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 THE COMING HARVEST
 
 BOOKS BY RENE BAZIN 
 
 PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 The Nun $1.00 
 
 (L'Isotee) 
 
 The Coming Harvest $1.25 
 
 (Le Bl<5 qui Lfeve) 
 
 Redemption . $1.25 
 
 (De toute son Ame)
 
 THE 
 COMING HARVEST 
 
 (LE BLE QUI LEVE) 
 
 Santa BY j ni& 
 
 RENE BAZIN 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 EDNA K. HOYT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 1908
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Published August, 1908
 
 Contents 
 
 CHAPTER PAGB 
 
 I. THE PROCESSION OF THE WOOD-CUTTERS ... i 
 
 II. THE INNER LITE or A POOR MAN 40 
 
 III. THE READING IN THE FOREST 87 
 
 IV. VAUCREUS.E Il6 
 
 V. THE PETITION FOR MERCY 140 
 
 VI. THE GLOOMY SUNDAY 157 
 
 VII. THE HAY 187 
 
 VIII. ABBE ROUBIAUX'S COLLECTION 208 
 
 IX. THE SALE AT LUREUX'S 226 
 
 X. THE FARM OF PAIN-FENDU 245 
 
 XL THE TILLAGE OF PICARDY 257 
 
 XII. THE SQUALL 267 
 
 XIII. FAYT-MANAGE 283 
 
 XIV. THE RETURN 302 
 
 XV. THE PASSING OF THE MASTER 311 
 
 XVI. THE RETURN TO THE FARM 340
 
 THE COMING HARVEST. 
 
 i. 
 
 THE PROCESSION OF THE WOOD- 
 CUTTERS. 
 
 THE sun was setting. The east wind moistened 
 the tufts of sod, hastening the decay of the fallen 
 leaves, and coating the trunks of the trees, and 
 the herbs grown old and flabby since the Autumn, 
 with an impervious glaze like that the tide blows 
 in upon the cliffs. The sea was a long way off, 
 however, and the wind came from another direc- 
 tion. It had swept through the forests of the 
 Morvan that land of fountains in which it had 
 drenched itself through those of Montsauche 
 and of Montreuillon and, nearer still, that of 
 Blin; it was hastening toward other groves of 
 trees of the immense preserve of Nievre, on to the 
 vast forest of Trongay, to the woods of Crux-la- 
 Ville and those of Saint-Franchy. The atmos- 
 phere seemed pure, but far in all the distances, 
 above the cuttings, on the outskirts of the clear- 
 ings, in the hollow of the footpaths, something 
 blue lay sleeping like smoke.
 
 2 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "You are sure, Renard, that the oak is a hun- 
 dred and sixty years old?" 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur le Comte, it carries its age 
 written on its body; see, here are the eight red 
 lines; I made them myself at the time of the 
 cutting." 
 
 "That is so, you saved it; and now they want 
 me to condemn it to death! No, Renard, I can 
 not! A hundred and sixty years! It has seen 
 five generations of Meximieus." 
 
 "That makes, all the same, the thirty-second 
 old tree that we have spared," grumbled the 
 guard. "At that age, in poor soil such as ours, 
 the oak stops growing, it merely matures. How- 
 ever, Monsieur le Comte is free to do as he pleases. 
 He will have to settle it with Monsieur le Mar- 
 quis." 
 
 The guard relapsed into silence. His ruddy, 
 close-shaven face expressed the disdain which a 
 subordinate, who has been omnipotent, feels for 
 the administration which has succeeded him. 
 He was standing a little behind his master, a green 
 velvet cap on his head, warm and comfortable in 
 a velvet suit of the same shade as his cap; his 
 hands crossed on his chest held a half-open mem- 
 orandum book: "Condition of the full-grown 
 trees of the estate of Fonteneilles," and his legs, 
 too slender for his stout body, gave him the ap- 
 pearance of a German puppet hung upon cords. 
 He was looking at his master, who was smiling at 
 the oak and saying very low: "Well, my fine old 
 tree, you are safe ; I will come back and see you 
 again when your leaves are out." The tree soared
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 3 
 
 upward, slender, symmetrical, letting the living 
 shadow of its branches fall upon the bare under- 
 wood. 
 
 "You see, Renard," resumed Michel de Mexi- 
 mieu, pursuing his own thoughts, "I love my 
 trees, for they ask nothing from me; I have known 
 them for a long time; I see their tops from the 
 window of my room ; they are friends more trusty 
 than those who cut them down." 
 
 "They are a tribe of liars, the wood-cutters, 
 Monsieur le Comte. They are poachers, good- 
 for-naughts, they " 
 
 "No, Renard, no! If they did nothing worse 
 than kill my game, I would willingly pardon 
 them. All that I mean to say is, that they are 
 petty natures, like so many others." 
 
 1 Parbleu! The poachers do not trouble those 
 who do not hunt: but for myself, I hunt!" mut- 
 tered Renard in an undertone. 
 
