
 the whole situation, the present system of equahty 
 destroyed for the exclusive benefit of the labour- 
 ing class. 
 
 Davidee, kneehng on the edge of the embank- 
 ment, leaning forward beyond the shelter of the 
 wood, exposed to wind and sun, suffered and 
 trembled and longed to throw herself between 
 the combatants. She reviewed hastily in her 
 mind the names of those she knew in that melee. 
 "My quarrymen are all mad with rage, the 
 fathers and brothers of my little ones are there. 
 If there might only be none killed among them, 
 or among the others in that throng! for though 
 my heart is more concerned for those I know, I 
 pity them all. Ah, there is a shot fired! An- 
 other! They were fired outside the gate of the 
 enclosure by some of the workmen. Now all
 
 218 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 are in wild movement, besiegers and besieged. 
 The scarlet trousers are advancing upon the black 
 mass which has grown enormously on the right 
 — and to the left. Ah! there the dragoons are 
 descending slowly with measured steps, for the 
 mob has burst into the workshops. An order 
 has been given: 'Draw sabres!' and the troops 
 charge on the trot upon the band which has 
 turned the wall and leaped into the enclosure. 
 They plunge into that howling mass which flings 
 itself upon them, which wounds, and is wounded. 
 Stones are flying, I can see them from here. The 
 workmen take refuge behind their wind-breaks; 
 they are overturning carts. Ah ! there are women 
 among them. A few years hence my old pupils 
 may be doing the like. They are driven back 
 and a cloud of dust has hidden them. There is 
 wild disorder in the crowd along the road and 
 amid the orchards — and it is the 'International' 
 with its assumed airs of a religion of humanity, 
 which presides over all these horrors! I can no 
 longer see what has happened, the dense clouds 
 of dust hide everything. But the infantry also 
 seem to have repulsed the assailants. The crowd 
 of spectators in the orchards are cheering. \Miom 
 are they cheering?" And in order to see more 
 clearly, Davidee rose and stood up on the outer 
 edge of the grove. What had happened? Pierc- 
 ing cries could be heard from the throng besieg- 
 ing the entrance-gates, and all faces were now 
 turned in the direction of the orchard slopes 
 and the valley, and of Davidee where she stood 
 watching.
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 219 
 
 II • 
 
 'What are they gazing at? Ah, there is a man 
 who breaks away from the black mass of the 
 strikers and starts down the road on a run ! Three 
 men are after him, four, five. They have caught 
 him? No, he has sprung into a field. They 
 are like a pack of hounds after their prey! He 
 dashes across the stubble with his pursuers at his 
 heels; he has gained on them; no, he is losing 
 ground. Unhappy wretch! It must be Tremart 
 whom they have discovered and who has made 
 a desperate effort to escape. He has reached a 
 hedge, he is caught in the thorns. There ! he has 
 fallen. The men have hurled themselves upon 
 him with their sticks raised. They are beating 
 him, they will kill him!" 
 
 At that moment the mob cries: "Rit-Dur! 
 Rit-Dur! Seize him!" It is no longer five men 
 who surround the fallen Maieul; it is at least 
 a hundred strikers who have poured down the 
 slope. The victim could no longer be distin- 
 guished from his assailants, for the whole throng 
 was in motion and the field was wrapt in a cloud 
 of dust. 
 
 Davidee had fled through the wood. She ran 
 as far as the fields of broom beyond, and thence 
 began to descend the slopes toward Ardesie, 
 avoiding the houses, in haste, and deadly pale. 
 
 Wild thoughts surged within her: "Is it pos- 
 sible? They have wounded Maieul, killed him, 
 perhaps? And I am the cause! I know it, I 
 feel it; he has not betrayed his comrades, no! 
 But he gave his promise to a village school- 
 teacher, saying: 'At one o'clock I will be in the
 
 220 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 wood of La Gravelle'; and he would not fail to 
 keep his word. I am the cause of it all. He is 
 like me, this Maieul, when he has promised no 
 obstacle can stop him. Who can give me news 
 of him? I cannot go about asking it, for they 
 are fighting in the streets, and the soldiers guard 
 the roads." 
 
 The tumult passed, as the storms of winter 
 pass, always, always! The girl reached the 
 school-house, sick with anxiety, and not wishing 
 to shut herself up in her chamber at the other 
 end of the house, she entered the lower class- 
 room, and, standing on a chair, supported herself 
 against the window railing. In that position 
 she could see the passers-by and ask news of 
 them. But the road was deserted, she could not 
 see the valley; she had before her only the strag- 
 gling hedge, the bare pastures, and the deserted 
 slate mounds. A cloud of dust was floating in 
 the air about the mine well which was out of 
 sight. Fighting must still be going on. At mo- 
 ments all the distant country beyond the line of 
 vision seemed shaken as by a tempest; she could 
 feel beneath her feet the trembling of the earth 
 under the gallop of horses and the flight of im- 
 mense throngs. She kept repeating to herself: 
 ''It was for me that he took such risks, that he 
 ran and fell!" All at once, beyond the houses 
 adjoining the school, Davidee caught a glimpse of 
 a woman timidly crossing the place, and called 
 to her. But the woman motioned back that she 
 was in haste and did not care to linger on her
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 221 
 
 way home. About four o'clock Mariette, the 
 dau-y-maid, passed, leading two cows from past- 
 ure and pricking them with a pitch-fork to make 
 them go faster. 
 
 "Are there any wounded, Mariette?" 
 
 "Yes, several." 
 
 "Are any dead?" 
 
 "So they say." 
 
 The girl had already passed the school when 
 she turned back to cry: 
 
 " I told you it was the women who weep ! Shut 
 your window ! Go in and pray, if you know how !" 
 She was angry, remembering that Davidee had 
 laughed at her that morning. A little later, an 
 ambulance passed on the trot, and the soldier 
 who was dri\dng the horse, seeing a pretty face 
 at the window, cracked his whip. 
 
 "Have you any news of a man named Maieul 
 Jacquet?" 
 
 The soldier merely shrugged his shoulders, 
 shouted "Gee," and lashed his horse instead of 
 cracking his whip in the air. 
 
 Then, as evening stole on, there came a calm. 
 The noise of voices, the distant sound of tumult 
 died away, though the dust continued to hang 
 over the distant prospect. Davidee reaHzed that 
 the combatants had gone quietly home to their 
 suppers. This is the sort of thing that happens 
 in civil risings before actual war has broken out. 
 She hastened out, and ran as far as the church, 
 which is but a short distance from the mounds 
 of La Gravelle; she entered a cottage near by 
 where the woman of the house was terrified at
 
 222 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 first by her entrance, but smiled on recognizing 
 her and asked pardon: 
 
 "I am lighting the fire to boil my soup, as you 
 see, Mademoiselle Davidee. I was not expecting 
 to see you. How flushed you are! Has there 
 been any disaster at your house?" 
 
 The assistant was ashamed at having shown 
 so much feeling. She turned toward the door 
 and, raising one arm above her head, rested her 
 hand against the wall and drew a long breath, 
 as children do when they have been playing on 
 the way home. "I have run too fast," she said; 
 "I am not brave enough. Tell me. Mere Jumele, 
 is it true that a man has been killed?" 
 
 "You mean Rit-Dur?" 
 
 "Yes, he was wounded, I know." 
 
 "So severely, my dear, that he was brought 
 home on a litter. His head was bloody and his 
 eyes closed, and he remained three hours with- 
 out opening them." 
 
 "What did the doctor say?" 
 
 "No doctor came." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "None was called! The quarrymen attend 
 to those matters among themselves. Maieul had 
 hardly regained consciousness when he asked to 
 speak, not to a doctor, mind you! but to the 
 strike-leaders; he said: 'I want justice done me. 
 They shall know why I threw up the game; I 
 was not betraying them. Am I a traitor?' That's 
 what he said." 
 
 "And what did the leaders do?" 
 
 "Two of them came. They held a council at
 
 DAVIDfiEBIROT 223 
 
 his house, you know, up there at the paviHon. 
 It seems they answered him: ^Rit-Dur, it is you 
 who are in the right.' But what other words 
 were spoken, nobody knows. Now he is in a 
 high fever, and the Breton grandmothers are 
 watching with him; no one knows whether he 
 will recover." 
 
 Mere Jumele, who had succeeded in kindling 
 her green fagots, now approached Davidee, and 
 having assured herself that there were no lis- 
 teners on the road outside, within earshot of her 
 whisper, said: 
 
 "For my part. Mademoiselle Davidee, I believe 
 it is some idea about a woman that has brought 
 that poor fellow to his ruin." 
 
 Davidee looked out toward the mound of La 
 Gravelle half lost in shadow, and at a star just 
 rising above its slope. 
 
 "There are women who ruin and women who 
 save," she answered. 
 
 And the housewife rejoined, as she went back 
 to her hearth: 
 
 "All the same, if I were in that woman's place 
 1 shouldn't feel easy." 
 
 Davidee did not feel easy as she walked back 
 through the ominous darkness. She slept badly. 
 Troops of strikers marched along the road sing- 
 ing. She had but one desire; for daylight to 
 come and bring news of Maieul. She said to 
 herself: "It is the suffering of others that changes 
 one. No, I am not the cause of it; no, I have 
 done him no wrong; no, I am not in love with 
 him; but since they have wounded him, my heart
 
 224 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 has been full of this Maieul and sick with pity 
 for him." 
 
 Three days passed : It was reported that he was 
 a httle better, and that he had been seen on 
 Sunday evening taking the air on his balcony. 
 But the women added: "He looks like a corpse 
 come to life." The stiike was not over, but was 
 dragging along, empty of the passion with which 
 it started. The processions of strikers and patrols 
 of troopers came into coUision less frequently. 
 Many of the strikers were at work in the hay-fields; 
 their wives no longer dared to ask for credit from 
 the bakers and sent their children in their place. 
 On the fourth day, just before noon, Davidee, 
 who had accompanied a party of pupils beyond 
 the church, because the mothers feared to let 
 them go alone, was returning along the familiar 
 road where there were only scattered houses on 
 one side. How many times she had tramped 
 this dusty route, how often her eyes had scanned 
 this dreary prospect of poor roofs and straggling 
 bushes! She no longer noticed them, but walked 
 along seeing nothing but her own thoughts. At 
 that moment she was thinking of the. dreary 
 expanse of summer weeks stretching before her, 
 when the heat sets one's blood on fire; of the 
 silence of the mornings, noons, and evenings, in 
 that school-house, between two teachers who 
 were enemies. The sun was scorching, and the 
 mud of former winters, ground to powder along 
 the road, was turning Davidee's skirts a dingy 
 gray. She almost gained the school when she 
 suddenly paused:
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 225 
 
 " Mademoiselle Davidee !" 
 
 The side of the road where there were no 
 houses was divided from the pastm-es and stony 
 stubble-fields by strips of hedge connected by a 
 rusty wire fence. It was from this direction 
 that the call came. Davidee recognized at once 
 the voice of Maieul Jacquet, and turned toward 
 him. He was standing a Httle below the road, 
 and was obliged to raise his head to see who 
 was approaching. Oh, that poor bruised and 
 scarred face, white with suffering! Those hol- 
 low eyes, from which his ardent youth seemed 
 to have vanished! His head was wrapped in 
 bandages and his working- jacket showed on one 
 shoulder a straggling, badly-mended darn, where 
 a wound had been. He was leaning with both 
 hands upon a stick. "I couldn't come that other 
 day. Mademoiselle Davidee. You must forgive 
 me!" he said. 
 
 "How they have wounded you!" 
 
 "Oh, yes, a little." 
 
 "They might have killed you." 
 
 "I don't bear them any grudge. They were 
 within their rights; they thought I had betrayed 
 them. But it is all made up between us. I 
 explained to them " 
 
 "What did you say? That you had an ap- 
 pointment with me?" 
 
 His face darkened at her suspicion, as he an- 
 swered: 
 
 "I spoke another's name, as you may think." 
 And they kept silence for a long moment, with 
 the thought of Phrosine between them. Then he 
 spoke again.
 
 226 DAVIDfiE BIROT 
 
 "I am leaving here on her account." 
 
 "You are going to join her?" 
 
 "Not I! Mademoiselle Davidee, do not turn 
 from me in anger as you are doing! Do not leave 
 me! Do not go back to school! I am wretched 
 enough as it is." These last words had the power 
 to arrest Davidee. She had already passed Maieul, 
 and her eyes were bent once more upon the school- 
 house and the daily duties awaiting her there. 
 
 "Say quickly what you have to say to me," 
 she answered. "They are looking for me." 
 
 "It is not so with me! No one is looking for 
 me, here, nor elsewhere. There where I am going 
 to the Combree region, a dozen leagues from here, 
 I know nobody. And yet it was I who begged 
 to be transferred to the quarry of La Foret. I 
 asked it, some time before the strike, because 
 I cannot hold on here. I don't want to offend 
 you, but you see, here in Ardesie now, all alone, 
 I am caught in my memories as in a thicket. I 
 cannot even do my work well. I no longer care 
 for the slate. The mates say to me: 'You were 
 not so gloomy, Maieul, in the house on the 
 Plains!'" 
 
 "And is it true?" 
 
 "Yes, it's true. You cannot understand, a 
 girl like you. But, all the same, it's you who 
 parted us. So I wanted to tell you that I'm 
 going away and that I do not lay it up against 
 you; that in the depths of my heart I am glad, 
 after all, that I no longer love her. Oh, no, no! 
 Only " 
 
 "^Vhatisitthen?" 
 
 "I still fear her."
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 227 
 
 At this, he thought she was going away without 
 making him any answer; that he was going to 
 lose her, and he added hurriedly: 
 
 "You know all now, and you must despise me." 
 To his surprise she did not leave him. She re- 
 mained standing in the middle of the road, and 
 bending her head a little, looked, not unkindly, 
 at the man who was thus humiliating himself. 
 She did not wish to be hard on him; she was used 
 to encouraging her pupils when they confessed 
 their faults, and she now said : 
 
 "You are mistaken, I do not despise you. I 
 believe that you are doing right." 
 
 "Since you say so, I shall have more courage, 
 Mademoiselle Davidee, but I am a poor sort, I 
 fear." 
 
 "I am poor, too; there are many ways of being 
 so." 
 
 "Since I lost my father and mother no one 
 has ever reproved me when I did wrong. You 
 were the very first. I am more grieved over the 
 child's death than I can ever tell you." 
 
 And as Davidee did not go away, as she was 
 before his eyes for a short minute more and her 
 eyes were full of the kindness which listens will- 
 ingly, he grew bolder and, with a gesture to show 
 her his wounded head, he added: 
 
 "And so I am off! But when I am quite cured 
 in every way, may I not see you again? Madem- 
 oiselle Davidee, I have never known your equal." 
 
 "Is that so wonderful? I do not come from 
 about here, you know." 
 
 " When you pass, the trees bend for love of you."
 
 228 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 "Oh, no, Monsieur Maieul; it is the wind that 
 bends them." 
 
 "The children on the road, as far off as they 
 can see you, send their hearts out to you." 
 
 "And I do the same in return; I belong to 
 them." 
 
 "We all know that you love only them. You 
 are not like other school-mistresses " 
 
 And as she stood motionless, still bending 
 toward him, he ventured to say once more: 
 
 "\^Tien I have shown that I am capable of 
 h\dng like an honest man, may I not see you 
 again?" 
 
 She made no answer, but turned very white, 
 and resumed her way far more slowly than she 
 had come. 
 
 All that afternoon Davidee's time was very 
 full: hearing lessons, receiving parents, preparing 
 songs for a festival that was soon to come off, 
 and getting dinner, as it was her week for keeping 
 house. When night came, weary as she was, 
 she could not sleep. She sat for a long time at 
 her open window thinking of Maieul 's departure 
 and the words he had said to her. Some of these 
 words were new to her ears, but scarcely had 
 she dared to take pleasure in them when others 
 recurred to her memory — cruel words — which he 
 had also spoken: "I still fear her." Then all 
 the sweetness died away. 
 
 It was hard for Davidee to distmguish, in the 
 shadows, the school-house garden from that of the 
 next neighbour, or from a poor \ineyard beyond, 
 whose rows of vines stretched into the darkness
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 229 
 
 like the furrows in a ploughed field. But this 
 was enough to bring the whole of Ard^sie before 
 her mind's eye; all its fields and roads, its ham- 
 lets, the daily work and the familiar faces. 
 
 Some one was about to leave this corner of 
 the earth, where peace was no longer possible 
 to him, because of old words spoken here. How 
 many broken lives there had been! She could 
 not rid herself of a thought which recurred as 
 persistently as the refrain of a song: "These 
 are his last hours here. Like Phrosine, he will 
 go at break of day." The earth, steeped in 
 dew, brought to her window the odour it gives out 
 after rain, and the silence was so deep that she 
 could hear the drops trickle from the leaves. 
 
 It was just before daybreak — the hour when 
 the earth was still dark beneath a paling sky — 
 that Davidee, who had thrown herself upon her 
 bed, rose with a start. She had recognized a voice, 
 she heard a man singing. Quickly and noiselessly 
 she opened her blinds. The voice was not close at 
 hand, it was that of a traveller passing along the 
 road and these were the words he sang: 
 
 " She to whom all my thoughts belong 
 ^ Has never had one thought for me; 
 'Tis for her sake that I must flee. 
 As youth and joy have fled me long. 
 
 "From her I flee, with tortured breast. 
 Wherein her image ever dwells. 
 And clinging, tears its inmost cells 
 
 As ferrets tear the wild bird's nest." 
 
 How sad the air was, like the slow chant the
 
 230 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 drovers sing returning from the pastures driving 
 their herds before them! The voice was dying 
 away already, perhaps in the vineyard, perhaps 
 in the open country beyond. It still chanted 
 words which did not reach her window, then 
 became silent. It was just daybreak. 
 
 One woman only had understood the song, 
 though several may have heard it. But when the 
 sun had risen, from the heights of La Gravelle 
 came another music, sounding thin upon the 
 wind which bore it far into the distance, and it 
 must have spoken from the soul, for souls were 
 moved by it, each after its own fashion. 
 
 The children beyond the fringe of broom, 
 wakened early by the sound, in the warm beds 
 of their low-roofed cottages, began to laugh when 
 they heard it, and wakened their parents. "Lis- 
 ten, father, that is Maieul's flute! Oh, how 
 pretty! It is a long time since he has played it!" 
 But they did not go beyond the pleasure which 
 the tripping notes gave to their ears. The slate- 
 cutters, who made their morning toilet in the 
 garden, splashing half-naked in great tubs of 
 clear water, were the next to share the astonish- 
 ment of the children, and they laughed, too, as 
 they cried. "That is not the music for a strike! 
 What is Rit-Dur thinking of?" But old Mere 
 Fete-Dieu clasped her hands and murmured: 
 "Oh, Lord! bring him back with a soul that is 
 saved, and a flute that no longer weeps." She alone 
 heard the tune aright, she and one young school- 
 mistress, pretty and sad, and already touched at 
 heart, who said: "He loves me yet; that is the
 
 DAVIDfiEBIROT 231 
 
 music of a sorrowful love which is going far 
 away." 
 
 Thus the rustic flute sounded over the mounds 
 of La Gravelle, soon so faintly that it must surely 
 be travelling down the valley where the roads 
 were bordered by high hedges; by the time the 
 sunlight had grown bright, it rang no louder than 
 the hum of a gnat; and when it was broad day 
 all knew that the quarryman Maieul Jacquet had 
 gone away from Ardesie.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE INSPECTOR'S VISIT. 
 
 After the incidents of the tenth of June, when 
 the shedding of a man's blood had virtually killed 
 the strike, all the parents in Ardesie were anx- 
 ious about their children. Even the most vio- 
 lent were heard to say: "There are all sorts of 
 people about on the mounds. It won't do to 
 tmst them." The classes were, therefore, nearly 
 empty on Tuesday morning. In Mile. Renee's 
 there were but^ eight scholars, Mile. David^e had 
 nine. The children who were present nearly all 
 lived in the cluster of houses surrounding the 
 church, or in the small square to the right of the 
 school. The moment she entered with her little 
 girls into her class-room the assistant noticed that 
 Mile. Renee had made a more elaborate toilet 
 than usual and that she was highly excited. 
 
 "Have you brought all the themes back to 
 me corrected, IMademoiselle?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, certainly!" Davidee replied. 
 
 "And is all the needle- work in the chest of 
 drawers in my room, next to the mineralogy 
 drawer?" 
 
 "Yes, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "So much the better, I must go and see if you 
 have arranged them properly." 
 
 232
 
 DAVIDfiE BIROT 233 
 
 At nine o'clock there was a ring at the door. 
 Usually when the woman who waited by the day 
 was absent, Mile. Renee sent one of the older 
 pupils to open the door. This time she hastened 
 out herself, and Davidee, a moment after, hearing 
 a man's deep voice replying to Mile. Renee's 
 veiled soprano, felt certain that the directress 
 had gone to meet the inspector. Proof was not 
 long wanting. The sound of a gliding step and of 
 a heavy tread crunching the gravel, the roll of a 
 bicycle in its narrow tracks accompanied these 
 words which were audible through the open bay- 
 window : 
 
 "It is true, Mademoiselle. I am terribly 
 heated. What dust! What heat! Your Arde- 
 sie is a perfect furnace." 
 
 "I should not have ventured to call it that, 
 Monsieur, but I have been thinking so for the past 
 six years." 
 
 "Six years! In Ard^sie? You must have 
 requested to be retained here then." 
 
 "Not at aU, Monsieur. Would Monsieur par- 
 take of a little refreshment?" 
 
 "Never, Mademoiselle. I never accept. I 
 am on duty, but it is true nevertheless that I, 
 who am from the south, have never suffered from 
 the temperature at home as I do here. Is this 
 your class?" 
 
 "Pass in, I beg " 
 
 "After you." 
 
 The voice belonged evidently to the southern 
 type of orator, for whom a single listener is as 
 good as the crowded forum. His entrance into
 
 234 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 the class-room was boisterous. Davidee, all this 
 time, was dictating to the younger girls a page 
 from a manual on civic duties. It was a pleasure 
 to catch through the partition the slightest notes 
 of this paternal barytone alternately interro- 
 gating the pupils, whose timid answers remained 
 inaudible, and congratulating them and their 
 mistress. "Very good," he was saying, "that 
 distinction between lepidoptera and diptera! four 
 wings, two wings! Natural history makes us 
 learn to cherish nature. Indicate the methods 
 of separating the oxygen in water from the hy- 
 drogen. Very good! There is a future house- 
 keeper who will be able to explain, I am sure, the 
 phenomenon of ebullition. What is her father's 
 profession. Mademoiselle?" 
 
 The studied falsetto of Mile. Renee replied: 
 
 "A pork-butcher, saving your presence. Mon- 
 sieur." 
 
 "Very good! Her orthography leaves some- 
 thing to be desired, but her memory is excellent. 
 Our highest faculty. Mademoiselle!" 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur." 
 
 "One of the chief joys of life!" 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur." 
 
 "And one which you are cultivating with suc- 
 cess. Show me the rotatory schedule of daily 
 studies. You do not know what that is? I 
 understand, I excuse you! That is the name I 
 proposed to the Minister of Public Instruction, 
 whom I .knew very well, to designate what you, 
 perhaps, call the schedule of studies. But rota- 
 tory occurred to me, a word that vibrates. Ro-
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 235 
 
 V 
 
 tatory gives an added meaning, it makes a 
 picture; rotatory was my own invention. The 
 minister said to me afterward: 'I regret it.' 
 Thanks, Mademoiselle, that is right." Davidee, 
 dictating in a lowered voice, was watching to 
 see the door-handle turn, or to hear the approach- 
 ing footsteps of the inspector and the directress, , 
 and was ready to spring to her feet. But the 
 visit, next door, was prolonged. At a quarter 
 past nine the assistant heard their footsteps re- 
 treating, and for ten minutes more there was no 
 sound from the upper class, save whisperings, 
 suppressed peals of laughter, and the fall of an 
 occasional pen-holder on the bare floor, whence 
 the assistant inferred that the inspector and 
 Mile. Ren^e were walking in the court-yard or 
 the garden. At half past nine they entered; the 
 inspector came first, and opened the school- 
 room door as cautiously as if he were venturing 
 into a lion's cage, with a rapid movement, his 
 head thrust forward and his eyes fixed upon those 
 of the wild beast. The latter was represented 
 by the assistant, who had risen from her seat 
 to greet him. Having introduced himself, he 
 broke the magnetic current by glancing around 
 at the empty benches, and smiling upon the nine 
 pupils present. Then he resumed his air of 
 gravity as he seated himself in the chair which 
 one of the older pupils was bringing in for him. 
 
 "Let us see this dictation!" 
 
 He took up the nearest copy and gazed at it 
 approvingly : 
 
 "A page from Souchet-Lapervenche? One of
 
 236 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 our best prose writers. I often recite extracts 
 from Souchet-Lapervenche in the salons of my 
 friends. It produces a great effect. Not enough 
 punctuation, Mademoiselle; how do you expect 
 a pupil to understand that which is not punctu- 
 ated? Do you dictate the punctuation?" 
 
 "No, Monsieur." 
 
 "You are wrong. Listen to this extract prop- 
 erly punctuated, children; notice the difference 
 between my semicolon and colon!" He pro- 
 ceeded to recite, while Mile. Renee Hstened with 
 admiration. Mile. Davidee stood beside him 
 respectful and resigned, and the pupils stared at 
 his mouth curved in a bow whence proceeded 
 the voice of a chorister intoning, at the full, 
 shaven cheeks, and the chin lengthened by the 
 pointed tuft of a blue-black beard. This in- 
 spector, who had been appointed to visit the de- 
 partment as a substitute during a colleague's 
 illness, belonged to that race which never grows 
 weaiy of itself. Wherever he happened to be 
 he overplayed his part in order to prove that his 
 talent exceeded his present functions. He car- 
 ried himself with an air of conviction; with a 
 direct, patriotic, imperious glance, which some 
 of his intimates at the Cafe d'Auch even vent- 
 ured to call "imperial." Having once heard 
 this word, he pondered it incessantly; it was his 
 "breach into the Vosges." The inspector never 
 discussed an order, and the obedience he exacted 
 from others was rendered sacred and beautiful 
 in his eyes by his own example. Crafty, beneath 
 an off-hand manner, he had the art of casting a
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 237 
 
 sidelong glance at the subordinate whom he was 
 addressing, as if to imply: "I am a good fellow, 
 you see; I can smile on you, give you my pro- 
 tection, and exert in your behalf a credit which 
 has made many jealous of me, and may perhaps 
 make others jealous of you." In actual fact, 
 this look rarely went further than such profes- 
 sional hints. Some miusually pretty assistant 
 teachers, here and there, had discovered that the 
 inspector was a connoisseur in beauty. But 
 he was content with insinuating his sentiments, 
 calling forth a blush and a glance of amazement, 
 to which he responded by heavy witticisms and 
 broad jests. He declared that no one would 
 ever catch him pa}dng court to a subordinate, 
 and he spoke the truth. All his severities were 
 directed toward scruples of conscience. He re- 
 garded any such timidity as a personal insult, 
 as he did also the least show of respect for any 
 authority other than the State. The inspector 
 dehghted in his functions, which gave him an 
 opportunity for seeing the country, and meeting 
 "representatives of various races, but all equally 
 French at heart." He was most impressive as he 
 uttered this formula. It was these fmictions 
 which had brought him to Ardesie, in the place, 
 as he explained, of "my dear disabled colleague." 
 
 When he had minutely examined the pupils' 
 note-books, he passed judgment on a couple of 
 maxims of civic morality, and declared that, in 
 his opinion, Mile. Birot was a Httle too much of 
 an idealist. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he said, "I have just shriven
 
 238 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 the directress; it is your turn now. Will you 
 step outside with me? We shall be able to talk 
 more freely in the garden." 
 
 "Shall I accompany you, Monsieur?" asked 
 Mile. Ren^e. 
 
 "It is needless, Mademoiselle." 
 
 The inspector and the assistant proceeded in 
 silence to the garden, where after casting a glance 
 at his bicycle to assure himself that no one had 
 touched it, the functionary seated himself on 
 the low wall surrounding the vegetable garden, 
 and made a sign to the assistant to seat herself 
 on the other side of the gate. She, however, 
 remained standing a few paces distant, and al- 
 though he repeated the gesture she had an air 
 of not comprehending him. Thereupon he con- 
 tracted his brows, looked up to the sky above 
 Davidee's head, and spoke as if he relished the 
 words: "I should be sorry to give pain to a 
 young assistant who needs to have a feeling of 
 security as to her future. But I have to warn 
 you of certain accusations which have been 
 brought against you." 
 
 "By Mademoiselle Renee?" 
 
 "I have named no one. Do not aggravate 
 your case by dragging in your superiors. We 
 have a dozen ways of knowing what takes place 
 in one of our schools. I will not enlarge upon 
 the misplaced familiarities attributed to you." 
 
 "Conversations, perhaps; familiarities, no! I 
 cannot accept such an expression addressed to a 
 respectable girl!" 
 
 "Oh, Mademoiselle, your expressions also may
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 239 
 
 be out of place. I have the right — I ought to 
 have it — to pass judgment on yom* private con- 
 duct." 
 
 "Take the right, Monsieur, but do not judge 
 me before you have questioned me." 
 
 "Precisely! I have no intention of question- 
 ing you on any such subject. But I repeat, I 
 shoidd have a perfect right to do so." 
 
 "Do it then." 
 
 "How hasty you are! You are very young, 
 to be sure. No, Mademoiselle, I refuse to dis- 
 cuss with each of my instructresses in tm-n the 
 principles of private morality which they profess 
 and practice. In any case short of scandal I have 
 never intervened in the South; I do not propose 
 to do so in the North." 
 
 He ceased to contemplate the white clouds 
 above him, and turned his imperial face, and his 
 eyes, which were of the same bluish black as his 
 beard and hair, upon the young girl, who was 
 expecting that look intended to terrify her, and 
 met it without faltering. One could look deep 
 into the eyes of Davidee Birot as she stood very 
 erect beside the gate, her hands hidden in the 
 pockets of the white apron with red polka-dots 
 which she had thrown on over her dress. A ray 
 of sun just touched her head and turned her hair 
 to chestnut. 
 
 "What I have to reproach you with, as a 
 breach of professional duty, is your attitude 
 toward the cure of Ardesie." 
 
 "I beg pardon, Monsieur, I do not quite grasp 
 the meaning of your accusation. Since I have
 
 240 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 been here, I have only once set foot inside a 
 church, and that was on the occasion " 
 
 "I know; you cannot give me any information." 
 
 "I was brought up in a family where religious 
 practices scarcely existed. I do not judge my 
 father and mother. If they had brought me up 
 otherwise I would tell you so; I should have no 
 fear of sa3dng it." 
 
 A keen smile passed across the severe mask. 
 "Bravo! I admire sincerity. But you see, by 
 your own admission, you do not know whether 
 you have done right or wrong in abstaining from 
 religious practices." 
 
 "It is true. I have had no time to concern 
 myself with these subjects." 
 
 "I hope you may never have. They are idle 
 questions." 
 
 "So I have been taught; superrational." 
 
 " Precisely ! Ah ! you have attended the courses 
 of Mademoiselle Hacquin, one of our great think- 
 ers, although in the primary department. But 
 for the very reason that you have not taken a 
 decided stand, you are being led astray. Inno- 
 cently, I am willing to believe, but seriously. 
 For there is the example. Mademoiselle! You 
 were in charge of your pupils and filling an of- 
 ficial position, when, several weeks ago, you 
 held a long conversation with the cure, at the 
 entrance to the cemetery." 
 
 "I was there about one minute. I was thank- 
 ing him because I loved the child." 
 
 "Meanwhile your pupils were wandering un- 
 protected along the road."
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 241 
 
 "Oh, Monsieur!" 
 
 "Yes, unprotected, until the sound of passing 
 wheels at last roused you from your forgetful- 
 ness and broke off your parley with the priest. 
 Moreover — let me finish, I beg — moreover, you 
 were carrying an ostentatiously large prayer-book 
 in your hand." 
 
 "Oh, Monsieur!" 
 
 "Ostentatiously large." 
 
 "I should have preferred it smaller, but it is 
 aU I have." 
 
 She paused a moment, and the spirit of Pere 
 Birot — ^who was not an easy man to deal with — 
 appeared in his daughter's look, in the tone of 
 her voice, in the movement of her hands as she 
 clutched her dotted apron. "And so you would 
 forbid my entering a church if I felt any such 
 desire!" 
 
 A laugh of good-natured scorn accompanied 
 the answer. "Oh, no, Mademoiselle; hberty, you 
 know!" 
 
 "You would at any rate forbid my carrying 
 a prayer-book? The only one I own! I should 
 not have the right granted me to do as every 
 one else does — to pray for my dead? I must 
 request you to inform me plainly what you caU 
 my duty. Monsieur, in order that I may perform 
 it, if possible. I beg you to define it." 
 
 It was the inspector's turn to take time for 
 reflection. He appeared to be absorbed once 
 more in watching the white clouds which were 
 rolling up, and now hung above the house-tops 
 like a gleaming glacier.
 
 242 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 "I do not wish to encroach upon any one's 
 liberty, Mademoiselle; that would be to belie my 
 whole pubHc career. AVhat I would order you, 
 or advise you, which amounts to the same thing, 
 is not to walk about carrying a big book which is 
 a manifestation in itself, and to converse as sel- 
 dom and as briefly as possible with the cur^ or 
 the vicar, if there is a vicar. You understand, 
 do you not? There are certain fine distinctions 
 I can only hint at. No, I see that j^ou persist 
 in misunderstanding me. You are said to be 
 intelligent — ^j^ou are so — take care not to pass 
 judgment on too many subjects!" And, so speak- 
 ing, with a sudden heave of his broad thighs, he 
 sprang down from the wall, and resumed the 
 tone which he regarded as that of a man of the 
 world, as he begged the assistant to relate to him 
 the principal incidents of the strike. The direc- 
 tress, who had been watching for him, came out 
 of the door at once to accompany him as far as 
 the road. He was extremely cordial in his re- 
 iterated promises to Mile. Renee to secure pro- 
 motion for her. He expressed less clearly his 
 benevolent intentions toward " an assistant whose 
 spirit was somewhat too independent, but who 
 was full of excellent intentions and had a future 
 before her as instructress." 
 
 Da^ddee felt herself condemned on the spot, 
 and at short notice. 
 
 "Well, child," said Mile. Renee, when they were 
 alone, "are you satisfied?" 
 
 "Delighted!" rephed David^e. 
 
 "I did all that could be done for you. We
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 243 
 
 have had occasional misunderstandings, but all 
 that shall be forgotten, shall it not?" 
 
 "Yes, Mademoiselle." 
 
 David^e, while concluding her afternoon classes, 
 thought over all the words spoken in the morn- 
 ing. She could have no doubts now in regard 
 to the denunciation of which Phrosine had 
 warned her, nor of the dismissal which would be 
 the most certain result of the inspector's vague 
 promises. She had her enemies, she, the young 
 gu'l who had entered the normal school, not from 
 necessity, in order to support herself, like so many 
 of her companions, but led by a sort of maternal 
 instinct, a gentle taste for training children and 
 an ambition for social ser\dce. She said to her- 
 self: "I will not be imprisoned or, as Maieul 
 said, 'caught in a thicket.' I will come out of my 
 difficulties by going to meet them, and not being 
 afraid. And to begin with, I will go this very 
 evening to see this cure, who vdW perhaps be 
 questioned; who can testify, in any case — if I am 
 reduced to such wretched expedients — as to the 
 words that passed between us. It revolts me 
 to think that any one considers me so base and 
 poor-spirited that I would consent never to meet, 
 on the village street, the cure, or Maieul, or Phro- 
 sine, or any other of those excommunicated ones 
 on the Hst they choose to make out for me." 
 
 Davidee Birot's cheeks were almost as scarlet 
 as her lips when, at six o'clock, having put on 
 the hat like an inverted harebell, she sallied 
 forth to pay a visit to the mother of one of her 
 Httle girls, who lived opposite the church. With-
 
 244 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 out explaining why, she lingered there a while, 
 which the widow thought veiy kind on the part 
 of the young assistant. It was she who sustained 
 the conversation, explaining the hard conditions 
 of a washer-woman's trade, which she had 
 entered upon at fourteen, and over which, at 
 sixty, she was still labouring, with cracked and 
 bleeding hands. 
 
 "It holds you more than you would think, 
 this work at the tubs," she said. "If you begin 
 a washer-woman, you end a washer-woman; and 
 it's all very well when we are soaking our clothes 
 by the river — there we can talk to the current as 
 it rushes by, and say, 'There you go gallop- 
 ing away, with your edges curhng like lace,' and 
 little things of that kind. But here, where we 
 have to dip our clothes in holes which the sun 
 never warms, and where the water doesn't know 
 how to flow, the business is not so gay. It is 
 not enough so for the young; but formerly " 
 
 Da\ddee knew how to answer, because with 
 her the heart always listened; so by brief words 
 and nods and little signs of sympathy, she showed 
 that she understood. But the young girl, pleased 
 as she was to find her presence so welcome, 
 was actually waiting for the end of the service 
 at which the cur6 of Ardesie officiated, having 
 rung his own bell at that golden sunset hour 
 w^hich comes at seven in summer and in winter 
 as early as five. From the widow's cottage they 
 could hear the responses of his flock, as they 
 implored God to protect their slumbers, making 
 of them a means to fresh labour and to salvation;
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 245 
 
 and to deliver them from the snares of the 
 tempter who makes the night his especial domain. 
 Through the open door there entered not only 
 the warm air, laden with odours of new mown 
 hay and of the marshes, as well as of freshly 
 baked loaves from the baker's close by, but also 
 a vision of the Virgin and Child painted on 
 the stained glass window of the church. Davi- 
 dee looked up at the Child's three fingers lifted 
 in blessing and, without Owning it to herself, 
 she felt happier at being there, within the im- 
 mediate influence of that protecting gesture. 
 She had never before noticed that there was a 
 stained window in the Ardesie church, where the 
 Mother was represented triumphant and glori- 
 ous through her Child. 
 