 His master did not seem to hear him. In his 
 left hand, hanging down by his side, he held a 
 hatchet with a hammer head used to mark the 
 trees. After an instant, he replaced it in the 
 leather case suspended from his belt. He was 
 looking now at the vast yard that he had just 
 inspected, ten acres of underwood almost en- 
 tirely cut, where the wood-cutters were still at 
 work, each in his marked-out line, in "his work- 
 shop," among the stacked-up cords of wood and 
 the piles of twigs. At the farthest corner of this 
 clearing, toward the east, a second clearing was 
 laid out, with a winding pass lying between them 
 like a gorge between two plains.
 
 4 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "Come, Renard, we have had enough of this 
 miserable business! Go back to the chateau and 
 tell my father that I will return by the cross-road 
 of Fonteneilles." 
 
 "Very well, Monsieur le Comte." 
 
 "And also tell Baptiste to harness the victoria, 
 to take the General to the train at Corbigny." 
 
 The guard, making a half turn to the left, 
 stalked away with a quick, vigorous step, and 
 for some time the noise could be heard of his 
 brodkins striking against the young shoots and 
 breaking the brambles. 
 
 Michel de Meximieu had just been obeying an 
 order which had seemed to him hard and even 
 humiliating. In March, several months after the 
 regular sale of wood to a local merchant, he had 
 been compelled by order of his father to sacrifice 
 a large number of trees which had been reserved 
 from the sale, personally to select them for cut- 
 ting and for that purpose to "check" them by 
 effacing the red lines, and by marking the side of 
 the tree with a stroke of the hammer. Perhaps 
 he had spared too many, as Renard said; but he 
 blamed himself for having obeyed too strictly, 
 and the thought made him suffer. 
 
 Michel was young, vigorous and plain. His 
 plainness came principally from his being badly 
 proportioned. He was of medium height, but his 
 legs were long, his body short and his head mas- 
 sive. There was neither regularity nor harmony in 
 his features, which might have been carved by the 
 realistic and powerful hand of a workman of the
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 5 
 
 Middle Ages : a low forehead beneath rough brown 
 hair, which came down in a point in the middle 
 upon the dull skin; blue eyes, deep set and 
 slightly unequal, a large nose and long lips the 
 most expressive of his features shaven lips, the 
 lips of an orator perhaps, if opportunity and edu- 
 cation had been favourable to the son of the 
 Marquis de Meximieu; finally, a square jaw, 
 which, when he spoke, was scarcely opened, and 
 when he was silent was closed like a vise. He had 
 neither charm nor beauty, but his face expressed 
 one ruling quality: will power. It showed en- 
 ergy, not in reserve and still inactive, but trained 
 and already victorious. Over what temptations? 
 Over what revolts? The face is a book where the 
 causes of things are not all written. One could 
 only read on that of Michel de Meximieu: "I 
 have struggled"; one could see that this young 
 man was not dazzled by life, as so many are, 
 and that he had judged it. Two slight wrinkles 
 bridled his mouth like a bit. His smile alone 
 remained young and cordial. But it was fugitive. 
 At that moment Michel was not smiling. His 
 eyebrows were drawn together, the lashes low- 
 ered by the effort of his eyes to focus on the dis- 
 tance, and he was searching among the workmen 
 distributed far off in the clearing endeavour- 
 ing to recognize the one to whom he wished to 
 speak. Although he was going to speak to a wood- 
 cutter who was a socialist, it did not occur to 
 him to take off his gloves. He knew that it is not 
 differences which wound, but the pride which 
 shows them. When he had glanced over the
 
 6 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 vast forest yard, and had convinced himself that 
 Gilbert Cloquet was not there : 
 
 "I will ask his son-in-law," he thought, " where 
 Gilbert is." 
 
 Then striding over the cut branches, and going 
 around the long piles of round logs or of corded 
 charcoal sticks, he advanced briskly to the middle 
 of the clearing. 
 
 A young man was working there, picking up 
 the pieces of firewood which he stacked up be- 
 tween the stakes. He heard the master coming. 
 He had seen him from a long way off. But he let 
 him approach within three steps without sa- 
 luting him. Michel de Meximieu was used to 
 such treatment and he prepared to speak first. 
 The little wound to his self-love and his unap- 
 preciated friendship, bled inwardly. But his 
 voice betrayed nothing. 
 
 "Well, Lureux, we shall have a frost to-night, 
 if the wind goes down?" 
 
 A voice young also, but harder, replied : 
 
 "It will not go down." 
 
 And in the tone of these words, in the manner 
 of dwelling upon the words "go down," in the 
 swift smile which curled up the mustaches, worn 
 drooping in the old French fashion, it was very 
 plain that Lureux, while speaking of the wind, 
 was thinking of another force, which likewise 
 would not go down. 
 