 All at once the colours of the stained glass 
 faded; the abbe must have extinguished the 
 candles on the altar. Men and women poured 
 out of the church, their faces wearing the reso- 
 lute expression peculiar to behevers who Hve in 
 the midst of opposition and hostihty. The cure 
 must have lingered to set the chairs in order and 
 tie up the cord by which he rang his bell. He 
 came out a moment after the last of his flock, 
 turned the key in the door and then stopped to 
 gaze up at the sunset sky, splendid with torn and 
 flying clouds of purple and crimson; then low- 
 ering his eyes, he was amazed to behold Mile. 
 Birot standing before him. A few people who 
 still lingered in the church porch were looking 
 on. Returning the abbe's bow, the assistant 
 spoke very distinctly, emphasizing each word,
 
 246 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 so that it might carry far: "Monsieur le Cure, 
 do you remember a conversation I had with you 
 near the cemetery gate the day of Httle Anna Le 
 Floch's burial?" 
 
 The cure began to laugh. "I could recite all 
 your words, Mademoiselle, and the lesson would 
 not be long, as we exchanged barely three sen- 
 tences." 
 
 "It appears that these sufficed for a teacher 
 to be denounced as a clerical. But I do not in- 
 tend to let them do as they please with me. Would 
 you kindly write down those words, in which I 
 expressed my affection for my little pupil?" 
 
 "Certainly, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "That is all I have to ask of you, Monsieur le 
 Cure; many thanks." 
 
 She was moving on when her attention was 
 arrested by a woman approaching from the vil- 
 lage, walking at a rapid pace, weary and travel- 
 stained, dragging behind her a child who was 
 constantly falling back and letting her feet trail 
 in the dust. On the woman's other arm hung 
 a soup kettle. As they reached the houses whose 
 dwellers were standing on their door-steps, the 
 child took heart once more. She pointed to a 
 dog which was following them, and seemed to be 
 as worn-out as they. " How dirty he is !" she said. 
 
 The mother shook her violently, exclaiming, as 
 she looked about her: 
 
 "Not so dirty as these people here. Come 
 along, you brute!" she cried with an oath, where- 
 upon the child began to laugh, and this morsel 
 of a creature echoed the blasphemous words. As
 
 DAVIDfiE BIROT 247 
 
 they passed on the cure turned his face toward 
 the church saying in a low voice: "My God, 
 you were a prisoner for the love of such as these, 
 and they know it not!" 
 
 Silence followed, and the group of people on 
 the porch gradually dispersed, while only a few 
 neighbours were left standing on their thresholds 
 in the sunset light which streamed across the road. 
 
 From the Green Diary; the same day. — "I have 
 not faith, but I will not endure having the con- 
 trary spirit forced upon me without the liberty 
 to cast it aside. I am wounded and humihated 
 for the cause of education, the dignity of which 
 has been attacked in my person far more seriously 
 than it could be by my chance interview with 
 Maieul Jacquet. The man who objected to a 
 large prayer-book, but was willing to tolerate a 
 small one while despising equally the text of 
 both, could drive me to doing anything except 
 what he demanded. My mind is made up; I 
 have decided to what method of defence I will 
 intrust my cause. If I am not successful I shall 
 renounce my profession. In the meantime this 
 hypocritical violence has influenced me to re- 
 open the forbidden volume. I have just been 
 reading parts of the mass and the ser^dce for the 
 dead. It seems to me beautiful that we should 
 be buried to the sound of those words full of 
 compassion, of pardon, and of the eternal dawn. 
 There is a nobility about them to which I am not 
 accustomed. The inspector shall not prevent my 
 returning as often as I please to this source of 
 inspiration.
 
 248 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 "I still think of a word, spoken, I believe, by 
 the cure himself, upon the secret of peace and joy 
 in this world: 'The solution of the social prob- 
 lem hes in the development of the supernatural/ 
 That saying is beyond my comprehension; but 
 who knows if it be not true? I am amazed at 
 the fund of love for the people which seems to 
 exist in this priest's heart, although so few care 
 to draw upon it. It seems that the strike is 
 almost over; I do not know how an arrangement 
 was brought about, but as to the mutual hatred, 
 all the causes for it subsist and are still at work; 
 an actual permanent peaceful settlement has not 
 been reached. What a lesson life in the midst 
 of these labouring people is for a girl like me, who 
 troubled herself so httle about such questions 
 at first, and who is gradually becoming so deeply 
 interested. I would not exchange my position 
 here amid the stones of these quarries for any 
 school they could offer me in town. Here I see 
 the real life of the people ; I am a part of it, there 
 is nothing to distract me from it. And I learn 
 to see the poverty in myself as well as in these 
 labourers' daughters around me, whom it is my 
 business to instruct and make over after my own 
 likeness; but the model reahzes sadly what a 
 change is needed in herself. 
 
 "Twentieth of June, 1909: A letter from 
 Phrosine! I had given up expecting one. I 
 feared that she was lost to me, that weak and 
 violent being whom nothing has ever elevated, 
 no behef in anything, no friendships with her 
 equals; who has had nothing but her duties to
 
 DAVIDfiE BIROT 249 
 
 sustain her; and these are not sufficient when 
 one has no behef in another hfe. What might 
 not kindness or good teaching have done to re- 
 form such an attractive nature, so easily tempted 
 and tempting, but so frank and honest. Why 
 was there no one to give some rule of conduct, 
 some ideal, to this seeker after joy, who might 
 have learned at last to love justice too? She 
 writes from Vendome. 
 
 "'Mlle. David^e: — It is I who am writing. 
 You separated me from the man I loved, and I 
 bore you a bitter gmdge for it. I bear it still. 
 But I must write to you because I am in need of 
 help. At first I lived in Orleans; you under- 
 stand how I mean; I lodged wherever it hap- 
 pened, in the poorer quarters of the town, but 
 not often on charity. I ate in the taverns where 
 the masons drink, eating only enough to make 
 them thirst}^ I asked all of them, every one 
 you understand: "Have you met Le Floch, 
 Henri, a tall, bearded man, with a head hke a 
 lion, who is a carpenter, and makes beams for 
 mines, or works in wood in one way or another?" 
 They merely laughed, and answered me you 
 may guess how. But there were some kind ones 
 among these men. For my part, I put on an 
 air like you, only with a flash more of petroleum 
 in the eyes and on the tongue, and said: "I 
 am hunting for the father so as to get the son, 
 who is my son. It is not safe to touch a mother 
 when she's defending her child, so answer me!" 
 Then they would answer: "Maybe we have
 
 250 DAVIDfiE BIROT 
 
 seen him, but at work we only know the mates 
 by their arms and legs or their eyes, we don't 
 always know their names. Le Floch, Henri? 
 I don't remember, though I remember some 
 bearded ones as you may believe! How old 
 would your man be? Forty? well now, in 1904 
 or 1905 or thereabouts, I worked in a wood-yard 
 with a bearded fellow of about thirty-five. But 
 it wasn't in Orleans we were working, it was in 
 the forest of Vendome. He was no great talker.'* 
 "'"That is so!" 
 
 But a deep drinker!" 
 Then it must have been my man." 
 And he may have had a bit the look of a 
 lion, but one that goes on the spree a bit too 
 often. You might look there for him — " So 
 from one village to another I finally reached 
 Vendome, where I'm writing you. And yes- 
 terday, after I'd questioned a lot of men, there 
 came to the lodging a young fellow from the 
 Vendome country. I can't hide from you that 
 this one gave me a kiss. I am not you, Made- 
 moiselle, and I haven't a sou left, nor a scrap of 
 courage. After we had talked awhile, he said: 
 "I have met him." "What! Le Floch?" "Yes, 
 over three months ago, in the Forest of Vou- 
 vant, which is in Vendee, and the finest forest 
 you ever saw, a forest as handsome in its way 
 
 n c ii- 
 
 (dCC 
 tCCiC 
 
 J> 
 
 as you are m yours. 
 Don't talk 
 3U sure?" 
 He had a boy he said, who was fourteen years 
 
 "'"Don't talk such stuff! Was it Henri? 
 Are you sure?" 
 
 old."
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 251 
 
 "'"With him?" 
 
 "'"No." 
 
 "'"So much the worse!" 
 
 'He only said: 'I had a boy, and I took 
 him away from the Charity Board.'" 
 
 "'"That is he! It is he, I tell you!" 
 
 '""'Wait a moment!' he said: 'I have a boy 
 and I found a place for him.' " 
 
 '""Did he say where?" 
 
 "'"No, that he didn't say, he only told me 
 that at first the young brat gave him the money 
 he earned, but now he didn't do it any more, and 
 it was disgusting of him." 
 
 '"As for me when I heard that, I left the fellow 
 at once, and now I'm going to the Forest of Vou- 
 vant. But they say it's a long way from here, 
 by the sea. I will write you, perhaps, if I find 
 him, or in case I am dying of hunger, for it was 
 you who brought me to this pass. Send me a 
 Httle money for the journey, won't you? Thank 
 you all the same for coming with me the day I 
 started and helping to carry my basket. If you 
 had half of my heart to carry you would see how 
 much heavier that is. Good-by, try to be happy. 
 
 '"Phrosine.' 
 
 "Thirtieth of June: To-day came another 
 letter, not from Phrosine this time, but from an 
 old school-mate at the normal school in La Ro- 
 chelle. She writes from Rouergue. Why Rouer- 
 gue? It is true that she might ask: Why Ardesie? 
 And she begins her letter as if she thought I 
 might have forgotten her. ' Perhaps you may re-
 
 252 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 member.' Yes, indeed, I recall vividly that weak, 
 ardent, tender daughter of Rochelais fisherfolk, 
 whom we called Elise, after a character in 'Es- 
 ther.' 'Is it thou, dear Elise? Oh day, thrice 
 blest! etc., ' and because she was a born confidante. 
 Those who confided their secrets to that httle 
 ivory casket had no reason to regret it. The 
 words dropped into her soul like rain-drops into 
 the water; there remained not a trace of what 
 she had listened to, of what had mingled for the 
 moment with her thoughts; and we were all 
 devoted to her though she gave us nothing in 
 return. We never knew whether she had any 
 secrets of her own, and probably she had not. 
 But the years have passed, and to-day it is she 
 who is seeking a confidante and asking for pro- 
 tection. I suspected in school that she was a 
 Christian, or at least was longing to be one. She 
 said to me one evening: 'Do you never pray, 
 Davidee?' in a tone implying that she knew far 
 better than I the upward path. Now it appears 
 that she has found occasion to renew her ques- 
 tion, that she has heard — from whom, I wonder? — 
 of my differences with the inspector or rather 
 with Mile. Desforges, and of my other Ardesian 
 experiences, and she now adopts a more modest 
 tone and asks: 'Tell me how you have accom- 
 plished so much. Is it true that you have suc- 
 ceeded in liberating yourself, and securing your 
 right to your own religious opinions, both for 
 yourself and in the training of your pupils? I 
 suffer so much from opposition on both these 
 points that I feel the need of an ally. And how
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 253 
 
 many others there are silently pursuing their 
 careers of devotion to duty, awaiting and hoping 
 for a purer atmosphere in which their souls can 
 draw breath! I am rejoiced to learn that you 
 have known how to defend your rights better 
 than I have done, and let me add, my dear Davi- 
 dee, that I am surprised at this; I did not imagine 
 you to be so near me in spirit, etc' 
 
 "I answered plainly that I was not respon- 
 sible for the gossip of a village, spread and exag- 
 gerated by my colleagues: 'I have had slight 
 difficulties,' I said, 'which are not yet entirely 
 settled, but I hope to come out of them with 
 honour. I have no method in the matter, no 
 advice to give, nor confidences to make. 1 have 
 not the faith of which you speak.' And now I 
 hope that she will not return to the subject. 
 
 "Eleven o'clock at night: My letter is gone, 
 I have seen it put into the green bag which is 
 now on the mail-carrier's back, and he is off on 
 his bicycle. So my answer is well on its way to 
 Rouergue. And now I regret it. The state of 
 secret irritation I am in has made me act cruelly, 
 and cruelty toward souls is the harshest of all. 
 I think of those unhappy souls hke hers who has 
 just appealed to me, who feel themselves watched 
 and hunted, and who dare not hght their fires 
 at night for fear the mounting flame and smoke 
 should betray them. They are, after all, better 
 than I, but the cause of their suffering and of 
 my anger are not altogether unlike. I want 
 my personal dignity respected, they wish their 
 religious faith to be so; it is the same underhand
 
 254 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 methods which offend us both. I open my win- 
 dow, I see the curve of low billowy forms in the 
 ashen darkness. Nothing, or next to nothing, 
 can be called by its name; these misty forms be- 
 fore me to the right, are they shrubs or house- 
 tops? If I did not know their look by day I 
 could not tell. And the thought comes to me 
 that we, who try to understand ourselves, are 
 like those who gaze out into the darkness; that 
 I have never seen my soul in the full light of day, 
 and that it has hidden emotions and impulses 
 which I do not understand."
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 "BLANDES OF THE GREEN SHUTTERS." 
 
 "Blandes of the Green Shutters!" When Davi- 
 dee awoke very late on a July morning, in the 
 chamber never occupied by any one save herself, 
 where the flowers, picked for her, fading for her, 
 and giving out on her arrival their odour of the 
 moors, had wrapped her in memories, she did 
 not feel like ringing her bell at once. At the 
 first tinkle, it would be her mother who would 
 answer the call ; her Httle mother whom Davidee 
 guessed to be already up and partly dressed, her 
 hair in the famihar tight gray knot on the top 
 of her head and held in place by the old-fashioned 
 comb of hght shell which she remembered always; 
 her mother who had grown more tiny each year, 
 who was surely on the watch now in the adjoin- 
 ing room amid the familiar morning sounds, 
 for the unusual, the longed-for cry which would 
 bring her running to the bedside: "Mamma! 
 I am awake, mamma!" No, not quite yet. She 
 rose first, noiselessly, slipped on a wrapper, and 
 threw open her window, pushing up the Vene- 
 tian blinds through which the light cast a score 
 of little bars of shadow to the right and left, 
 which grew distincter each minute. "It must 
 be past eight," she thought, "and at Ardesie 
 
 255
 
 256 DAVIDfiE BIROT 
 
 we should be in the school-room at this hour." 
 The north window which she had opened looked 
 out upon the flat shores of a bay without cliffs 
 or beach. One had to bend far out for a glimpse 
 of the oozy tide. Before her eyes stretched a 
 marsh melting into meadows, then distant low 
 hills lost in the mists of the horizon. Trees were 
 a scarcely appreciable feature of this flat shore. 
 The marsh-grass was everywhere, tawny yellow 
 as far as the winter tides rolled in, and greener 
 beyond, spreading out like an endless fan. " Open, 
 eyes! and recognize your youth which is there 
 before you, which rises from the reeds and rushes 
 and greets you with the laughter of your early 
 days!" Davidee had promised herself great de- 
 light in this home-coming, in this first good- 
 morning to the landscape of her childhood. She 
 had felt it often before, but this morning, in spite 
 of the sunshine which rolled in warm waves over 
 the grasses and the still tender grain, she re- 
 mained immoved — and wondered to find it so — 
 and discovered that she had left her heart behind 
 her in unfertile Ardesie, with her school children, 
 her daily cares, and perhaps with the songs of 
 that Maieul, who had left it for her sake. She 
 had a sense of disappointment as if she had seen 
 a flower fading in her girdle. 
 
 ''Good-morning, darling! Good-morning, be- 
 loved!" 
 
 Mamma Birot had come in and was embrac- 
 ing her child, then drawing back to look at her 
 better. All her disappointment had not had 
 time to disappear from the girl's face; it still
 
 DAVIDfiEBIROT 257 
 
 cast a shadow, though it was vanishing, but her 
 mother had noticed it. 
 
 "You are not well." 
 
 "Oh, perfectly, and delighted to be in Blandes. 
 Is papa better?" 
 
 "You are tired from your night journey, child?" 
 
 "No, I have just waked. From two in the 
 morning until eight is a fairly good nap. No, 
 I am not tired at all, mamma." 
 
 "Then you have some trouble; some one has 
 been annoying you, or you have had a dispute 
 with the directress. They are not treating you 
 kindly, is not that it? I guessed it. Those 
 Ardesie people are making my child's life hard. 
 They cannot understand what a treasure they 
 have in her. Poor darling! why did you leave 
 me who understand you? Tell me what they 
 have done to you." 
 
 The yoimg teacher smiled; she sat facing her 
 mother in the full light of morning; she had 
 taken in hers the poor, thin, knotted hands which 
 trembled at every heart-beat; she hastened to 
 pour forth the genuine tenderness and gratitude 
 that were in her heart. In her own bright, gay 
 fashion she described the distribution of prizes, 
 the departure, the unemotional farewell between 
 herself and Mile. Desforges, the night journey from 
 Ardesie to Nantes, from Nantes to Blandes. Her 
 mother, without interrupting the flow of her nar- 
 rative, and merely because she could not post- 
 pone her words of love and welcome, kept mur- 
 muring: "You are prettier than ever, though 
 your lips are a trifle paler, Davidee; but how 
 clever they look, cleverer even than they used to,
 
 258 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 and they look kind besides. Your pupils ought 
 to be happy! I believe your hair is turning 
 chestnut, Davidee, and what quantities you have ! 
 More than when you were a child. What braids! 
 they remind me of one of the statues in the 
 museum. Oh, my pretty one, whom I brought 
 into the world!" But when the narrative flagged 
 a httle, she grew anxious, and interrupted it by 
 asking: I 
 
 "What ails you, child? Tell me your secret. 
 You are not quite the same as when you left us 
 at Easter." 
 
 Davidee would have preferred not to relate 
 at once the story of the inspector's visit and the 
 incidents which had brought it about. She had 
 promised herself that she would let a few days 
 pass in peace, and choose her hour for speaking 
 to her father. But the ardent tenderness of her 
 mother would suffer no delay; her imagination, 
 which magnified everything for lack of subjects 
 to feed upon, would be ready on the slightest 
 suspicion, at a shade of difference in her daugh- 
 ter's eyes or smile, to invent a dozen stories, and 
 her poor little frame would have worn itself out 
 in tears and anxieties if the child had refused to 
 tell her all. It was better therefore and safer, 
 to tell her the truth at once. As soon as Madame 
 Birot learned the persecution for her opinions 
 to which her child was being subjected, she said: 
 
 "If it were my case I should yield, since it 
 does not concern your home life; but you are like 
 your father, and put all your pride into pubhc 
 affairs. We must warn Birot this morning." 
 
 "To-day?"
 