 The wood-cutter, who answered with this 
 phrase of double meaning, was a man scarcely 
 older than Michel, of more than medium height, 
 with a clear complexion, and a face which, barred
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 7 
 
 diagonally with a tawny mustache, rather thin 
 and very young, expressed nothing but satisfac- 
 tion with himself and the resolution to talk no 
 more. His eyes, animated and jesting for a mo- 
 ment, had immediately recovered, between their 
 half-closed lids, a look as innocent as that of a 
 yellow primrose shining between two leaves. He 
 had thrown his jacket upon a heap of twigs. His 
 violet-checked shirt, his trousers of coarse brown 
 cloth, revealed a supple and well-developed body, 
 admirably formed. 
 
 Around the workman, in the clearing, the piles 
 of wood ran in straight lines like walls thrown out 
 in all directions, and upon one of these walls, on 
 the edge of a pile of " white wood," as the wood 
 of the aspen and birch is called, a rosy and curly- 
 headed little boy, the child of one of the men 
 working in the forest, was sitting, dangling his legs, 
 his wooden shoes also dangling from his feet, just 
 balanced on the tips of his toes. Lureux looked at 
 the child to avoid looking at the master and to 
 show that he did not want to keep up the con- 
 versation. The other workmen were probably 
 watching him, and he made it a point to be 
 rude, not so much from personal dislike, as from 
 the fear that the others would accuse him of talk- 
 ing with the bourgeois. Michel understood this 
 and asked : 
 
 ''Where is your father-in-law? I do not see 
 him." 
 
 "Over there," said the man pointing to the 
 left; "he is cutting down an old tree, he has fin- 
 ished with the underbrush."
 
 8 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "Thanks, Lureux. Good-by!" 
 
 "Good-by, sir!" 
 
 And he watched the master contemptuously as 
 he walked away. 
 
 The latter left the clearing and entered the 
 forest. Less than a hundred yards away, he saw 
 the man for whom he was looking. The wood- 
 cutter was felling an old tree marked on the side. 
 He hit with a slanting stroke. The blade of the 
 axe sank deeper at each blow into the spread foot 
 of the tree, striking out a chip, moist and white 
 as a slice of bread, and then rose, ready to fall 
 again. The blade glittered, polished and moist- 
 ened with the sap from the living wood. The 
 body of the workman followed the movement 
 of his axe and the whole tree vibrated to the 
 lowest roots. A shirt and a worn pair of trousers, 
 both glued to his limbs with perspiration, re- 
 vealed the man's whole frame, his prominent 
 shoulder blades, his ribs, his narrow pelvis, and 
 the long thigh-bones barely covered over with 
 muscles, like fagots covered with soft bark. There 
 were dark circles under his clear eyes in their 
 deep sunken sockets, wounds that had been en- 
 larged by the suffering of the heart. Two hol- 
 lows in the flesh, like two prints of the thumb, 
 emphasized by another hollow at the base of the 
 cheek-bones, proclaimed: "This man has, by his 
 own labour, wasted his flesh and carved his body 
 in the harvest field and in the forest clearing." 
 The lean neck said: "The north wind has stripped 
 off the bark and left only the hard, dry 
 wood." His hands, which were mere bundles of
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 9 
 
 veins, tendons, and dry muscles, awkward for 
 fine work, but to be depended upon for hard 
 labour, said: "We express a long life of coura- 
 geous work and of endurance; we bear witness 
 that his labour has been hard, and that he has 
 given good measure in his prescribed work." 
 
 "Good-day, Gilbert!" 
 
 "Good-day, Monsieur Michel!" 
 
 He rested his axe on the ground. Then lifted 
 his cap with one hand while he held out the other. 
 The wood-cutter's tired face was illumined, like 
 the axe, with a ray of light. It was a face which 
 had been handsome. Fifty years of poverty had 
 emaciated it, but the features remained fine and 
 clear-cut, and his beard, which was still fair, 
 lengthened it nobly, giving to Gilbert Cloquet the 
 appearance of a man of the North, a Scandinavian 
 or a Norseman, who had come down to the pas- 
 tures and the forests of the centre of France. 
 
 "Well, Gilbert, I don't suppose that you are 
 satisfied with the way things are going? I heard the 
 bugle again yesterday evening. The strike is not 
 called, but for us it is a threat, and, for you, a re- 
 hearsal. Do you think there will be a new strike? " 
 
 The wood-cutter, passing his hand over his long 
 beard, blinked his eyes and looked at the under- 
 brush which was beginning to turn brown. 
 
 "I do not think so," he answered in a measured 
 voice; "they wish to threaten, as you say, so that 
 wages shall not drop. But that will not begin 
 again immediately. Anyway, we must hope not, 
 Monsieur Michel, for I need work, more than the 
 others "
 
 10 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 He stopped short and Michel understood that 
 Gilbert Cloquet was thinking of his daughter, the 
 frivolous and extravagant Marie Lureux, "La 
 Lureuse," who, little by little, had wasted all his 
 property. The dull blows of axes cutting the 
 undergrowth passed by on the wind. The young 
 man began again. 
 
 "But even you belong to the union and pay 
 your five sous a month; I have never understood 
 that." 
 
 "Yes, my heart is with them, but not always 
 my head." 
 
 "And yet you obey all their orders! A man of 
 your age!" 
 
 "Well, the party requires that, Monsieur Michel. 
 But there are times when I prefer, for my own 
 reasons, to remain with them." 
 
 "What masters you give yourselves, you poor 
 people! You do not gain by the change! After 
 all, that is not why I came to speak to you. I 
 have near the chateau a small lot of wood which 
 has not been sold. It is my supply for next win- 
 ter. Will you cut it for me? I give you the pref- 
 erence, because you are an old friend of the family." 
 
 "About how many days' work?" 
 
 "A fortnight. Perhaps more. Have you fin- 
 ished your work here?" 
 
 "Yes; the others will need a day more to finish. 
 But my lot turned out to be smaller, and I am 
 cutting down one of the old trees, which have been 
 sold to Mehaut. I can begin to-morrow morning 
 in your lot. That is settled." 
 
 "You will be all alone there, and I know that
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 11 
 
 the work will be well done. It will be better not 
 to say anything about it." 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 The wood-cutter stretched out his large hand to 
 seal the contract. Then, embarrassed and shak- 
 ing his head on account of his discomfort, he said : 
 
 " Monsieur Michel, since I am engaged, would 
 you be willing to advance me twenty francs on the 
 work? I do not know how I manage to spend so 
 much!" 
 
 Michel took a gold piece from his purse and 
 gave it to Gilbert. 
 
 "I know, my good fellow. You are too good 
 to some one who is not so at all. Adieu!" 
 
 At that moment a shrill bugle call sounded in 
 the distance, far away to the right in the forest. 
 It was a military call, and sounded like "lights 
 out." Swift, urgent, imperative, it ended on a 
 prolonged note which ordered silence, rest from 
 work, and repose. It was repeated after an in- 
 terval of a few seconds, and this time the bell of 
 the bugle must have been directed to the side 
 where the two men were, for it sounded clearer 
 and stronger. Instantly, Gilbert Cloquet turned 
 aside to take from a branch nearby his old round 
 jacket which he wanted to throw over his shoulders 
 on the walk home. 
 
 With a sudden movement, and as if unable to 
 restrain his irritation, Michel stooped, seized the 
 axe lying on the ground, and aimed a stroke 
 against the trunk of the oak : 
 
 "You leave your work half done! That's a 
 cowardly trick; I will finish it myself!"
 
 12 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 And with the steadiness of a man accustomed 
 to violent exercise, he struck ten, twenty, thirty 
 times, without stopping. The chips flew. Clo- 
 quet laughed. A panting voice from the out- 
 skirts of the clearing cried : 
 
 "Who is chopping after the signal? Didn't you 
 hear?" One, two, three blows of the axe, even 
 harder than the others, were the sole answer. The 
 tree, slashed all around the foot, held up only by 
 a hundle of fibres, broke that feeble brace, bent 
 over and toppled forward into the open space, 
 with its branches flung out, then, rebounding upon 
 its broken limbs, made a half circle on itself and 
 remained outstretched. 
 
 "All the forest has not obeyed!" said Michel, 
 throwing down the axe. 
 
 He searched with his eyes the underbrush from 
 whence the voice had called, but he saw no one. 
 The man, after seeing that the infringement of the 
 pact of servitude did not come from a member of 
 the union, had probably rejoined his companions. 
 
 "No bad feeling is there, Cloquet?" 
 
 "Surely not, Monsieur Michel! You are not 
 angry with me. But how pale you are? That 
 was too much for you, that work you look 
 ill." 
 
 "No, it is nothing." 
 
 The young man placed his hand on his heart 
 which was beating too rapidly. He remained an 
 instant motionless, somewhat agitated, his lips half 
 open, breathing regularly to calm his heart. Then 
 he smiled again, and the anxiety disappeared. 
 
 "Till to-morrow then?"
 
 Michel descended the wooded slope, which 
 began there, leaped over the brook, ascended the 
 other slope and entered a path which wound 
 among the tall trees of eighteen years growth. 
 The sun, between the branches, threw a shower 
 of red gold under the trees. At times the top of 
 the hills which lie beyond the pond of Vaux, 
 could be seen all purple in the twilight. The 
 uneasy forest felt sun and life dying within her. 
 Millions of tufts of grass moved their supple arms 
 toward him. The big birds were frightened. 
 Already the blackbirds, with blustering cries of 
 fear, had glided at half the height of the young 
 trees toward the denser parts of the woods. The 
 last thrushes flew crying about the tops of 
 the oaks. Three times Michel had shivered at 
 the passage of a woodcock which "sank down." 
 "Good^evening, Monsieur le Comte." 
 Michel, who had stopped at the crossing of two 
 paths and raised his head to listen to the even- 
 ing sounds, started at the guttural voice which 
 greeted him. But recovering himself at once he 
 recognized, almost at his feet, seated upon a stone 
 and holding a sack between his legs, a heavily 
 bearded tramp whom the country people feared 
 without being able to tell why. No one knew 
 how old the beggar was nor where he lived. 
 People called him Le Grollier on account of the 
 hair, black as the feathers of the rook (grolle), 
 with which his face was covered, and out of the 
 midst of which his eyes gleamed phosphorescent 
 like those of a shepherd dog or a marauding 
 jay. Michel touched him on the shoulder.
 