 DAVID^IE BIROT 259 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She had again become the capable housewife, 
 who orders quietly and with a submissive air, 
 everything which goes on under her roof. 
 
 "The day, however, is the most ill-chosen one 
 you can imagine," she said; "I was not expecting 
 you to-night. I had put those flowers in your 
 room so that I might say to myself each time I 
 entered : ' She is on the way, she is coming, they 
 will be fresh when she arrives.' But I did not 
 think you could get here so early. Listen! this 
 morning, in a few minutes, the doctor will be 
 here." 
 
 "Is my father not so well?" 
 
 "No, he is very ill, and has been so a long while; 
 ever since he gave up his business. It is sad 
 for an intelhgent man hke him to have nothing 
 to do, and he is killing himself by drinking. His 
 hands tremble and refuse to do his bidding; his 
 head shakes; he still tries to attend to business 
 but he takes more time to accomplish much less 
 than formerly. His brains are as good as ever, 
 you know; he is as much feared as in his youth, 
 and more terrible, only his enemies are in greater 
 numbers; he has no longer a chief to fight but an 
 army which is on the watch for him to die or 
 weaken, and he feels it. As I tell you, he is ter- 
 rible. The house is filled only with my silence 
 and his tempers." Then she added, while her lips, 
 accustomed to self-control, scarcely ventured to 
 form a timid smile: 
 
 "And yet with me he is gentler than he used to 
 be.".
 
 260 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 They chatted a few minutes together until the 
 door-bell announced the doctor's arrival. 
 
 "Come, dearest!" said the mother. 
 
 In his office, with its pitch-pine wood-work and 
 chairs covered with cretonne of oriental designs, 
 Monsieur Birot was dozing when Davidee entered. 
 
 "Oho! the little one!" he cried, while the blood 
 rushed to his face, and two tears rolling down 
 his cheeks betrayed his broken condition. The 
 quarry-master had risen to embrace his child, 
 bending his great head to kiss her first upon the 
 right cheek, then on the left; then he had seized 
 her by the shoulders and was hugging her, bear 
 fashion, as he said: 
 
 " You are going to make me well ! They never 
 let me know that you had come. Why didn't 
 they tell me?" 
 
 At this moment the door opened again, and 
 Madame Birot entered, followed by the doctor. 
 
 "Confound it!" cried Birot, "what does this 
 fellow want of me?" And with another sudden 
 rush of blood, swelling and puipling his face, he 
 made signs expressing absolute refusal to see the 
 doctor, casting furious glances of defiance at him 
 meanwhile, and pointing toward the door, though 
 no words came. 
 
 Suddenly he burst into a great laugh, and 
 fell back into his cretonne arm-chair; and hav- 
 ing gradually recovered control of his lower jaw, 
 which opened and closed mechanically, straining 
 the muscles of his neck: 
 
 "Egad! my giri," he cried, "you shall see 
 how little these gentlemen know! You expect to
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 261 
 
 cure me, do you, doctor? You came at Madame 
 Birot's request? Yes, I imderstand. She has 
 undoubtedly told you all my complaints. I have 
 several, but what she has already told you will 
 serve to shorten your visit. What do you order 
 for me? Let us see!" 
 
 The doctor, a red-haired man with a sandy 
 beard as stiff as a sheaf of wheat, patient with the 
 combined patience of his peasant stock and of his 
 profession, answered slowly: 
 
 " We must first, Monsieur Birot, feel your pulse 
 and examine your lungs." 
 
 "Do it then!" 
 
 With a vigorous movement, as if he were break- 
 ing stones, the Mayor of Blandes tore off his 
 collar, unbuttoned his vest and opened his shirt. 
 
 "Here's the chest!" he said. And looking over 
 the head of the doctor, who was bending forward 
 to sound him, he glanced at Davidee, as if to show 
 her that what he was doing was solely on her 
 account, and out of obedience to her wishes. 
 
 "Well," he said, when the examination was 
 ended. "Now what do you advise, doctor? 
 What do you want me to do? I know it all be- 
 forehand. My wife has already prompted your 
 prescription: 'Give up drinking.'" 
 
 "That is exactly it." 
 
 "Give up living then!" 
 
 "On the contrary; live much longer." 
 
 "Go on hving without any resources, any 
 companions, any pleasures! Look here! I have 
 toiled forty j^ears to earn my fortune; I have 
 worked harder than any of my mates; I have been
 
 262 DAVIDfiE BIROT 
 
 steadier; I have been helped, too, by an economical 
 wife." 
 
 This was the first time he had ever openly done 
 justice to his wife, who remained silent in her 
 corner of the room, but gave a little nod of agree- 
 ment, with a glance at her daughter, who was 
 there to judge between them. 
 
 "The men at the stone-works," Birot went on, 
 "my workmen, all drink; why shouldn't I who 
 am rich, drink too? What do you want me to 
 do, then?" 
 
 The young doctor who, somewhat intimidated 
 by Davidee's presence, sat rubbing his knees 
 with his hands, made a little grimace at this, 
 which expressed many things. 
 
 "There are dozens of things for an intelligent 
 man hke you to do. Monsieur Birot." 
 
 "Such as what?" 
 
 "You can read." 
 
 "What shall I read?" 
 
 "\Miatever you like, novels " 
 
 "They bore me to death, they are all about 
 a world I know nothing of." 
 
 "The newspapers." 
 
 "They all say the same thing one after another." 
 
 "Works of popular science." 
 
 "I can't understand them. See here, doctor! 
 3^ou are wasting your time. I was born to work 
 in stone, to give orders to my workmen, and then 
 to rest by getting tipsy with them; but as to 
 reading, no! It's my daughter there who reads 
 for me, and I drink for her; that's the way we 
 conduct our lives."
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 263 
 
 Here he burst into another laugh, feehng that 
 he had made a teUing retort. 
 
 "Work in the garden/' pursued the doctor; 
 " a garden Hke yours " 
 
 "After an hour of it I am done up." 
 
 "Travel then! spend your money in taking 
 journeys." 
 
 "I have tried that already." 
 
 "That is true/' said Da\ddee; "we went to 
 Biarritz during the last long vacation." 
 
 "Yes, and stayed in grand hotels; but what she 
 doesn't tell you is, that I felt like a fool in them." 
 
 "Oh, no, Monsieur!" 
 
 "You needn't try to convince me! I am just 
 a workman — a stone-cutter — and I have a work- 
 man's habits; one can't make oneself over, and 
 change all one's ideas of enjoyment; they are a 
 matter of habit and in the blood. Why don't 
 you advise me to be a doctor?" 
 
 "Why not play cards, rather?" 
 
 "Because as soon as I lose ten sous at * Ma- 
 nilla' I feel as badly as if I had lost my house. 
 That's in the blood, too — frugality! I can't go 
 in for high-life, I can't play cards, nor dress, nor 
 talk as those people do, nor take part in their 
 amusements. Leave me alone, will you?" 
 
 He rose as he said this, heavy and solid still. 
 His patience and good-humour were exhausted. 
 "Let me alone with all your drugs! I have a 
 mighty thirst on account of the stone. A man 
 dies of his job; I shall die of mine, for stone-cut- 
 ters always drink too hard. Enough said! It's 
 time to go out and find my mates."
 
 264 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 "Wait a moment," said Madame Birot, while 
 David^e was seeing the resigned doctor out. "I 
 have something to tell you." 
 
 "Say it later then." 
 
 "It is about our daughter, who has been un- 
 justly treated." 
 
 "Oh, that's different! If any one touches our 
 child, that's a thing I can never forgive." 
 
 Davidee had just re-entered. " What is it, little 
 one?" 
 
 "The primary inspector " 
 
 Birot who was bending his back to sit down 
 again, stopped half-way, and gave her a sidelong 
 glance. "It's some business with a cure, I bet." 
 
 "Yes, papa." 
 
 "I don't like that sort of thing, but come, all 
 the same." 
 
 The girl had seated herself on a chair close 
 beside her father, and patted his hands, feeling 
 that the cause was gained. The longer she 
 talked the stronger grew his admiration for this 
 daughter who was so Hke himself; who was afraid 
 of no one; who could hold her own and maintain 
 her rights, and who, besides, could talk so well. 
 His eyes grew animated; his lips were com- 
 pressed, and an occasional brief oath burst forth. 
 Birot expanded body and soul, rejuvenated by 
 his wrath. He was inwardly exercising his ar- 
 gumentative faculties; the words he planned to 
 say threw their reflection across his face. He 
 shiaigged his shoulders from time to time, he 
 drew himself up and began tugging at his huge 
 moustache, which would soon rise and bristle
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 265 
 
 under the torrents of violent words he would be 
 hurling full-mouthed — at whom? He knew al- 
 ready, he had planned the whole affair, he had 
 prepared his arguments, as he suddenly exclaimed, 
 patting Davidee on the cheek: 
 
 "I shall certainly not go to the tavern this 
 morning. Mamma, give us an early breakfast. 
 I am off to see the prefect." 
 
 "What! At La RocheUe?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Remember that only yesterday you could not 
 walk, you had the gout so badly." 
 
 "I haven't it any longer." 
 
 An unaccustomed sense of enjoyment gave 
 freedom to Birot's movements, and showed in 
 the tones of his voice and the flash of his eyes 
 which had been dulled for weeks. When he left 
 the house, wearing his broad black felt-hat, and 
 a suit of heavy tweeds, which was his full dress 
 attire summer and winter, with the addition of 
 a red necktie, and carrying a stick in his hand, 
 his wife said to him : 
 
 "Birot, one would swear you were going to a 
 public meeting." 
 
 "Precisely; that is just what it is." 
 
 "But you cannot go all the way on foot, you 
 know! Ask Caderotte to harness his mare and 
 take you; he cannot refuse, he is imder such ob- 
 ligations to you." 
 
 "My poor wife! If I did that, he would con- 
 sider them all cancelled. Let me manage this 
 business." 
 
 He had reckoned on the fact that at the hour
 
 266 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 when he would be starting — at about eleven — 
 there would be every chance of his encountering 
 on the road some neighbour's gig, or at the worst 
 a market cart or fish cart which would offer him 
 a lift. It was in fact the poulterer who came in 
 sight first and took the big man along as extra 
 baggage. He had a horse that trotted as fast 
 as a young colt following its mother, so that at 
 ten minutes before noon Monsieur Birot entered 
 the antechamber of the prefecture. 
 
 "Shall I announce Monsieur Birot?" said the 
 usher. 
 
 "Leave off the 'Monsieur' and say 'Birot is 
 here.' When I have no fine speeches to make 
 I prefer to call myself plain 'Birot.'" 
 
 "As you like." 
 
 Accordingly the Mayor of Blandes was intro- 
 duced into the prefect's office, where that official, 
 who was a young man, though already somewhat 
 bald, came forward to greet him with extended 
 hand, but with an air of reserve and without 
 effusion. He was of a cautious nature and never 
 showed cordiality except to a parting guest. 
 
 "My dear Monsieur Birot, I have only five 
 minutes to spare." 
 
 "That will be sufficient, Monsieur le Prefet." 
 
 "Pray be seated. Is it a harvest permit you 
 have come to ask me for? If so, it is granted." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Indemnity for a dead cow then?" and the 
 great man laughed at his own wit, but Birot did 
 not smile. 
 
 "No, it is a permit allowing a teacher to carry
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 267 
 
 a good-sized prayer-book when attending the 
 funeral of one of her scholars." 
 
 "You are laughing at me, I infer." 
 
 "Not at all. I am making an appeal to you; 
 the teacher is my daughter." 
 
 "Mademoiselle Birot?" 
 
 "Yes, Davidee, who is assistant at Ardesie. She 
 has been denounced, and I do not choose to have 
 her bothered. You understand. I won't have it!" 
 
 "But this is entirely outside my jurisdiction, 
 Monsieur Birot. I can do nothing for you." 
 
 Birot, who had buried himself a little too deeply 
 in the easy-chair offered him by the prefect, now 
 sat forward on its very edge, with both hands 
 supported on his thighs and his fingers extended. 
 Above the glasses which he had planted on his 
 nose, he glared for a moment at that functionary 
 as he was in the habit of glaring at his opponents 
 before replying to them. He almost invariably 
 succeeded in cowing them, so much did the fury 
 in his eyes add force to his words. His hands 
 were clenched at his sides merely to conceal the 
 violence with which they shook. The prefect, 
 on the other hand, was leaning back in his wicker 
 chair with his lips pursed as if he held a cigarette 
 between them. 
 
 "Monsieur," said Birot in a voice which he 
 controlled with difficulty, "I am applying to you 
 because you are our clerk " 
 
 "Your clerk! Upon my word!" 
 
 "Perhaps I express myself badly, but I know 
 perfectly well what I mean. You are a clerk 
 appointed to get your constituents out of dif-
 
 268 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 ficulties whenever they need you, to help along 
 our side and destroy the others." 
 
 "That is a simplified conception of the office, 
 Monsieur Birot!" 
 
 The prefect's laugh as he said this was dis- 
 pleasing to the stone-cutter, who no longer re- 
 strained his voice. 
 
 "Simplified or not, I don't care a hang! I am 
 addressing myself to you because I hold you in 
 my hand, and it is not my place to apply to others. 
 Outside of the department, what is Pere Birot? 
 Nobody. AVhereas, just here, I am a power " 
 
 "A man who has rendered great services, I do 
 not deny it." 
 
 "Ser\dces? No I don't call them that. I am 
 a man who rules other men, who knows them 
 far better than you ever will, who knows all their 
 special weaknesses, who sees how they live, and 
 gets them to vote for him, or to vote as he does. 
 I serve myself first, and I don't mind serving you 
 later. But on one condition " 
 
 "I cannot admit threats of this kind." 
 
 "That doesn't matter! I can execute^them. I 
 tell you that this inspector who has denounced 
 my daughter must repair his injustice!" 
 
 "I cannot concern myself with your affair." 
 
 "Very well then! I will concern myself with 
 yours. Do you understand?" 
 
 Birot had risen to his feet and was shaking his 
 fist in the face of the important functionary, who 
 had risen also, stupefied and vaguely alarmed at 
 seeing these clenched fists and blazing eyes so 
 near him.
 
 DAVIDfiE BIROT 269 
 
 "Monsieur le Maire!" 
 
 "I am going to demolish it for you, your com- 
 mune of Blandes! I will fix your administration 
 for you! I will let them know how you refuse 
 me justice and how you treat the democracy!" 
 
 "Monsieur Birot, you are asking an impossible 
 thing." 
 
 "So you think me superannuated too! You 
 think I am done for! They have been telling you 
 so? Well, Monsieur le Prefet, this will per- 
 haps be my last campaign, but I swear to you 
 that I will win it. I have the honour of bidding 
 you good day!" He took up his hat, clapped it 
 on his head inadvertently, and stalked toward 
 the door. 
 
 The prefect touched him on the arm. 
 
 "I am distressed to have to refuse you, but 
 you must be aware that directly, I am unable to 
 give you satisfaction." 
 
 The Mayor of Blandes made no reply beyond 
 a shrug of his shoulders, as he withdrew. He 
 marched away triumphantly with his adverb. 
 "Didn't he have a bad time of it, getting out 
 his 'directly'?'^ growled the good man as he de- 
 scended the stairs. "Didn't he though! I began 
 to think it would never come." 
 
 It was late afternoon, and the exasperating 
 hours, when flies, wasps, and hornets are reaping 
 their invisible harvest in the air, were giving 
 place to the languor of evening before the re- 
 freshing breezes rise, as Birot, whom no one had 
 heard enter, approached the arbour where his wife 
 and daughter were sewing in the shade. The
 
 270 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 sand cnmching under his feet made more noise 
 than the whole village of Blandes together, so 
 that the two women raised their heads and stayed 
 their busy needles. "Well! what news?" asked 
 David^e. Madame Birot asked nothing, but it 
 was to her that the big man made reply, out 
 of breath and mopping his face, but with eyes 
 flashing keenly above his handkerchief as he 
 passed it across his cheeks. "I have no need 
 of a doctor yet. Mamma Birot. I can still donm 
 my prefect like a younger man!" and patting his 
 daughter's cheek, he added: "I am sure they 
 will write to you, little one. It won't surprise 
 me at all if they order you, in future, always 
 to carry a huge antiphonaire when you attend 
 funerals! I will tell you all about it, but I must 
 go and take my coat off first." 
 
 David^e thanked him by a deep glance of her 
 dark eyes, a glance that seemed to say: "Why 
 are you, who can direct others, so weak where 
 you are yourself concerned, my poor father; 
 you, who are on the road to madness?" 
 
 The industrious needles began again to fly 
 along the white seams, and beneath the branches 
 of the honeysuckle, moist with drippings of 
 honey and haunted by bees, the talk was re- 
 sumed between Madame Birot and her daughter 
 — their first leisurely, confidential talk. "It is 
 true then, mamma, that you have never felt the 
 need of religious belief?" 
 
 "Your father would never have allowed me 
 to think differently. He has his political views; 
 I should only have broken up our household.
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 271 
 
 Besides, I am a believer, such as we all are around 
 here. What do you call believing, child?" 
 
 "Accepting God and through Him rising above 
 the life we lead and judging it." 
 
 "I leave it to your father to judge, and I also 
 accept the judgment of the neighbours and of 
 my own conscience. Doesn't your conscience suf- 
 fice for you?" 
 
 "No, it is so hard to be sure, without some 
 fixed standard. When you were at a loss, did 
 you not seek counsel?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "You have never known my difficulties, that 
 is evident." 
 
 A bee half drunk wiih. honeysuckle wine, and 
 clinging to a dead leaf, fell upon the white cloth, 
 and Davidee brushed him off with her thimble. 
 
 "I am trying to train consciences, dear mother, 
 and I feel that they escape me, that they are 
 perishing like new-born babies who have been 
 entrusted to my care, and for whom I have no 
 nourishment. I have nothing but maternal an- 
 guish." 
 
 "What are you saying? Do you not follow 
 the school programme?" 
 
 "Oh, mother! I follow it only too closely! I 
 ignore eveiy thing outside it. I am in doubt 
 about all the essentials of life. I have merely 
 intelligence enough to see the great problems, 
 not to solve them. And so I am tempted to 
 believe and to pray." 
 
 "You, Davidee?" 
 
 "And yet I remain doubtful and troubled,
 
 272 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 and that leaves me neither wise enough nor good 
 enough, neither a true guardian, nor a sister, 
 nor a mother, and my brood is immense and 
 cries at my knees, and I ask myself why I was 
 sent to these little ones, destitute as I am." 
 
 ''If your father heard you, how angry he 
 would be!" 
 
 "To such questions, mamma, anger brings no 
 solution. It seems to me that I have been given 
 tiny lighted candles, hke those w^hich you used 
 to put round a Savoy cake on my birthday: at 
 nine years old, nine Httle candles; at ten years, 
 ten Httle candles, and so on. And I have not 
 blown them out, oh no! but they have all gone 
 out between my fingers, and the odour of their 
 dead flame haunts me." 
 