 14 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "Hello, Grollier," said he, "I was not expecting 
 to see you." 
 
 "No one ever expects to see me," answered the 
 man, blowing the smoke from his pipe. "You 
 were listening to the birds, weren't you? It is 
 the smallest birds who sing last." 
 
 Then, looking fixedly at Michel, who, feeling in 
 his purse for a piece of ten sous, placed it on 
 the motionless sleeve of the beggar, he said : 
 
 "Be on your guard against Lureux, Monsieur le 
 Comte, be on your guard against Tournabien and 
 Supiat, if you buy any mowing machines." 
 
 "I am not afraid of any of them, Grollier, and 
 no one knows what I shall do. Adieu!" 
 
 He lifted his hand to his hat and walked on. 
 
 "Who the devil could have found out that I 
 thought of buying a mowing machine for my 
 meadows ? " 
 
 Then he remembered that at the fair of Cor- 
 bigny, two weeks before, he had asked about their 
 prices from a maker of the machines. And he 
 began to laugh. Then the other remark of 
 Grollier: "It is the smallest birds who sing 
 last," brought him back to what he had been 
 thinking of before he met the beggar. 
 
 It was indeed the hour when even the small 
 songs were coming to an end. The bullfinches, 
 which travel in March, the chaffinches and the 
 green linnets which fast in the winter, whistled, 
 but without changing their day-song, in the full 
 confidence that to-morrow would be as good, 
 or even better, than to-day. "Au revoir, sun, 
 thanks for the first buds! Under our wings,
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 15 
 
 we feel the tide of youth already beating, the 
 leaves of the coming spring that are pushing out 
 toward the light, the sap that is moving in the 
 hidden passages toward the openings above. 
 Au revoir, sun! To-morrow, when you come to 
 life again, how many perfumes, how many new 
 buds, and how many gnats there will be for us!" 
 They glided away, one by one, toward the thorn 
 thickets, and became perfectly silent. The sun 
 had gone below the horizon. Then the last birds 
 sang their adieu to the day. First the red- 
 breasts, then the tomtits, and all the tribe of 
 climbers, those seekers after lichens, explorers of 
 tree barks, tiny bundles of gray feathers never at 
 rest while the light lasts, and whose shrill little 
 cries are the last of all the songs of the daylight 
 animals. 
 
 Michel knew all these things. He felt ap- 
 proaching from the far horizon that breath of 
 warm wind, that kiss which, every evening, floats 
 through the air, crosses the woods, rolls over the 
 meadows and, in its passing, touches all life, wher- 
 ever it may be. He opened his lips and lungs to 
 that rare breath, which renewed his whole being. 
 Then he continued on his way. 
 
 The light, now, was passing away above the 
 forests. For an instant, through the opening of 
 a path, he saw the still glistening waters of the 
 pond of Vaux, with its five branches like a maple 
 leaf, making a star in the gloom of the forest. 
 Then he left the path which he had followed up 
 to that point and turned to the left into a clearing 
 which he crossed rapidly, and, scaling a steep
 
 16 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 embankment of mossy earth, found himself at the 
 edge of one of the principal boundaries of the 
 forest of Fonteneilles. 
 
 "Ah! Here you are, father! I am not late, am I?" 
 "Prompt as a solclier, like myself; I have just 
 arrived." 
 
 Upon a strip of pebbly earth between the slopes 
 of grass the General was waiting for Michel, at 
 the rendezvous which the latter had made. They 
 had been separated all the afternoon, until they 
 met at this crossing of two forest roads, one 
 of which led to the chateau, while the other, 
 sloping to the West, went straight to the village 
 of Fonteneilles. The father and son intended to 
 return together, and Monsieur de Meximieu was 
 to leave immediately for Corbigny. The Gen- 
 eral, standing on the edge of one of his clearings, 
 elegant, graceful and haughty, recalled those por- 
 traits of gentlemen whom artists usually paint 
 with an ample and unstudied background of 
 scenery, to symbolize their riches and glory. He 
 was tall in stature, very slender still in spite of his 
 sixty-three years, the handsomest general officer 
 in the army, so the saying was. He had a small 
 head, black mustache, gray goatee, hair cropped 
 short and almost white, features firm and clean- 
 cut, a vigorous nose, thin and slightly curved in 
 the Spanish style, a full chest and straight and 
 tapering legs, "not an ounce of fat and not a 
 twinge of rheumatism," the General affirmed. 
 As he had gone for a ride after breakfast he still 
 wore the costume which all Parisians, who are 
 used to morning rides in the Bois, know well: a
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 17 
 
 round hat, a blue cravat with wide ends, a jacket 
 and riding trousers of gray English cloth, while 
 his riding boots made the sole brilliant note in the 
 dull tone of the dress and the landscape. He had 
 on red gloves, and his gold-topped riding crop of 
 twisted osier was stuck in his right boot. The 
 General let his son approach him without making 
 a movement himself; he was preoccupied; he 
 turned his back to the chateau, and looked obsti- 
 nately, with an air of defiance and contempt, in 
 the direction of the southeast, toward the 
 pointed arch formed by the leafless oaks above 
 the forest path. 
 