 Madame Birot, who always worked as busily 
 as a spider, never stopping when she had begun 
 to spin her web— white or black — now let her 
 two hands fall idly in her lap. 
 
 "Da\ddee," she said gravely, "you worry and 
 grieve me, because I cannot follow w^here you are 
 going, I ought not; but I know where you will 
 end!" 
 
 "But I do not know, mamma. I am sure only 
 that I no longer have the thoughts of my youth. 
 I can no longer sleep, as they sleep here in Blandes." 
 
 The mother sighed, as she took up her needle 
 again, and bent over her work with reddened 
 eyelids. 
 
 "I would rather not talk of that," she said sadly. 
 "Leave me my sleep, which I call peace!" 
 
 "Peace means to me to draw the deep breath
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 273 
 
 of certainty, so full and pure and calm! I have 
 not attained it." 
 
 " Let us talk of other things, Davidee. All this 
 is beyond a poor old mother Hke me." 
 
 They spoke no more. Never had words like 
 these passed between them, under the shade of 
 the vine-clad arbour, never had such words been 
 uttered by them in the white house, and none 
 of the neighbouring houses would have under- 
 stood their meaning. 
 
 From the Green Diary. — "July thirty-first: My 
 father was to tell us at dinner of his conversation 
 with the prefect, but fatigue and, alas, other 
 reasons — of daily occurrence — barely suffered him 
 to utter a few broken phrases and disjointed 
 words which meant nothing. The most painful 
 part of it all was my father's consciousness of 
 his declining faculties, and of the cause, and how 
 irremediable it is. My mother tried to talk with 
 me and fill up these painful gaps in the con- 
 versation, but these attempts irritated father, 
 who saw in them merely an interruption and a 
 lack of attention toward himself, appealing to 
 me to sustain him in this \dew. It grieved me 
 to feel that mother had longed for this evening — 
 my first at home — looking forward to it as the 
 greatest joy of the 3^ear, a compensation for 
 many other evenings. At eight o'clock she went 
 up to her room to make sure that my father had 
 gone to bed and had not yielded to the tempta- 
 tion to rejoin at the cross-roads of Blandes those 
 whom he calls his friends. When she left me I 
 went out for a walk; the evening was still warm
 
 274 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 and bright. In the half-hghted cottages I could 
 see mothers passing back and forth, and catch 
 white gleams from the dishes they were carrying, 
 or the pillows for some little bed. All the youths 
 of the \dllage, and the old men as well, were 
 seated or standing in the door-ways of the freshly 
 painted houses, mostly in dull silence. As I 
 passed they raised their eyes and exchanged a 
 few words between themselves, always the same. 
 I was greeted here and there by a shght nod, but 
 they all made me feel that they no longer re- 
 garded me as one of them, no longer as a com- 
 panion or a friend, and that I had lost my place 
 in the village. It would take long to regain it 
 and it would never be quite the same. I am an 
 outsider now, education and absence have made 
 me an aUen here. 
 
 "The roads fringed by marsh-grasses, the httle 
 paths marking the ancient curves of the shore, 
 gave me a better welcome. I found again their 
 wonted silence, broken only by the creaking of 
 the sand beneath one's tread ; and the gleam, like 
 that of the red moon, shed by the setting sun over 
 these open spaces which belong to the sea but 
 once or twice a year, but through the long inter- 
 vening months are steeped in her brine and sown 
 with her vegetation. 
 
 " I saw the sea far off, a sheet of molten silver, 
 not deep enough here to form waves, its end- 
 less shallows divided by weirs, like tall black 
 hedges, where shell-fish are bred. The vision of 
 this shore pursued me. In my childhood I had 
 seen only its brightness; to-day I thought: the
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 275 
 
 tides rushed in along these shores once; there 
 were tall ships here, the sound of oars, the track 
 of incoming boats on the water. This was a 
 busy port where men formerly Hved Hves of 
 adventure and peril. But the shores have risen 
 above the tide, and the bold rovers of the open 
 sea enter here no longer; the water bears only 
 formless craft which crawl along between banks 
 of slime. 
 
 "Little by little it came over me that I was 
 destined to the same lot as the landscape; I felt 
 its desolation as a personal grief. No, I will not 
 Hve here, I will not let the sand invade my open 
 sea! I already belong to the sorrows which I 
 can console and which are life. And the thought 
 stole over me that I might learn to love Maieul 
 Jacquet. He is without cultivation, but at least 
 his mind is not distorted by the pride of a little 
 learning. He is capable of courage, even of that 
 highest courage which men no longer exert when 
 they beheve themselves to be demi-gods. He 
 knows himself to be a man, a poor, weak man; 
 he ^ has listened to a warning voice which was 
 partly mine, but still more that of the dead child, 
 and he has taken our reproofs as showing him his 
 duty, and in order to keep true to his promise, 
 he has gone away. He must be feeling as much 
 a stranger where he has gone as I am here; he 
 must be suffering; perhaps he still thinks of me. 
 If I were sure of him, sure that he would let me 
 guide him, I would seek my path and we would 
 follow it together. He would not hold me back 
 when I strove to be better; he would have con-
 
 276 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 fidence in me. I do not know whether I could 
 rise very high, but he would rise mth me. 
 
 "August fifth: I have been trying to read 
 some rehgious books which I found here at 
 home. How did they chance to be here on the 
 shelves of a man like my father, with his strong 
 anticlerical ideas? Why were the}^ spared from 
 among the three hundred volumes or so, consigned 
 to the attic? I did not dare to ask my mother. 
 But I found two; it is the more modem one by 
 Gratry that appeals to me most. I find there 
 a struggling faith, or rather an understanding 
 of the struggles of seekers after truth, which at- 
 tracts me. My state is one of trouble, of con- 
 tradiction, and feebleness of will, the dread of 
 sinking lower if I do not change, the sick shrink- 
 ing from effort, and utter solitude of soul. The 
 contemporar}^ masters of the spiritual life have 
 known this anguish and it is here that I learn it, 
 in my father's house. 
 
 "August sixth: My mother, who has a gift 
 for penetrating into the valleys of one's mind, 
 and who has lost — or never possessed — the taste 
 for the summits, has been making me describe 
 to her, in its minutest details, my life as a teacher; 
 she forgets nothing; she silently classifies names, 
 dates, and descriptions. This morning, on our 
 way home from the next village, with a load of 
 provisions — my arm still aches from the weight 
 of the eggs, chickens, and vegetables I carried — 
 we were talking about me, that inexhaustible 
 subject of her thoughts for the last twenty-three 
 years. She was hving over, through the power
 
 DAVIDfiE BIROT 277 
 
 of the love within her, nearly all that part of my 
 life least known to her, such as my years at the 
 normal school, and especially these last months 
 in Ardesie. I was watching her look of joy at 
 being near me; the fulness of contentment ex- 
 pressed in her poor little pale face as she trotted 
 along in my shadow, drinking in my voice, my 
 breath, my very soul. It was drizzling, and a 
 warm marsh mist enveloped us, but she did not 
 perceive it. She was rejoiced to have her hands 
 free and to feel that there were two of us, and I 
 fancied that no thought of the future mingled 
 with her pathetic happiness. But I was mis- 
 taken, she was thinking of my future. She said 
 to me, just as we reached the Blandes school- 
 house at the entrance to the village, where she 
 is used to walking in silence for fear of echoes: 
 'You must marry, Davidee. Your father has not 
 long to live, I cannot take care of you. Your 
 brother hardly belongs to the family, and will 
 give you more care than help. Only you will 
 not marry easily.' 
 
 "'That is your dream, mamma, far more than 
 mine.' 
 
 "'You could do what I have never been able 
 to do, and that is: educate your husband.' 
 
 "'With what? With my alphabet and my 
 school-books?' 
 
 " ' No, you have a power in you for raising others.' 
 
 '"That is why I left you both. But when I 
 was put to the proof I recognized my weakness.' 
 
 "I have been deeply moved by her words: 'a 
 power to raise others.'"
 
 278 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 From the Green Diary. — "August fourteenth: 
 Phrosine is calling for help. She writes to me: 
 ' Mademoiselle I have found Le Floch, he is work- 
 ing in the Forest of Vouvant, which is indeed 
 a long way from Sologne. He caught sight 
 of me and was frightened, and has not reap- 
 peared at the lodgings where he was in the habit 
 of coming once a week to change his clothes and 
 sleep in a bed. I know that he said: "She 
 wants me to take her back ; but if I find her here, 
 I shall leave the country." He did not have our 
 boy with him, but I know that he is alive, and 
 is on a farm, but I cannot find out where. Come 
 and help me! you would not have a very long 
 journey to make. They tell me that we are in 
 the Vendee here. You can talk to Le Floch for 
 me; he would not listen to me. If you do not 
 come, my child is lost, my only one. I may as 
 well tell you also that I have no money left, that 
 I owe several debts, and that I've come to the 
 end of my courage.'" 
 
 The letter was dated at a little village on 
 the borders of the great Vendean Forest. Davi- 
 dee hesitated. What service could she render? 
 Would they ask anything more of her than the 
 payment of a baker's bill, or a week's lodging? 
 And into what company would she be thrown? 
 Why should she leave Blandes? And as she 
 still hesitated, she remembered the words spoken 
 by Httle Anna! "I give mamma to you." And 
 so, as soon as the Feast of the Assumption was 
 over, she set out.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE MEETING. 
 
 The forest began a short distance away, and 
 stretched across the whole horizon. It covered 
 the hills and valleys as far as a distant knoll 
 crowned with lofty old trees, which dominated 
 the scene, and whence poured across the plain the 
 breath of the sea and the sunset light. The sun 
 was descending rapidly below the forest, and the 
 colonnade of massive oak trunks was crimsoned 
 by it. It was a wonderful moment of illumina- 
 tion for the roots and mosses and low bushes 
 springing up in the deeper glades, bringing their 
 share of light to all the recesses buried in shadow. 
 Beyond the forest, on the outskirts of the village, 
 stretched a plain partly clothed with stubble, 
 partly given over to patches of potatoes and 
 strips of maize which had not yet raised their 
 tiny tufts very high ; a straight road crossed these 
 cultivated fields. Along this road, all through 
 the winter, carts descended laden with tall tree 
 trunks whose tips trailed behind, tracing scrawls 
 in the dust. Now, in the late summer, the har- 
 vest being over, hardly a creature was visible 
 on this long ribbon of road, stretching pale be- 
 tween its violet banks. Two women, however, 
 were seated in the window of a room over the 
 
 279
 
 280 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 Cafe of the Wood-cutters, watching the sinking 
 sun and looking out for the man whom they ex- 
 pected to see approaching. 
 
 He had said to the hostess the previous Satur- 
 day: "A week hence, mother, have my two 
 shirts ready for me, and a pound of lard." And 
 on the strength of these words, Phrosine and Davi- 
 dee sat waiting for him, in great trouble of mind. 
 For the last quarter of an hour thay had looked 
 anxiously up the road for the figure of the wood- 
 cutter descending the gentle slope. First he 
 would be a tiny speck on the dusty expanse, 
 gradually drawing nearer, until the wife could 
 recognize the face she had not seen for so many 
 years, and the man would have to tell his secret, 
 upon which her whole future depended. "You 
 must let him sit down to table;" Phrosine said; 
 "when he has ordered a bottle of wine and begun 
 to drink he will not be so rude to the people here 
 as to go away without giving an account of him- 
 self. He is a rough man, but more so with me 
 than with others." 
 
 "Then shall I show myself?" 
 
 "Yes, you can appear before him on the stair- 
 case there. When he hears the stairs creak he 
 will think it is I, and will half rise from his seat. 
 Do not be afraid of him if he looks ugly; that will 
 only be for me, not for you. \^lien he catches 
 sight of your white hands he will see that they 
 are no washer-woman's hands, and he will be 
 polite enough; perhaps he will even be afraid of 
 you." 
 
 "But when I tell him you are there?"
 
 DAVIDfiE BIROT 281 
 
 Phrosine shivered, and without ceasing to gaze 
 up the road said: 
 
 "He will fly into a rage, and all will be lost — 
 perhaps forever." 
 
 She had bent forward, leaning on the window- 
 bar, while Davidee was standing behind her. 
 The sun was now glowing red between the oaks, 
 and its rays no longer falling on the plain, were 
 mustering an array of clouds above the forest. 
 ''That means a hot breeze to-morrow," said 
 Phrosine. "The reapers will have a hard time 
 cutting the last crops." Then she was silent for 
 a while. "What if he doesn't come? My eyes 
 are as tired already as if I had been sewing all 
 day." 
 
 "Do not look at that red sky. Stay inside 
 the room, I will warn you when he is coming." 
 
 " No, I must see my fate the moment it appears. 
 Don't you see somebody at the edge of the for- 
 est there?" 
 
 "It is only a bush. The darkness changes 
 everything." 
 
 "He is afraid of me! Of me, whom he once 
 courted." 
 
 The shadows were now falling and making all 
 things alike. Voices could be heard calling here 
 and there to summon a loiterer home. Smoke was 
 rising from the farm-house chimneys showing that 
 supper was ready. The two women were silent, 
 and now as they looked down, they saw beneath 
 the window on the narrow road bordered by hedge- 
 rows, a young girl appear. \^Tiere had she come 
 from? She was waiting, grave and trembling, turn-
 
 282 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 ing her head also toward the sinking sun. She was 
 leaning over a stile and presently on the further 
 side of the hedge a young man came in sight, tall 
 and agile, striding over the furrows of the next field, 
 but with no sign of haste. He was evidently flat- 
 tered to find the girl waiting for him, and his thin 
 face, which was already losing its youthful fresh- 
 ness, beamed with self-satisfaction. The girl, on 
 seeing him approach, half closed her eyes, as if 
 for her only, at this evening hour, the sunlight 
 was too bright to bear. The sweetness of her 
 dream of love wrapped her about, brought a 
 smile to her Hps, and held her motionless. When 
 he was quite near, her two virginal hands, those 
 hands which shared her dream, were stretched 
 out to him across the hedge, like two lilies open- 
 ing in the shade. He scarcely noticed the ten- 
 der gesture, but springing over the gate, caught 
 the child in a passionate embrace; but the few 
 ardent words interchanged between the two died 
 away before reaching as high as the window where 
 the two women sat watching. Only a murmur 
 of voices rose on the air, and floated away, as 
 they disappeared across the lonely trackless 
 plain. Phrosine followed them with a bitter 
 glance. "Oh!" she cried, "how happy that 
 miserable girl is!" 
 
 At that moment David^e caught sight of a 
 man's form detaching itself from the gloom of 
 the forest, and beginning to descend the slope. 
 "Some one is coming along the road," she said. 
 The other made no answer. "He is walking 
 rapidly, carrying a small bundle on a stick across
 
 DAVIDfiE BIROT 283 
 
 his shoulder. He has just reached the cross 
 which stands in the midst of that field of maize." 
 
 "Look what he does! If he bows his head it 
 is not my man." 
 
 "He has passed without glancing at it. His 
 head is turned toward the tavern." 
 
 "Then it is he!" 
 
 Phrosine had already drawn back into the 
 darkest corner of the room and Da\idee stood 
 to one side of the window, but both continued 
 to gaze out at the figure approaching in the djdng 
 day, and when he was too near to be visible from 
 above, they listened to the sound of his heavy 
 shoes on the threshold, and the creak of the latch 
 under the sudden jerk of his powerful hand. 
 
 "Well, mother!" a loud voice called out, "is 
 my linen ready?" 
 
 "Certainly, Monsieur Le Floch, we have not 
 forgotten you." 
 
 "Serve me a bottle of white wine then, as 
 usual. There is nobody here at least?" 
 
 "You are my only customer, you see!" 
 
 The women in the room above did not stir, 
 for fear of gi^ang the he to the landlady's words. 
 They held their breath in order to hear every 
 movement which told them that Le Floch was 
 taking his seat at the table and making himself 
 at home. The landlady uncorked the bottle, 
 and he, having filled a glass, tossed off the con- 
 tents with a gurgling sound audible all over the 
 silent house. Having set down his glass, Le 
 Floch drew a long breath, and puffed and panted, 
 as if overcome by the fatigue of the day's work
 
 284 DAVIDfiE BIROT 
 
 and his long tramp. The woman of the house 
 excused herself, saying that she must attend to 
 her work; a door was heard to open and shut 
 behind her, then the wood-cutters' cafe seemed 
 wrapt in sleep for the night. At that moment 
 Davidee descended the stairs, the boards creak- 
 ing slightly beneath her tread. From the dark- 
 ness of the stairway the wood-cutter saw by the 
 light of the one lamp suspended overhead, first a 
 skirt trimmed with fine embroidery, then a white 
 and delicate hand grasping the banister. The girl 
 paused a moment, with her heart beating rapidly, 
 then descended the remaining steps and advanced 
 to meet the man. The surprise was sufficient 
 to arouse his violent temper, and deepen the 
 furrows on his thin, sallow face. He no longer 
 resembled a lion ; a narrow, yellow beard fell over 
 his shabby velveteen waistcoat; his eyes were 
 blue and hard, and, apparently not in the least 
 intimidated by this unexpected apparition, seemed 
 to ask : " Who are you? What do 3^ou want with 
 me? Have I ever done you any harm? What 
 have you to charge me with, since you are evi- 
 dently not afraid of me?" 
 
 Da\ddee came straight to the table and said, 
 as the man raised his hand to his felt-hat : 
 
 "Monsieur Le Floch, I am a friend of your 
 wife's." 
 
 Instantly his face assumed a hostile expres- 
 sion. "Is she here then? I suspected as much!" 
 
 "She has sent me to speak to you, and you 
 must listen to me, because she forgives everything, 
 and what she asks of you is merely justice."
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 285 
 
 This sudden recall of the wrong he had done, 
 this appeal to justice, and the youth of the speaker, 
 made some impression on the wood-cutter's mind; 
 but a disagreeable smile crossed his thin Hps as 
 he said: 
 
 "She doesn't want us to come together again, 
 I suppose?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "She doesn't want a divorce?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "So much the better! That always gives a 
 lot of bother." 
 
 "She only wants to know her son." 
 
 "Oh, well! that's a different matter. We can 
 talk that over." 
 
 "Here she is," repHed Davidee, drawing back. 
 
 The man's face turned ghastly pale on seeing 
 the woman who had suffered so much at his 
 hands. She was half laughing, awkwardly, and 
 without meaning to do so, but in order that he 
 might not fear her, and that hatred might not 
 have the first word between them. 
 
 And, after all, she was a woman, and in spite 
 of everything she remembered that he had once 
 loved her. Upstairs in the dark room she had 
 already smoothed and pushed back from her fore- 
 head the hair which brightened her face — still 
 young and bold — whose anxious expression was 
 ready to change at the least sign from the man 
 before her. 
 
 Timidly — at least in appearance — she drew up 
 a stool and seated herself between the two rows 
 of cafe tables. "It is years since we have seen 
 each other," she said.
 