 "Did you hear that?" he asked. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "What they are singing. Listen, they are 
 coming!" 
 
 The force of the wind, and the irregularities of 
 the ground, had prevented Michel from hearing. 
 He heard this time. In the woods, to the left, 
 strong, ardent, musical voices were chanting the 
 Internationale. Nearly all the words were lost in 
 the wooded solitudes, but some of them reached 
 distinctly the ears of the two men standing, side 
 by side, on the border of the wood, and facing the 
 sound which grew louder. 
 
 "Les canailles!" exclaimed the General. "Can 
 one sing such horrors!" 
 
 "They are drunk." 
 
 "That is one more vice." 
 
 "With the hatred which has been poured out to 
 them by the glassful. But how many of them 
 saw only the label! It was fine."
 
 18 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "You think so? The murder of their officers?" 
 
 "No, the brotherhood." 
 
 "Listen!" 
 
 The wood-cutters approached, their voices 
 borne along on the cold wind. At times the sound 
 was like a hymn across the forest; it sounded 
 with the same breadth, and long, resonant tones. 
 The approaching night made the world attentive. 
 Suddenly a group of men filed out from the left, 
 in a straight line almost perpendicular to that 
 where Monsieur de Meximieu and his son were 
 standing. They were marching without order; 
 one of them carried a bugle slung crosswise; 
 several had poles on their shoulders, the "flag- 
 staff" which they brought back from the cutting 
 and whose flexible end beat on the leaves of the 
 path behind them. The president of the union of 
 the wood-cutters of Fonteneilles, Ravoux, was at 
 the head, a pale man with a black beard, a theo- 
 rist, a cold enthusiast, who did not sing and whose 
 eyes had already discovered the two men. By his 
 side two young men strode along laughing as they 
 sang. Then came Lureux, with an enormous flag- 
 staff, then half a score more, with scarred faces, 
 animated or spiritless, wet with perspiration and 
 powdered with fragments of leaves. There were 
 young men, and men of mature age, all dressed in 
 dull colours, wearing caps or hats of soft felt, all 
 carrying game bags or lunch bags puffed out on 
 one side by an empty quart bottle and pieces of 
 uneaten bread. When they filed out on the cross 
 road and saw the two men standing motionless 
 at the entrance of the road to Fonteneilles, they
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 19 
 
 hesitated. The young men who were walking in 
 front stopped singing, open mouthed. But 
 Ravoux, who until then had not joined in the 
 singing, took up the couplet with a metallic voice 
 that was rough like a sprig of ash. 
 
 His companions followed his lead. A flash of 
 joy gleamed in the eyes of the men, the unwhole- 
 some joy of vexing and insulting the adversary 
 with impunity. They passed along. Nearly all, 
 however, raised their hats and Ravoux was of the 
 number. Several said, interrupting their singing: 
 " Good-evening, gentlemen." They passed on in 
 the direction of the village and then another band 
 still more numerous came by. 
 
 "They are returning from my woods," said the 
 Marquis de Meximieu, "and they insult those 
 who give them their bread? Do you know these 
 fellows?" 
 
 Their heads were appearing out of the shadow, 
 one by one. 
 
 "All of them," replied Michel. 
 
 The men advanced, shouting or silent, lifting 
 their hats or remaining covered. 
 
 The young man named them as fast as they 
 passed: Lampoignant, Tr6pard, Dixneuf, Beli- 
 saire, Paradis, Supiat, Gilbert Cloquet who 
 turned his head to the other side of the wood, but 
 saluted all the same Fontroubade, Mechin, 
 Padovan, Durge*, Gandhon. 
 
 "Ganclhon? Stop! I know him myself. One 
 of my cavalry men five years ago ! You shall see 
 that I know how to treat them! Gandhon?" 
 
 A man stepped out from the band, a large, red-
 
 20 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 haired man with laughing, shifty eyes, who, in 
 spite of the cold, had rolled up his shirt sleeves 
 above the elbow and had his vest, which was 
 fastened by a button at the neck, floating out 
 behind. 
 
 "Well, Gandhon, is it you, the trooper of the 
 first class of the 3rd squadron at Vincennes? I 
 knew you, I recognized you." 
 
 The man had uncovered as he came up. 
 
 "Yes, General." 
 
 "Well and good; you do not remain covered 
 like those unmannerly fellows who pass me as if 
 I were a post. You have become a sort of ama- 
 teur striker, have you?" 
 
 "No, I am not on strike, for the moment." 
 
 "Understand well. I do not reproach you for 
 striking. It is your right; my family also is on 
 strike." 
 
 The wood-cutter shrugged his shoulders, 
 laughing. 
 
 "You are joking, General!" 
 