 286 DAVIDfiE BIROT 
 
 The wood-cutter shook his head, as if to say- 
 that it was no use tiying to move him. 
 
 "Without doubt; what then?" 
 
 "And yet I must explain to you how things 
 are. My Httle girl is dead " 
 
 "Ah, so much the worse!" 
 
 "Our Httle girl, she whom you never knew. 
 She died on the fifth of May." 
 
 "Of this year?" 
 
 "Yes, just three months ago." 
 
 The man appeared to be reflecting, "Where 
 was I at that time?" but he merely said: 
 
 "If I had known it, I would have sent a wreath. 
 But when people are separated as we are " 
 
 "Yes, I know." 
 
 "Are you still a maid at the school-house? I 
 heard about that through Flahaut, who is from 
 Ard^sie, and Pere Moine." 
 
 "Yes, but that doesn't give me enough to live 
 on." 
 
 "I am poor, too; we were both made for poverty 
 it seems." 
 
 "Perhaps so. But I cannot be reconciled to 
 the death of my child, unless the other is given 
 back to me. I wasn't always a good wife, but 
 one does as one can, Henri! I am not in the 
 habit of lying, as you know, and I own that there 
 are things you can reproach me with ; but I have 
 always been a mother. Say, Le Floch! tell me 
 where my boy is, that I may go and fetch him." 
 
 The man, in spite of his boldness, hardly knew 
 how to answer when the past was brought up; 
 there were wrongs to his account too. But when 
 it was a question of this living son who was stiU
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 287 
 
 dependent on him, and whose whereabouts he 
 alone knew, he was more at his ease. 
 
 "I see what you are after, Phrosine. You 
 want to profit by the boy's wages?" 
 
 She answered "No," with a shrug of her shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 "He earns a good bit to be sure, but it won't 
 be for you." 
 
 "I only want him. He can keep his money 
 if he chooses." 
 
 "Bah! Nobody can fool me; I had difficulty 
 enough in getting him away from the Charity 
 Board. They didn't want to give him up, just 
 because he had turned out a big, promising lad, 
 and because I had the appearance, it seems, of a 
 man who knows the duty of children toward 
 their parents. It took a lot of visits, and threats 
 too, before they would let him go." 
 
 The wood-cutter's impudent laugh resounded 
 through the room. 
 
 "For the first year or so the boy was pretty 
 reasonable, and helped his father along. But 
 at present he has changed his mind. He gives 
 nothing for nothing. One would think he was a 
 bastard, the money sticks so to his fingers." 
 
 "He is not much like you, certainly." 
 
 The man shook his head and his lips curled 
 in a spiteful grimace. 
 
 "You want to get the better of me, Phrosine. 
 But you shall not have what I couldn't get. I 
 will not tell you where he is." 
 
 "And what if I find him?" 
 
 "I will prevent your carrying him ofif! There
 
 288 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 are gendarmes about! It would please you too 
 much to make a fool of me. I say no!" 
 
 "I implore you, Le Floch!" 
 
 "Not much can be got out of me by prayers, 
 as you know." 
 
 She was about to throw herself at his feet when 
 Davidee stepped forward from the shadow of the 
 staircase. 
 
 " Say yes, Monsieur Le Floch," she said. " Tell 
 us the name of the farm where the child is, write 
 on a page out of my note-book that Phrosine is 
 his true mother, and in return I will make you a 
 present of this." 
 
 And holding out a hundred-franc note, she laid 
 it on the table. 
 
 "My soul! but you've got rich friends, Phro- 
 sine," said the man. He unfolded the bill, blink- 
 ing as if the sight of it dazzled his eyes, then 
 said: "Give me a pen. But I warn you that you 
 will get nothing out of him. You are making a 
 bad bargain, you women! He has a will of his 
 own." 
 
 Davidee tore a page out of her note-book and 
 gave the man her pencil, while Phrosine looked 
 on in stupefaction, as the hea\y hand wrote: 
 
 " Maurice, farmer's boy at La Planche, near-by, 
 the woman who will hand you this letter is your 
 mother, Phrosine. She and I didn't agree, but 
 she is your mother. You can obey her if you 
 choose. 
 
 "Your father, 
 
 "Le Floch."
 
 DAVIDfiEBIROT 289 
 
 It was Davidee who took the written sheet 
 from him and replaced it in the note-book from 
 which she had torn it. For a moment not a 
 word was uttered in this room where the fate of 
 several beings had just been bought and paid for. 
 The lamp swinging on a chain from the ceiHng 
 cast its circle of light upon the group. Le Floch 
 was the first to recover full possession of himself. 
 "I mustn't linger," he said, turning toward 
 Phrosine, "there is some one who will be jealous!" 
 A strange gleam of cruelty shot through his 
 hard blue eyes. He felt that he was alienating 
 his son, and was avenging himself. 
 
 "She won't have her man passing the night 
 in a tavern. It's queer, Phrosine, she has hair 
 the colour of yours, fox-colour," 
 
 She drew herself up. "Wolf-colour, you mean. 
 All the same she may not be as handsome as I, 
 the wench! There is a chance of it !" 
 
 She spoke insolently, with her arms akimbo, 
 looking handsome indeed, her somewhat waning 
 beauty rekindled by excitement. The man stud- 
 ied her face, not without complacency; he seemed 
 to be recalling the sweetheart, the bride of 
 old days, when the neighbours called Phrosine 
 "the beautiful she-wolf." Then he rose with 
 a sneering laugh, exclaiming: "At least she is 
 younger!" 
 
 And that was the end of all between them. 
 Phrosine recoiled. "You are the same as ever," 
 she murmured, "you have not changed." But 
 she did not say it too loudly, for fear the man 
 should repent ha\'ing signed the letter. He,
 
 290 DAVIDfiE BIROT 
 
 meanwhile, was pouring himself a parting glass, 
 which he tossed off at one draught, after saying 
 to Phrosine, as it behooved him to do: "Your 
 health!" Then he called the hostess. 
 
 "Give me my washing, mother." 
 
 "Here it is." 
 
 He untied the bundle on the end of his stick, 
 put in the clean shirts in place of the others, and 
 saluting Davidee with his hand to his forehead, 
 and without a glance at his wife — though he was 
 conscious of her in every drop in his veins — he 
 turned toward the door. 
 
 Then pushing it half open, and letting a blast 
 of night wind blow through the room, he said 
 in a hoarse voice which hid some emotion: 
 
 "Now I go back to the forest. You won't 
 hear of me again." 
 
 And he went his wa}^, the sound of his steps 
 echoing like fingers tapping on the window pane, 
 as they died away in the distance; and the vast 
 night poured over village and fields its silent tide 
 of wind and darkness. 
 
 Davidee scarcely slept. She was thinking: 
 "No moral wretchedness has ever moved me like 
 this. This man and woman while young, were 
 drawn to each other by a mere physical attrac- 
 tion; they called this love; and the time while 
 it lasted, marriage. Other temptations came, and 
 they had no souls to resist them. What an end- 
 ing to that which should have been eternal!" 
 
 At daybreak the two w^omen, who had risen 
 while the village was still slumbering, were walk- 
 ing along the road which skirted the forest to
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 291 
 
 the east, making slight detours wherever it en- 
 countered too steep a hill, then resuming its 
 direct course like a compass that has been shaken. 
 They were sajdng to each other: "Which of us 
 shall speak? We are equally unknown to him, 
 you and I. And which would be the better plan, 
 to enquire for him first from the people at the 
 farm, or to take him by surprise at his work?" 
 
 " If only his father has not hed to us?" exclaimed 
 Phrosine. 
 
 "I do not think so," Davidee answered. 
 
 "You do not know all his wickedness, any more 
 than you know mine." 
 
 "Why do you speak like that?" 
 
 "Oh, my poor girl! There are bad people 
 enough in this world, he and I among them. They 
 called me the 'she-wolf and they were right." 
 
 "The sun is rising," said Davidee, "it is already 
 tingeing the tops of the poplars. The working day 
 is beginning; shall we turn here?" 
 
 "Yes; the woman at the inn said: 'When 
 you see great meadows with tall trees on them, 
 leave the high-road and follow a cart track lead- 
 ing up to the pond of La Planche.'" 
 
 They followed the road along which the win- 
 ter's cart-ruts had hardened, and the seed, which 
 had fallen into them, had sprung up here and 
 there in grain of many sorts. The fields had 
 grown barer, dropping on the left-hand into a 
 narrow valley, enclosed between two spurs of 
 the forest. They were mostly stubble fields of 
 wheat or oats, but here and there was one whose 
 crop was not yet garnered, which made a ruddy
 
 292 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 spot on the paler slopes. In spite of the early- 
 hour, waves of heat were beginning to quiver 
 along the valley and the air was filled with an 
 odour of fresh straw and ripe plums. When 
 Phrosine and Da\'idee had followed the cart track 
 for a hundred yards or so, they discovered that 
 a causeway, overgrown with bushes, intersected 
 the road, and that beyond it was a pond fringed 
 with reeds, and above the pond, at a height 
 where the winter floods could not reach them, 
 rose the buildings belonging to a great farm — 
 dwelling-house, stables, barns, and sheepfolds — 
 surrounding a hollow square. 
 
 "This must be La Planche," said Davidee. 
 
 And shading her eyes with her hand, she looked 
 aromid for hving beings, men or animals, amid 
 this silent scene. Phrosine, standing mute and 
 downcast, apparently lost in memories of the 
 preceding day and of a remoter past, and dread- 
 ing the thought of how the next few moments 
 might affect her whole future, left all to her com- 
 panion. 
 
 "I see far-off on the plain,'' said Davidee, "on 
 the shady edge of the forest, a flock of sheep with 
 a shepherd leading them. And across the pond, 
 half-way up the slope, I can see two reapers. 
 To which shall we go first?" 
 
 "To the nearest," repHed Phrosine. 
 
 They accordingly drew nearer, crossing the 
 causeway, and standing motionless beside the 
 wheat-field where the crop was half cut and 
 half standing. The reaper who approached them 
 first, his body swaying with the motion of his
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 293 
 
 scythe, clad only in a half unbuttoned shirt, and 
 trousers supported by cords over his shoulders, 
 was a veiy young fellow, strong and rough, as 
 appeared in the vigour of his movements, who 
 did not relax his activity on catching sight of the 
 two strangers standing at the edge of the field. 
 Were they pleasure seekers, or women from the 
 nearest town, stopping to ask the way to the 
 fountain or the village, or to enquire at what house 
 in the neighbourhood they could buy fresh milk? 
 He had seen many of their kind, here and there, 
 wherever he chanced to be working. His con- 
 sciousness of masculine superiority and his natu- 
 ral shyness combined to make him ill at ease 
 in such encounters. Having seen that these were 
 women, he immediately pulled his hat down over 
 his eyes, so that his face was hardly visible. 
 He drew himself up at the end of the row of 
 sheaves, seized the handle of his sc>i}he close to 
 the blade, and with a rapid motion struck it in 
 the gromid; so that the steel rang out as he called 
 to them: 
 
 "What are you staring at me for? I am at 
 work, is there anything surprising about that?" 
 
 "His look is hard and his voice deceitful. He 
 is like his father! It is Maurice! I am sure of 
 it," Phrosine said to herself, as she stood directly 
 facing the reaper. She made no attempt to 
 attract him, she forgot all the words she had pre- 
 pared to say when looking forward to this pos- 
 sible encounter, but without a movement, with 
 no sign of life except her tortured gaze, she studied 
 every feature in the face of the child, grown to
 
 294 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 manhood; the forehead, the restless eyebrows, 
 the close cropped hair formmg a pomt above the 
 nose, the lips without a curve, strained tight even 
 in repose, and those eyes — above all — ^gleaming 
 blue beneath the swollen, reddened hds, dissatis- 
 fied eyes always seeking to bathe in some fresh 
 source of light and passion. The young man 
 now turned toward Davidee, and seeming to find 
 her appearance pleasing, asked with a shrug: 
 
 "How does she know my name?" 
 
 "How do I know your name?" cried Phrosine. 
 
 "Yes, who told it to you?" 
 
 "I gave it to you; I am your mother!" 
 
 The reaper merely shrugged his shoulders again, 
 with a look of disdain for this pair of advent- 
 uresses, who were making him waste his time. 
 
 "I don't know what that is; I never had a 
 mother." 
 
 And he turned away, lowering his scythe and 
 preparing to get to work again. His companion 
 was not far off, and the}^ could hear the swish 
 of the falling ears as he drew near. 
 
 "Come, you women, move along! I have no 
 time to spend listening to you." 
 
 But the mother had already stepped in amid 
 the wheat he was about to reap. Her eyes 
 were wet with tears, her hands clasped in appeal, 
 as she approached her child without venturing to 
 touch him. 
 
 "I am your true mother, who has come all the 
 way from Ardesie to find you! Your father must 
 have spoken to you of Ardesie, where I live!" 
 
 "No."
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 295 
 
 "Never? Well, it was he, all the same, who 
 told me where you were at work, Maurice. I had 
 a hard enough time finding you. I am all alone 
 now; do not send me away; do not be as hard 
 to me as others have been. I want you to know 
 me at least, and to talk a Httle with me." 
 
 Another voice, that of Davidee, who was stand- 
 ing a httle further off, now joined with hers. 
 
 "It is quite true, all she is telling you; you 
 may believe her." 
 
 But Maurice Le Floch, fearful of ridicule, know- 
 ing that he was observed by the farmer's boy, 
 who had looked up from his reaping and could 
 hear all that was said, merely repeated: 
 
 "Come! step out of the wheat! If you, too, 
 want me to give you all the money I earn, I warn 
 you that the other didn't succeed." 
 
 "I don't want any of your money. I want 
 you to know me; and when we know each other, 
 I want you to come and hve with me, if you will. 
 I cannot force you to come, but I want you to 
 love me." 
 
 Having said this, she drew back, for he had bent 
 forward, resting his hands on the two handles 
 of his scythe, and was saying: 
 
 "Come to La Blanche after the nooning. You 
 can talk to Master Emoux, who is my employer." 
 Then with a half-circular sweep of his blade, he 
 cut down a swath of ripe wheat, and buiying 
 himself in the crop, with his head scarcely rising 
 above the sheaves, he vanished more rapidly 
 than he had appeared, leaving the two women to 
 go their way. But he could still hear Phrosine
 
 296 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 cr^ang; and being young, his heart was somewhat 
 stirred. 
 
 "I will go with you as far as Ernoux's farm/' 
 said Davidee, who had been trjdng to comfort 
 Phrosine, "then I must be on my way back to 
 Blandes, or they will be growing anxious about me." 
 
 She was happy, but not with that complete 
 happiness which she had hoped for. She would 
 have been glad if Phrosine had said: "I will 
 not leave him. It may be, he, too, will try to es- 
 cape from me, but I shall win him over, you will 
 see! He does not know what it is to have a 
 mother. Oh, I will never touch his money! I 
 am still young, in spite of what Le Floch said; 
 I can work; I shall bring him back with me." 
 But Phrosine was silent, disappointed at having 
 found the son so like the father; and Davidee 
 wondered within herself as she walked along 
 beside her: "Would she have come if she had 
 know^n her son?" 
 
 The summer breeze blew through the forest, 
 over the harvest-fields, and the pond w^here the 
 broken stalks of wheat were dipping their heads 
 in the water. It was past two o'clock when the 
 two travellers, after breakfasting in the village, 
 presented themselves at the farm of La Planche. 
 Emoux, the farmer, who was expecting them, 
 received them civilly, and in order to do them the 
 greater honour, showed them into the best room, 
 where the highly polished wood of three wardrobes, 
 a chest of drawers, and a carved bedstead, gleamed 
 in the midst of a tranquilhty which was seldom 
 violated.
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 297 
 
 He was a short, stout man, whose shaven face 
 resembled that of a pettifogging lawyer. He 
 had just come from the bam, where he had been 
 sleeping with all his family when the watch-dog's 
 bark had roused him; he even had a few blades 
 of straw left sticking in his hair. He hstened 
 with a judicial air to Davidee's narrative, ap- 
 pearing to attach especial significance to the 
 paper signed by Le Floch, and never taking his 
 eyes off Phrosine, while her companion was speak- 
 ing. Then he called Maurice and made him 
 sit down opposite the window, facing the hght. 
 
 "Maurice," he said, "I believe that she is your 
 real mother." 
 
 "That may be." 
 
 "She has a paper sa5ang so; and then there is 
 the resemblance between you, which no one can 
 deny, though it would be hard to say where it 
 Hes. It's not the eyes, it's not the forehead, it's 
 not the nose." 
 
 "I have nothing to say to that!" replied the 
 lad, "but what does she want of me? I am well- 
 off here, but as soon as my father found me I was 
 obliged to give him all my money. Now that 
 my mother has found me, I am resolved to give 
 her nothing. That's what I say, nothing." 
 
 "I approve of that, my boy, but all the same 
 if she is your mother, she has the rights of a 
 mother. She can carry you away into her own 
 country." 
 
 "Oh! If that is all there is to fear!" 
 
 "But later on, when you have finished your 
 time with me, you might go with her! Mean-
 
 298 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 while I have hired you, you are satisfied with 
 me and I with you; there's no reason why you 
 should leave at present." 
 
 "Moreover, how do I know that at her house 
 I should have my own room?" 
 
 Phrosine was not greatly surprised at this bar- 
 gaining. All her life she had been governed 
 and oppressed by the selfishness of men. First 
 of her father, then of her husband, then of her 
 lovers and even her neighbours, who had made 
 free use of her hands at the tubs; and yet the 
 mother had not thought that her first interview 
 with, her new found son would be hke this. Cer- 
 tainly she had reckoned that her child would help 
 her to earn a living, but above all, she had re- 
 joiced through her maternal tenderness, bereft 
 as she w^as of her dead child; and for once the 
 disappointment was too much for this fiery na- 
 ture, which injustice and suffering revolted, but 
 could not crush. 
 
 Bending toward her son, Phrosine now saw 
 only him; she had but one thought, and her child 
 did not understand: "When will he throw him- 
 self into my arms, my first-bom, for whom I have 
 suffered? He, the only one left me now; he 
 whom I have sought for, amid distress which no 
 one knows; he whose kisses I have missed for a 
 dozen years? Oh, Maurice! Maurice! To-mor- 
 row I will be your servant and will wash your 
 clothes; to-morrow you may reproach me if the 
 soup is too thin, or the wind whistles under my 
 door; to-morrow you may insist on my giving 
 you all the wages earned by your aging niother to
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 299 
 
 whom you will give nothing; but to-day only 
 embrace me!" He remained seated stolidly in 
 his chair, with a look of suspicion on his face, his 
 glance constantly seeking Farmer Emoux, whom 
 he knew to be a shrewd man and hard to de- 
 ceive. One would have thought that he was 
 discussing the terms of a contract which had 
 been proposed to him, and that there was only 
 one question to examine and decide: "Would 
 the new place be worth the old one?" 
 
 It was Davidee who replied to him, as his 
 mother was silent. 
 
 "Will there be room also for my bicycle?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "The house is large enough," answered Davi- 
 dee, who was thinking of the house on the Plains. 
 "The bicycle can easily be sheltered there." 
 
 "And is the land over that way harder to work 
 in than here? The woman says nothing," and 
 he pointed to his mother. "She cannot guar- 
 antee that I shall have well-paid work, at the 
 same price as with Master Emoux. Does one have 
 Sunday free, at least, on those farms? Do they 
 give meat and wine when the work is hardest?" 
 
 "The labourers there look contented," said 
 Davidee; "they do not complain more than 
 elsewhere." 
 
 It was the farmer of La Planche who first under- 
 stood the mother's silence. He was in haste to 
 resume his work, having caught sight, through 
 the window, of a wagon going out empty to the 
 fields beside the pond, where the harvest was not 
 yet gathered.
 
 300 davidEebirot 
 
 "Come along," he said. "You shall go when 
 autumn comes. Embrace j^our mother there! 
 You can see well enough that that's all she's wait- 
 ing for." 
 
 The youth hesitated a little, Phrosine had 
 risen, he rose too. Suddenly he felt himself 
 enveloped in an ardent love such as he ignored 
 as yet; he was pressed to this heart which was 
 beating for him, and words he had never before 
 heard reached the ears of the friendless waif. 
 
 "My Maurice! My dear one! Embrace me 
 again! Tell me that you are going to love me!" 
 When he had escaped from the maternal arms, 
 Maurice Le Floch only said: "It changes me to 
 have a mother! I shall get used to it, perhaps, 
 but I shall not give her my money!" 
 
 Picking up his straw hat, which he had thrown 
 on the floor, he shook himself like a dog that 
 has been patted, and remarked aside to Farmer 
 Ernoux: "I must know, all the same, whether 
 the pay is good over yonder; without that — " 
 And Phrosine heard him. 
 
 Late that same evening, Phrosine and Davi- 
 d^e returned to the \illage which they had left, 
 in the morning. Phrosine was no longer the 
 mother ennobled by the hope of \\dnning back 
 her son. She had judged her child, and found 
 him too much like his father. Her future would 
 never be brightened by him nor her daily task 
 Mghtened. All that she had expended of fatigue 
 and time, money and ingenuity and baffled 
 hopes, had only served to discover this calculat- 
 ing being, through whom she would have to suf-
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 301 
 
 fer still more. She would take him away with 
 her! Oh, that was certain, at whatever cost! 
 That was her victory over her husband. But 
 this victory promised her no joy, gave her no 
 strength. 
 
 Then, out of her evil past, old sins awakened, 
 and she listened to their voice. David^e heard 
 her laugh, but did not understand. Phrosine 
 was thinking of festivals and betrayals, and of 
 the snares she would lay, and what she could 
 do to attract Maieul; her heart was irritated, 
 savage and wild as a wasp on the brim of a wine- 
 vat. As she stalked along, with her bold free 
 stride, chewing a spray of mint which she had 
 gathered beside the road, the penetrating odour 
 floated in the air behind her. The village had 
 come in sight, in midst of the plain, the hour of 
 parting was near and Phrosine decided to speak; 
 she said without looking at Davidee: 
 
 "I have made up my mind! I shall settle 
 down near La Planche until November; I do 
 not choose that Maurice should stay with his 
 father. He may help me or he may not; I will 
 not leave him to Le Floch. We shall go away 
 from here together, and afterward — we shall see!" 
 
 She was silent a moment. Then suddenly 
 changing her tone, which now became as ag- 
 gressive as in the worst days of the past: 
 
 "Have you any news from the slate-cutter of 
 La Foret?" 
 
 She did not name Maieul. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "But I have, though!"
 
 302 DAVIDfiE BIROT 
 
 "From himself?" asked Davidee quickly. 
 
 "No, but if I had chosen to hear directly from 
 himself I could have done so. It appears that he 
 is successful." 
 
 "So much the better!" 
 
 "There's a rumour that you are going to marry 
 him." Davidee drew away from the woman walk- 
 ing beside her along the highway. 
 
 "Why do you speak to me of him, and spite- 
 fully, as you are doing?" 
 
 "I told you that I was bad. Look out for me!" 
 
 "Phrosine, what I may wish to do some day I 
 do not know, and it concerns no one but myself." 
 
 "I beg pardon! It concerns me in the first 
 place, for I have rights over him." 
 
 "But he left you!" 
 
 "And for whose sake? Do you think such 
 things can be forgiven?" 
 
 "For the sake of the child whom you were 
 killing, between you." 
 
 Phrosine stopped, and throwing away the 
 spray of mint, she turned upon Da^ddee: 
 
 "I can no longer live! My husband has left 
 me for another, my son will not share his daily 
 bread with. me. Did he not say so often enough? 
 Did you not hear him? Now you want to take 
 away my lover!" 
 
 "Phrosine!" 
 
 "I let him go, but I did not give him up to 
 you." 
 
 Davidee 's voice rising, clear and ardent upon 
 the air, replied: "Well, then, try to take him 
 back now that he loves me!"
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 303 
 
 Their words seemed to gallop^ like a pack of 
 hounds, across the plain. The two women heard 
 them dying away in the distance as they parted. 
 
 Phrosine returned to the \dllage, to which the 
 farm of La Planche belonged, and Davidee went 
 on alone to the wood-cutter's inn. She was not 
 greatly troubled, though Phrosine's threat had 
 made her speak at last and utter words she did 
 not know she had even thought. 
 
 She had owned her love, and although it was 
 not to Maieul, she felt herself already a be- 
 trothed, who has said, "I love you, I am yours," 
 and who looks mih security and wonder at the 
 brightness which that new light casts over a 
 dark and troubled sea. The beam does not 
 destroy the unknown, but shines through it. 
 She had set out on a rapid walk on lea\dng Phro- 
 sine; as she approached the houses she saw, at 
 the end of a street, one lighted window, and in- 
 stantly the vast night was without ambush and 
 without fears. This was the only sign of life 
 visible; the girl now advanced more slowly; not 
 a sound was floating through the warm air which 
 gently stirred the leaves and shook the last sheaves 
 in the wheat-fields. The light of the stars shed 
 a peaceful gleam over the tiled roofs, while all 
 beneath was in shadow. 
 
 "I was obhged to speak! By loving him I 
 defend him against her, against himself. Is not 
 that the ambition I have always had? To raise, 
 to draw souls out of their weight of misery. I 
 shall have w^on him. I shall ask of him only 
 good-will. What matters it if he is poor and
 
 304 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 ignorant? If he obeys noble counsels he is noble. 
 He has already parted from this woman. To 
 breathe the same air as his former sin must be a 
 cause of weakness to him. I have made an 
 avowal which is startHng even to myself, but 
 what strength will be needed for two! Where 
 shall I find it? I feel myself so ignorant of all 
 that which I love best and which attracts me most. 
 My secret is not yet his. It is only mine, and 
 that of the enemy to whom I tried to be kind. 
 I have given a promise, but only to my own heart. 
 I came to save a woman whom her maternal 
 instinct led for a moment, but whom it no longer 
 upholds. She lacks that which I would gladly 
 have — the knowledge how to sacrifice oneself. 
 I' have gained no influence over her, she hates 
 me! And yet I regret nothing. May the source 
 whence my youth drew an impulse of devotion 
 to others open anew! May I see my road, in 
 order to lead others! May my love reach out, 
 first of all, toward truth — even afar off — truth 
 of which I have caught a ray, like that which my 
 eyes receive from the stars! Maj^ I not fear to 
 see! May I be a woman, obscure indeed, but 
 capable of good!" Then she became conscious 
 that she had prayed. The one little light in the 
 village had gone out, and she was obhged to 
 awaken the hostess of the inn. 
 
 Early the next morning Davidee turned her 
 back on the country where the forest of Vou- 
 vant lay, already glowing with warmth upon the 
 hills.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE RETURN TO ARDESIE. 
 
 October, the golden month, was reviving, on 
 the mounds of Ardesie, the sprays of broom 
 which blossom twice a year. The damp morn- 
 ings, the mild, bright afternoons, the leaves whose 
 mission was no longer to give shade, but which 
 now helped the sun and turned to sunbeams, the 
 fear of coming winter which prowls at night 
 and flies before the day, the desire to see once 
 more the old friendly faces, the custom prevail- 
 ing in Ardesie of visiting the famihes of new 
 pupils: all these reasons, together with her mere 
 delight in exercise, moved Davidee to take long 
 walks on her free days, which were Thursdays 
 and Sundays. On her return from the vacation, 
 she had received a letter from the principal in- 
 spector. He announced first that he had been 
 promoted to a superior position in the neighbour- 
 hood of Paris, a position which was at once a 
 promise and a reward. Then, having spoken of 
 himself, he added: "As for you. Mademoiselle, 
 you have no idea of the vigilant and sympa- 
 thetic care with which I have defended your 
 cause. You have been, I will not say merely 
 threatened, but actually the object of certain 
 suspicions which I have dispelled. Nothing will 
 
 305
 
 306 DA V IDEE BIROT 
 
 surv'ive, I am persuaded, of these suspicions, which 
 I successfully opposed, if you will consent to 
 exercise extreme prudence in the manifestation 
 of sentiments which are imdoubtedly permitted, 
 but which should not be shown too zealously. 
 In whatever way I can serve you, believe me, 
 
 Mademoiselle ' ' 
 
 The assistant, after reading this letter, had 
 smiled and exclaimed aloud, amid the flood of 
 afternoon sunshine pouring into her chamber: 
 '' Thanks, Papa Birot ! it was you who gained that 
 cause!" And the official letter would soon have 
 been forgotten, if other letters had not come to 
 recall it to life. These last were not written by 
 persons of importance, but by young school- 
 teachers who asked for counsel; some timidly, 
 some directly, according to the temperament, 
 the feehngs, or the age of the writer. The first 
 of these letters, which she had received before the 
 vacation, had almost irritated Davidee, but these 
 repeated confidences revealed to her a band of 
 sisters whose existence she had not suspected. 
 She felt, in consequence, less solitary in spirit, 
 and a deep sympathy was called forth in her for 
 these unknown friends, whose faces she would 
 probably never see. She understood the noble 
 sufi'ering which a select class of the daughters of 
 the people in France was sharing with her. How 
 did these letters chance to be addressed to her, 
 and why had these strangers taken her into their 
 confidence? Who had made it known that, among 
 the blue stones of Ardesie, there dwelt an assistant 
 teacher who was solicitous for the souls of her
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 307 
 
 little charges; who had one day dared to carry a 
 prayer-book under her arm, without asking par- 
 don for the offence? Were they enemies who 
 were jealous of her, or secret admirers, or babbling 
 employes? Who could say? Wherever a wire is 
 stretched above the earth, the swallows are sure 
 to Hght upon it. 
 These were some of the letters: 
 
 " Mademoiselle, I am a young girl of your own 
 age, weak and hesitating by nature. I envy you, 
 for I know that you have had the courage to own 
 yourself a Christian. I have more than once 
 failed to do so, and yet I have greater faith than 
 the people among whom I hve. I have been 
 deterred by a timidity which humiliates me. I 
 desire to be more useful, more truly an educator 
 than I am now. I suffer at the thought of giv- 
 ing of myself only that which is least good, least 
 wholesome, least true. Advise me. Mademoiselle; 
 speak to me, point out to me the books which I 
 should read and which would confirm me, not 
 only in my faith — which is imperfect as yet — but 
 in my duty as a teacher, which I would not have 
 out of harmony with my life, as I feel that it has 
 been hitherto. To see all the e\dl about one 
 without daring to say where good is to be found, 
 or to utter mere formulas of well-doing which 
 touch only the memory — do you know this 
 trouble? I have some friends — only a few — 
 whom I know or guess to be like myself. Will 
 you answer me? I venture to hope so."
 
 308 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 "I live very far from you, Mademoiselle; I 
 know nothing of you, save through one of your 
 friends, Mile. S., who was your fellow pupil at 
 the normal school, but that is enough to inspire 
 me with confidence in your kindness and dis- 
 cretion. We have held, during these last days, 
 many eager discussions in this large city school, 
 where I am an assistant. I am argumentative by 
 nature; I maintain my opinions with an ardour 
 which I try to express courteously, but I often ex- 
 perience, afterward, the need of fortifying myself in 
 a position which I believe to be just. We were 
 talking of morality, the directress and I, her hus- 
 band and the other assistants. I maintained, that 
 after having by degrees eliminated from educa- 
 tion the fundamental dogmas of Christianity, such 
 as the idea of personal immortality, the idea 
 of God, and consequently the entire Christian 
 system of morality, which cannot be separated 
 from these beliefs, we had sought to create or 
 disinter other moral systems. Many men of 
 talent and of passionate ardour have engaged 
 in this work, and these attempts have been many. 
 My contradictors recognized that these chance 
 systems of morality have not held good, but we 
 were divided on this point: I maintained that 
 the search had been abandoned; that we had re- 
 nounced the attempt to found a moral system. 
 I said that this was a deplorable treason toward 
 parents and children ahke, and that our ambition, 
 which is to prepare ourselves for life, could no 
 longer sustain us, as it had once done; that this, 
 the first spring of action within us, was hopelessly
 
 DAVIDfiE BIROT 309 
 
 warped; but to this they would not agree. Tell 
 me your opinion." 
 
 4c :ie * 4c • « 
 
 "Mademoiselle, I have been reading some irre- 
 ligious books which have troubled me greatly; 
 one especially, well-written, but so cruel and so 
 hopeless! I laid it aside when I had read it half 
 through, because I said to myself that I had not 
 sufficient knowledge to criticise or to confirm 
 what I was reading; but a certain disquietude 
 has remained within me. I was attracted for 
 the moment by the idea of a religion without 
 dogmas, consisting only in an inner aspiration 
 of our souls toward God; but on reflection, I rea- 
 Hzed that this would be mere anarchy: the oppo- 
 site extreme to the ideals of a religious society 
 and a common morality, and yet my mind, in its 
 weakness, returns to this argument which I feel 
 that I have refuted. Have you experienced this 
 contention within ourselves, which is so hard and 
 wearying, especially when we have no one in 
 whom to confide? Among my companions at 
 the normal school, there are surely some who are 
 passing through the same crisis as I, and who no 
 more dare to avow it than I do. There are others 
 who have need of affection, to whom I would 
 gladly hold out my hand, but our days pass by 
 too rapidly, often full of interest, though many of 
 these interests are merely outward and superficial; 
 and it is only on returning to my evening soli- 
 tude that I feel conscious how little light my soul 
 has shed on any other soul, and how little it has
 
 310 DAVIDfiE BIROT 
 
 received from othei-s. Help me, will you not? 
 The courage of one often avails to sustain many. 
 I come to you seeking the strength to remain 
 mj'-self, and to rise to something better." 
 
 Mile. Birot also received several visits at this 
 time. On the day before the reopening of school, 
 there had even appeared a young man, an in- 
 structor from a neighbouring town. 
 
 "Well, my dear!" Mile. Desforges had ex- 
 claimed, "you are indeed becoming celebrated; 
 what with piles of letters and visits every day! 
 I do not envy you, and I doubt very much whether 
 you will find all this profitable for your career. 
 There is a young man in the court-yard asking 
 for you. Do you wish me to send him away?" 
 
 "No, I will go down and see him." 
 
 "But you have not unpacked your valise yet." 
 
 "I wdll do that when I come back," Davidee 
 replied. 
 
 She found her visitor to be a very young man 
 with ruddy cheeks and curHng hair, carefully 
 dressed, and of studied speech, who addressed her, 
 at first, merely as a comrade, and as if he had no 
 reason for coming to see her beyond the attrac- 
 tion felt by a j^outh for a pretty, intelUgent girl; 
 but before lea\ang he held out his hand, and 
 speaking more seriously, said: 
 
 "We are not too numerous, those who think 
 as we do; we ought to know each other, and, be- 
 sides, courage such as yours is always good to see!" 
 
 In her diary Davidee wrote: "What is the
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 311 
 
 matter with them all? WTiat have I done that 
 is so wonderful? Why do they come to me? 
 Alas, if they knew the whole truth, they would 
 see that I am far from being the Christian they 
 imagine me to be. They force me to interest 
 myself in these religious problems, they leave me 
 no peace; they are helping on my spiritual prog- 
 ress far more than I am counselling them. My 
 dear sisters! you of the tender, troubled souls! 
 how I wish that I could visit you in j^our school- 
 rooms, in your chambers: those plain tidy cells 
 where you find comfort in the solitude which is 
 so welcome to us all at first! You weep there 
 sometimes, I know, for you have to bear ridicule, 
 insult, and injustice, as well as the silence of com- 
 panions whom you care for, and the cold aloofness 
 of the self-satisfied and ignorant. I am only one 
 of your number, and not the one who has suf- 
 fered most. I merely look forward and divine, I 
 struggle and aspire, and accept each day's les- 
 son as it comes. I have been where God is not, 
 and the vision was a terrible one. You have 
 been sent to me, so that I might know that beauti- 
 ful spirit of tenderness which concerns itself for 
 the future of everj^ stranger child, asking inces- 
 santly: 'Shall I have given strength to these 
 little ones? Will the mothers be true mothers? 
 The wives, true wdves? Can I arm them with 
 virtue? Is my own sufficient — uncertain and trem- 
 bling as it is — based only on instinct and good 
 examples?' I, too, have always before me the 
 unknown futures which I am preparing; I feel 
 that for these children, and for myself, I must
 
 312 DAVIDfiE BIROT 
 
 develop an inward life thi'ough which we all can 
 live. My sisters! as yet I have only prayed 
 timidly, and in moments of anxiety and emotion, 
 to Him who can give or increase this grace. And 
 you do not know this! How parched and dry 
 the spiritual world must be, if a drop of water 
 such as I have to give, preserved I know not 
 how, can attract these thirsting souls and seem 
 to them a spring!" 
 
 Davidee paid many visits, at this time, to the 
 parents of her new pupils. All received her 
 kindly, and she once more repaid the confidence 
 these mothers reposed in her and the facile ten- 
 derness of the children with the same interest 
 and care she had shown to her last year's''scholars. 
 Several women, whom she had not been to see, 
 called to her from their door- ways: "Well, Mad- 
 emoiselle! You are too proud then, to step in?" 
 
 She was not proud, poor Da\ddee! but she was 
 a Uttle sad in these days, because Maieul had not 
 written to her, and had never come back. 
 
 She was somewhat surprised, when on a late 
 October afternoon — it had been rainy all the 
 day before, and the crows were flying over the 
 leafless hedges — ^little Jeannie Fete-Dieu, who was 
 watching for her outside of one of the neigh- 
 bour's doors, greeted her with the words: " Grand- 
 mamma sends you her love, Mademoiselle. It 
 seems she has news for you, if you can only find 
 time to come in and see us." 
 
 What news? The answer in her own mind 
 was immediate. It must be a message from 
 Maieul which the old woman had to give her.
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 313 
 
 Davidee had only to follow the narrow path 
 through the broom, over the mound of La Gra- 
 velle, and descend into the hollow where the 
 house and its tiny garden lay hidden. 
 