 "Not a bit of it. The only difference is that 
 my family has been striking for four hundred 
 years, and has taken advantage of that fact to 
 serve the country almost gratuitously in the 
 army, in the church, and in diplomacy. We have 
 not changed our masters nor our song. It is 
 always France. But you, let us see, do you still 
 remember the regiment?" 
 
 "Yes, General." 
 
 "You remember our manoeuvres in Septem- 
 ber? And the charges? And the review?" 
 
 "Yes, General."
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 21 
 
 "Was the regiment badly commanded, badly 
 fed, badly treated?" 
 
 The man took a moment for reflection before 
 answering, for he felt that "politics" came into 
 this. He replied : 
 
 "General, we were well treated. I have nothing 
 to complain of." 
 
 "You see, Michel, you see. He has been 
 formed in my school, this man here; he has good 
 sense! Now, Gandhon, admit it, you are wrong 
 to side with those rebels there. Tell me." 
 
 "It is our party." 
 
 "Of disorder?" 
 
 "Possibly!" 
 
 The man was now on his guard, and his face, 
 which had been smiling with embarrassment, be- 
 came hard and defiant. The General held his 
 head erect. Between his son and the wood-cutter 
 he resembled a tall forest oak between two young 
 trees. His arm was outstretched, as if he were 
 giving a command in the barrack yard. 
 
 "I do not want you to tie yourself up with such 
 rabble, Gandhon! I know you, you're a hot- 
 headed fellow, but, if the army is mobilized, we 
 shall march side by side, and of what you were 
 singing, you do not mean a word." 
 
 There was no reply. 
 
 The General grew pale. He took a step forward. 
 
 "It is not possible! You, my soldier! Come, 
 shake your General by the hand!" 
 
 The wood-cutter drew back sneering. His 
 companions were waiting for him, and they were 
 watching him. All at once he turned slowly on
 
 22 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 his heels and started on in the path of his com- 
 rades. 
 
 "But, General, the regulations forbid treating 
 soldiers as equals!" 
 
 "It is from friendship, you know well!" 
 
 "I do not want your friendship!" 
 
 Then Gandhon ran with long awkward strides 
 on account of his wooden shoes, toward a group 
 of his comrades who were standing some fifty 
 yards away. They resumed their march, and a 
 young voice started again one of the spiteful 
 couplets of the spiteful song. Through the im- 
 mense delusive peace of the forest, the words 
 passed on to tell in all the distant places that the 
 fiercest political passions had invaded the country. 
 
 When the noise of the steps and voices had 
 died away, General de Meximieu stopped looking 
 at the blue shadow into which all this bad dream 
 had vanished, and he regarded his son, who was 
 standing at his right, his son who was less tall 
 than he, less handsome, less prepared, it seemed, 
 for a life of struggle, of daring, and of defiance. 
 Although the shadows were heavy, Michel felt 
 the disdainful compassion, the kind of disavowal 
 which had always crushed his youth. 
 
 "Well, my boy, your trade is not a merry one 
 with brutes such as these people!" 
 
 "What do you expect? It is the coming to a 
 head " 
 
 "Of what?" 
 
 "Of many mistakes. No one of us is with- 
 out responsibility." 
 
 "That is not so! I have none! I do not want
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 23 
 
 any of your responsibilities! Tell me which mine 
 were? What a wretched people! Good for 
 nothing! They have no more love for France 
 than my Arabs of Blida had. And you defend 
 them!" 
 
 For the second time Michel felt himself envel- 
 oped by a contempt which included everything 
 about him, his ideas, his profession, his mediocre 
 physique, his silence of a few moments ago which 
 the General must have thought came from fear. 
 He could not call up the strength which he always 
 promised himself to have for discussing, refuting, 
 and explaining in order to be respectful toward 
 his father and consistent with his own ideas. 
 
 "Come, father," he said, "since you must be 
 in Paris by to-morrow, come." 
 
 He drew up the collar of his coat. The General 
 at once unbuttoned his jacket. Both began to 
 walk along the forest road that led toward the 
 chateau. It was very cold ; the wind had already 
 taken from the branches the warmth which the 
 day had left there. It turned back the twigs, and 
 bent down the small branches, drawing from 
 them a wail as dreary as that from a desolate life. 
 The pungent odor of the dead leaves rose in the 
 dusk. Above the branches, the sky was light, and 
 the stars were beginning to peep out. 
 
 "Will you come back?" asked Michel; "I have 
 scarcely had time to see you." 
 
 "My post at Paris is extremely exacting, my 
 dear fellow. And then there is always the world, 
 social obligations. I always hesitate to take any 
 leave. However, you told me that the wood
 
 24 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 merchant agreed to pay for the newly marked 
 oaks, even before cutting them?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I will come back again then, for the settle- 
 ment on the 31st. You have marked all the old 
 trees in the two clearings?" 
 
 "Nearly all." 
 
 "How do you mean, nearly? I must have the 
 thirty thousand francs which I have asked you 
 for, in four different payments, and, if possible, 
 in two. Are they there? " 
 
 Michel made an evasive gesture. 
 