 Lying in her bed, which the sun could only 
 reach for one short half-hour during the day, 
 the invahd held a sprig of box in her hand, with 
 which she was trying to drive away the last flies 
 of the season which were still tormenting her. 
 She had no more power of motion than usual, 
 but she called herself better, and her eyes were 
 aHght with a passing youthful gleam. 
 
 "Well, here is a term that opens finely!" she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 "Why so. Mere Fete-Dieu?" 
 
 "Because they are all welcoming you back as 
 if you were the month of May! 'Good-morning 
 Mademoiselle Davidee! Do come in and see us!' 
 is^the cry in all the villages." 
 
 "How do you know that?" 
 
 "Jeannie has ears for me as well as legs, and a 
 heart which remembers every word that is spoken 
 of you. And what would you say. Mademoiselle 
 Davidee, if I told you that there is some one else 
 who is longing to see you?" 
 
 The young girl answered sadly: "I should 
 scarcely believe you." 
 
 "But if he had sent you a message by me?" 
 
 "Give it then. Mere Fete-Dieu." 
 
 "Hasn't he written to you himself?" 
 
 "No, never since he went away." 
 
 "He is afraid to write, because you are so 
 learned."
 
 314 DAVIDEE BIROT 
 
 "Is that the reason why he has never been 
 here since I came back to Ardesie a month ago? 
 La Foret is not far off, only two hours from here 
 by railway." 
 
 The invahd slowly stretched out her hand and 
 touched the girl's bare arm with the sprig of box, 
 like a mother who is playfully correcting her child. 
 
 "You have too little faith in life, my dear." 
 
 "It is because I know it too well." 
 
 "Not all of it! You have seen only its worst 
 side, or nearly so. There is a remedy for us and 
 for all who are of good-will. There is succour for 
 us all." 
 
 "WTiere, Mere Fete-Dieu?" 
 
 "In Paradise, my dear." 
 
 "I do not know the road." 
 
 "It is easily found, child. But listen to some- 
 thing else I have to tell you. I have seen Maieul." 
 
 "He has been here then, and has not tried to 
 see me?" 
 
 "You were away on your vacation. He talked 
 to me as if he had been my son. Ah! how hand- 
 some he looked, with such a resolute look on his 
 face, and dressed like a gentleman." 
 
 "And what about the heart, Mere Fete-Dieu? 
 I care little for the coat!" 
 
 "Wait till I tell you. Maieul has worked so 
 well over there that he has been promoted. He 
 has been a foreman for the past week, and they 
 say that he may be paymaster some day. That 
 is a fine place." 
 
 "Undoubtedly, but how about the heart? Is 
 that cured of its malady?"
 
 DAVIDfiEBIROT 315 
 
 Little Jeannie, at a sign from her grandmother, 
 had left the room, and her shadow could be seen, 
 flitting back and forth across the garden-beds. 
 Joy had vanished from the old face, but not its 
 look of calm, nor that sort of security which be- 
 longs to the aged who have been upright, and have 
 won the victory of the soul. 
 
 "You are not greatly to be pitied," she said. 
 "There is only a little weakness left and some 
 fear of himself." 
 
 "No, of her!" 
 
 "Well, of her, if you will have it so." 
 
 Poor Mere Fete-Dieu shook her head on her 
 piled-up pillows, saying to herself: "It is no use 
 trying to hide anything from this young lady 
 from the school." 
 
 "I am sure she writes to him." 
 
 "Yes, my dear, she does." 
 
 "She has been writing to him since August?" 
 
 "Yes, and even before that; she has tried her 
 best to win him back, but he does not answer 
 her. He is counting the days now, and if he does 
 not venture to come back, it is out of respect and 
 friendship for you." 
 
 "He pretends that it is so." 
 
 "You may be sure of it! He left Ardesie be- 
 cause he could not live so near to her who had 
 been the cause of his sin. Here, to my very face, 
 he said: 'I shall not return until the day when 
 I can say: I will live in Ardesie and I will no 
 longer meet my remorse there!'" 
 
 "Did he say remorse?" 
 
 "Yes, my pretty one, and he is a man who will
 
 316 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 not lie. If he comes back, he will not go away 
 any more. You can trust in him." 
 
 "As much as one can in a man." 
 
 "You may well say: a man. But such a well- 
 meaning one! Only listen again! I said to him, 
 just to see: 'What if Mademoiselle Davidee were 
 to become a good Christian, Maieul?'" 
 
 "It is quite true, Mere Fete-Dieu! It is that 
 way I am tending. What did he answer?" 
 
 "He said: 'That doesn't frighten me! If I 
 were married I should be like her.' " 
 
 The assistant rose, and caressed the drooping 
 hand, wearily holding the sprig of box, and the 
 serious face, stamped with a look of deep compas- 
 sion for the sorrows of youth. 
 
 "Mere Fete-Dieu," the girl said, "I shall send 
 no answer by you. I shall not write nor let 
 others write for me; I shall simply wait. I cannot 
 promise what my answer will be if he asks me; 
 it may be that I am destined to mount the steep 
 path alone. I will not take a step toward him, 
 I will not seek him if he turns away from me." 
 
 At the further end of the garden, Jeannie, 
 who was waiting to see her pass, was amazed that 
 her teacher's eyes were red, since grandmother 
 had been talking to her of Maieul. She was 
 busily engaged in hammering a nail with the heel 
 of her sabot, by way of proving that she had not 
 been listening. On seeing the assistant, she 
 ceased this demonstration, and put her sabot on 
 again, saying: "Good-night, my poor demoi- 
 selle!" In the village the greetings of the house- 
 wives met with no response, beyond a wave of
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 317 
 
 the hand. The girl was in haste to go in-doors 
 and weep. 
 
 She wept a long while. How helpless she was! 
 To whom should she turn? There were beings 
 then, insensible to every proof of friendship, Uke 
 this Phrosine and her husband, incapable of 
 loyalty or justice; and other beings so weak that 
 a pure love alone could not save them, that res- 
 cued once, they turned back to evil ways. Vain 
 hopes of the summer, useless tenderness, which 
 had thought itself so strong! How hard it was 
 to live amid such hearts, and tiy to make them 
 live! Had she not tried? But what a mockery! 
 And to-morrow, next year, until the age of retire- 
 ment came, she must persevere in this super- 
 human effort, cherish these illusions, continue to 
 offer this hollow show to fathers and mothers 
 who had entrusted their children to her care! 
 
 Her two griefs appeared to her as one; to be 
 abandoned and to spend her soul without re- 
 ward! Not to be happy nor to be able to make 
 others happy! Davidee opened her drawer and 
 reread some of the letters which her unknown 
 sisters had written her; everywhere she read the 
 same words: "You, the Christian!" she re- 
 called Mere Fete-Dieu's sa3dng: "There is help 
 in Paradise!" The road has been pointed out 
 to me, she thought, and opening her prayer-book, 
 she took from it a little picture of the Crucified 
 One and held it in her hand. She sought for a 
 moment the place to lay her lips, there on the 
 wounded heart, then she said: "Help me!" 
 
 That same evening, with the chill wind blow-
 
 318 DAVIDfiEBIROT 
 
 ing around her, she went out again, and sought 
 through quiet by-paths the house on the Plains. 
 It was deserted; the plum-trees were bare of 
 leaves, but the pyramids of the pear-trees, in the 
 growing darkness, rose here and there like red and 
 golden flames.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE PERMISSION. 
 
 The November fogs, chill, heavy, and tenacious, 
 were dragging down to earth the last decaying 
 leaves; for weeks the pear-trees had lost their 
 look of lighted torches, the winds were walled in 
 all day by heavy banks of cloud, and the smoke 
 from the chimneys curled and twisted in spirals 
 beneath them, when one morning, the house on 
 the Plains flung open its window and door, look- 
 ing out upon the little yard. But no smoke rose 
 from this chimney, and amid the neighbouring 
 cottages this one alone stood silent. 
 
 Phrosine was making the rounds of her lower 
 room, where the white mould lay like patches of 
 soapsuds upon the floor. The poor forsaken 
 cat had died, its mummified body lay stretched 
 on the ashes of the hearth, and the stench of 
 death hung about the walls and rafters. 
 
 Phrosine did not enter the small inner room, 
 but went out and stood upon the threshold, 
 wrapped in the icy fog, listening. For the last 
 hour or two, Maurice Le Floch had been tramp- 
 ing from one of the neighbouring farms to an- 
 other, trying to find work for the winter. His 
 sheepskin valise was lying in the middle of 
 
 319
 
 320 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 the narrow path, now overgrown with tall grass 
 never mown. He was likely to return, at any 
 moment, bringing the wished for news, but Phro- 
 sine was expecting another visitor. It was for 
 this latter that she had dressed herself, and ar- 
 ranged her hair with extra care, before leaving 
 the little inn on the outskirts of the village where 
 she had passed the night. He could not long 
 delay, for had she not written two days before? 
 
 "Monsieur Maieul Jacquet, 
 "At the Slate-quarry and Town 
 
 of La Foret, near Combree. 
 
 "I am ex'pecting you, dearest. I shall be at 
 the gate of our house, waiting for you. I wish 
 at least to bid you good-by, for j^ou cannot have 
 forgotten me." 
 
 She had no doubts as to the result. She had 
 reckoned that on leaving the railway train he 
 would take the tram from La Pyramide, and a 
 little after mid-day would appear on the road 
 through the orchards. When he was once more 
 with her who would know how to hold him, they 
 could settle down together, either here at Ardesie 
 or at La Foret, she did not greatly care. 
 
 She was listening intently; it was the noon- 
 hour, when work stops in all the factories and work- 
 shops and on the farms, and she could easily 
 have caught the sound of a man's step descending 
 the slopes of Chateau-rouge, toward [the fields of 
 blue stone, if the wind had not gathered in its 
 course all the noises of the town, as well as all
 
 DAVIDEE BIROT 321 
 
 the wailing and creaking sounds of branches and 
 gables and of hedge-rows pruned close to the 
 ground, whose twigs were sharpened to tiny- 
 whistles. All their life together in that house 
 was in Phrosine's eyes, all the days that she had 
 lived there with Maieul, except those when a great 
 grief had made her weep, for she did not choose 
 to recall sorrow. 
 
 And shortly after noon, a tall and handsome 
 young man turned out of the highway leading to 
 the town, which was invisible from where she 
 stood, into the road which she had been watch- 
 ing so fixedly. She hastened to the edge of the 
 straggling, grass-grown orchard, and leaned her 
 arms upon the gate. The passion within her 
 had made her face fresh and young agaiu; she 
 felt her power, since Maieul had come back to 
 her, and an alluring smile played roimd her lips. 
 
 Far below in the village, the young assistant 
 was presiding over the children's play-hour, little 
 dreaming that Maieul was so close to Phrosine. 
 
 On catching sight of the woman lying in wait 
 for him, Maieul turned pale, and slackened his 
 pace. In a moment of combined weakness and 
 over-confidence in himself, he had obeyed, Phro- 
 sine's summons. At a distance it had not greatly 
 moved him and he had merely said to himself: 
 "Certainly I will go and say good-by to her, 
 I cannot do less." 
 
 Poor fool, who fancied that the past is ever 
 dead! Since early morning he had been jour- 
 ne3dng toward this dangerous moment and this 
 woman; and all the way, his dread of her had been 
 growing. Now that he saw Phrosine before him,
 
 322 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 on this very spot, to which he had returned even- 
 ing after evening for months as a husband to 
 his wife, he was seized with terror at the sudden 
 throbbing of his heart. His throat was dry; 
 Phrosine's smile called him with a terrible unes- 
 capable spell. She did not speak until he had 
 approached near enough to read her eyes, grown 
 wide and bright with an evil charm, then she said : 
 
 "I knew you would come to me. Come, my 
 great one! We were happy once. Come!" 
 
 She gazed at him as she spoke, so sweetly, so 
 sweetly, that he felt his heart reel within his 
 breast; then she opened the gate slowly, so that 
 he might see only her eyes, and hear only the 
 words which should hold him captive. But 
 when the gate was open and the pathway free, 
 Maieul looked on the ground; he saw the tall 
 grass and the straggling plum-trees beneath 
 which little Anna had lived her last days; he saw 
 before him the child whom their sin had driven 
 from that house and who had died of grief be- 
 cause of it. Then he, who had been so weak and 
 well nigh lost, felt himself sustained by a new 
 strength. Davidee's prayer succoured him, and 
 little .Ajina's sacrifice came to his aid. He began 
 to turn aside from the woman and the house, as 
 he said: 
 
 "I have come to say good-by to you, Phrosine, 
 for now all that is over." 
 
 "Already! We ought not to part so quickly, 
 you who came from so far and I, too ! Come, my 
 Maieul!" She hoped that he would look her in 
 the face once more, but he turned his head quite 
 away.
 
 DAVIDEEBIROT 323 
 
 "Phrosine," he said, "I must no longer be as 
 I have been." 
 
 "Who forbids it?" ^ 
 
 "One who has the right." 
 
 "Yes, I know her." 
 
 "You have known her well, it is your dead 
 child!" He had already drawn back from the 
 hedge, and he now started toward Ardesie. Phro- 
 sine ran after him, crying in fury : 
 
 "It is not the child, it is that other woman! 
 Ah, the wretch, she has stolen my lover!" But 
 she did not attempt to overtake him; and at that 
 moment a much younger man emerged from the 
 narrow road between the farms, and she cried out 
 to him: "Maurice? Have you found nothing?" 
 
 "Nothing!" 
 
 "No more have I! Come on! pick up your 
 traps, we will go further afield!" 
 
 In the school play-ground, Davidee was still 
 superintending the recess. The children were 
 nearly all assembled, and one of them, approach- 
 ing her shyly, said: "There is some one at the 
 door, asking for you." She did not know who 
 might be asking for her, poor Davidee Birot! 
 But as there was one memory which never left her, 
 she turned very white on opening the little chest- 
 nut-wood door. Maieul Jacquet stood with un- 
 covered head, partly hidden behind a pillar, clad 
 in his Sunday clothes. He was so deeply moved, 
 he too, that no words came to his lips, and he 
 stood silent as a pilgrim who has reached the city 
 of his dreams. "It is I, Mademoiselle Davidee," 
 he said, at last. This girl had no smile for him, 
 and no tempting glances; she was deadly pale,
 
 324 DAVIDEEBIROT 
 
 because her fate was about to be decided, and by 
 herself. 
 
 "Oh!" she said, "I had long given up expecting 
 you." 
 
 "I could not come back before, but it. was for 
 3^ou that I w^as working." 
 
 "I thank you." 
 
 "I am a foreman at La Foret. They wi\l give 
 me work in Ardesie whenever I wish." 
 
 He understood at once that she was awaiting 
 something more. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he said, "I can live in Ar- 
 desie now." 
 
 She made no answer, but a wave of pity for 
 herself swept over her, as over one whose pain 
 has just been lightened. 
 
 "Yes," he added, "now I can hire the pavilion 
 of La Gravelle again, only I must have your per- 
 
 mission." 
 
 Seeing that the girl could not speak, because 
 of the grief over the past w^hich still held her: "It 
 would be more than my happiness if you consent, 
 it would be my salvation." And he added below 
 his breath: 
 
 "In this world and the next." 
 
 Davidee raised her eyes toward the bank of 
 fog which the sun was at last about to scatter, 
 and answered: "You may hire the pavilion of 
 La Gravelle, Maieul Jacquet." And at that 
 moment the school-bell rang.
 
 Books by RENE BAZIN 
 
 Published by Charles Scribner's Sons 
 
 THE BARRIER 
 
 (LA BARRIERE) 
 $1.00ne( 
 
 "The author has never shown greater perfection of 
 style." — London Athenczum. 
 
 "The human soul is laid bare with the skill of the surgeon. 
 The author tenderly unfolds its mysteries, awakening the 
 sympathy and holding the interest of the reader to the 
 last, regardless of his creed or of his personal beliefs." 
 
 — Philadelphia Ledger. 
 
 " No one will read it without being made the better 
 by '\\.r—The Pilot 
 
 THIS, MY SON 
 
 (LES NOELLETS) 
 $1.25 
 
 " One of the author's strong books, tingles with a hidden 
 electric power. Father and son front each other like 
 angry wave and beetling rock. ... A masterpiece of 
 pathos. " — America. 
 
 " One of the most powerful of the Bazin creations. It 
 is vibrant with life and strong in passion and in con- 
 trasts." — Philadelphia Record.
 
 THE 
 COMING HARVEST 
 
 (LE BLi: OUI LEVE) 
 $1.25 
 
 "He gives us the everyday life of the work- 
 ing men and women of France. . . . Rene 
 Bazin makes pictures on every page of this 
 story that ought to be inspiration for a thou- 
 sand painters." 
 
 — New York Freeman's Journal. 
 
 "It is so far out of the ordinary run of books 
 published to-day that it causes a distinct sur- 
 prise. Bazin has indeed touched the heights 
 of human emotion and the depths of human 
 • sorrow. On every page are the unmistakable 
 earmarks of greatness." 
 
 — Louisville Evening Post. • 
 
 "We shall not be the worse for such a book 
 as this. A novel well made and also {mirabile 
 dictu) well translated; a novel instinct with 
 human sympathy and withal a novel of ideas 
 and sentiment." — Philadelphia Public Ledger.
 
 REDEMPTION 
 
 (DE TOUTE SON AME) 
 
 $1.25 
 
 "A fascinating story. Simple in construction, 
 commonplace in incident, it is a superb delinea- 
 tion of the glory of consecration and sacrifice 
 exemplified in the life of a young girl of the 
 people." — Catholic World. 
 
 "There is a subtle descriptive power, imparting 
 a haunting quality which makes one feel in- 
 stead of see, which, together with his delicate 
 ability to unravel the skeins of simple souls, 
 goes far to account for Rene Bazin's wide- 
 spread popularity in France to-day." 
 
 — Review and Expositor. 
 
 "The work is remarkable for its literary 
 beauty and strength. Once read it will never 
 be forgotten." — Cleveland Plain Dealer.
 
 THE NUN 
 
 (L'ISOLEE) 
 
 $1.00 
 
 "It is the epic of the persecuted church, terrible 
 in its truth, terrible in its portent, terrible in its 
 indictment." — The Monitor. 
 
 "The Nun is a book which no one who reads it 
 will ever forget." — Westminster Gazette. 
 
 "This work eats into the heart, and lives in the 
 memory as do but few books from modern 
 authors." — London Daily Telegraph. 
 
 "M. Bazin gives some beautiful pictures of 
 life in a convent, of the order, the discipline, 
 the labors and the sacrifice of the gentle women 
 of the Sisterhood." — Philadelphia Record. 
 
 "Told simply yet with such power that one 
 cannot get away from the scenes he depicts nor 
 forget the portrait he draws." 
 
 — Donahoes Magazine.
 
 t^.A,- 
 
 -l^ nu. 
 
 />r- 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A A 000 315 547