 "I tell you it is absolutely necessary that I 
 should have them!" repeated General de Mexi- 
 mieu, raising his voice. "It is for you to find 
 them; you will go back to-morrow to the clear- 
 ing, and if there are not enough old trees, have 
 half-grown ones cut; if there are not enough of 
 them, still younger ones." 
 
 "No, father." 
 
 The two men stopped there in the middle of the 
 woods, in the wind, forgetful both of them of the 
 hour which urged departure. The Marquis de 
 Meximieu's hand a bundle of steel cords through 
 which an electric current passed came down 
 upon Michel's shoulder. 
 
 "Who is the master here? I am not in the 
 habit of repeating my commands." 
 
 General de Meximieu saw, turned toward him, 
 a face as firm and as harsh in expression as even 
 his own could be. 
 
 "It is impossible, father. How are you con- 
 sidering the future of the estate?"
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 25 
 
 "It belongs to me, I believe." 
 
 "You forget that it is also my future, and 
 that my life is here, and that I can not ruin the 
 woods. " 
 
 The General's only response was to resume his 
 walk, saying: 
 
 "I have only one reason to give you and 
 that is worth all the others: I must have the 
 money." 
 
 They continued to walk rapidly in the twilight, 
 without talking any more. In a little while the 
 forest grew more open; the lofty trees separated 
 into gigantic wings, bristled to the top by the 
 wind, and between their ranks, upon the swollen 
 soil which they must have occupied for a long 
 time, Fonteneilles appeared in the twilight, in the 
 midst of the open and rising fields. It was a 
 chateau of the eighteenth century, built upon a 
 terrace ; one single story, with seven windows in the 
 fagade, rose above the ground floor, and above that 
 was a sloping roof of tiles with two round towers, 
 capped with pointed roofs which, however, were 
 no higher than the rest of the building. These 
 towers formed the projecting mass at the two 
 ends; but they did not prolong the fagade, 
 which kept its severe, compact and settled aspect. 
 The two men crossed a small grass plot and 
 mounted the steps of the little stone stairway 
 which led to the terrace where, in summer, the 
 boxes of orange-trees were placed in line, and 
 then, as they turned to the right, they saw in the 
 court the lanterns of the victoria which was wait- 
 ing. During the walk General de Meximieu had 
 
 COLLEGE
 
 26 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 changed his humour but not his ideas. He had 
 seen so little of his son during these twenty-four 
 hours of his stay at Fonteneilles ! A crowd of 
 unasked questions rose in his mind. At the 
 corner of the chateau where the wall descended 
 obliquely and penetrated the damp soil, he 
 stopped and turned to Michel. 
 
 "Are you on good terms with your neighbours? " 
 
 " Neither good nor bad; I only meet them at 
 the fairs." 
 
 "Those are a queer kind of festivities and hard- 
 ly what one would call social. Do you ever see 
 Jacquemin, the lieutenant, who used to serve 
 under my command?" 
 
 "Yes, I have met him; Vaucreuse is so near. 
 I have even called upon him." 
 
 "Apparently he makes farming pay. He's a 
 shrewd fellow." 
 
 "He is very unpretending." 
 
 "He has a daughter, who, they say, is pretty. 
 Is it true?" 
 
 "She's just a child; seventeen or eighteen 
 years old." 
 
 "Fair, like her mother, is she not?" 
 
 "Yes; a rare blond, the colour of wheat sheaves, 
 red gold and yellow gold together." 
 
 "Why! You are a connoisseur, my boy! Sa- 
 pristi, but the mother was pretty! Poor woman! 
 I remember her one evening, at the Monthuile's; 
 she was not exactly beautiful, but she was full of 
 grace and joy and life." 
 
 "You knew her well?" 
 
 "No; I just admired her in passing, bowed to
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 27 
 
 
 her, and dreamt about her like so many others. 
 And the new priest, what is his name?" 
 
 "Roubiaux." 
 
 "He can not have had a very pleasant time in 
 his six months here ! But I wager that you two get 
 along well together. Possibly you are the most 
 clerical of the two?" 
 
 "I'm not sure," said Michel seriously; "we 
 have never had any talk on religious subjects. 
 But he made rather a good impression on me." 
 
 "Well, so much the better. He's a little Mor- 
 vandian, isn't he? Quite dark?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Who has ears without a rim and a sun-burned 
 skin? Deucedly timid?" 
 
 "Not when it is necessary to hold his own." 
 
 "He must be the one I passed yesterday on the 
 way here. He has abominable parishioners." 
 
 The General found his purse and took from it 
 a hundred-franc note. 
 
 "Tell me, Michel, would you like to give him 
 that for his charities? Do not mention me. It is 
 not worth while. But I come so rarely to Fon- 
 teneilles that the least I can do is to leave some- 
 thing for the poor." 
 
 In taking the note, Michel pressed the hand of 
 his father, who went right on: 
 
 ' ' You know that I do not like effusiveness. There 
 is no use in thanking me. What? More repairs? 
 I have no time now to talk to you about them. 
 Are they pressing ones?" 
 
 "Unfortunately, yes! I wrote you about 
 them."
 
 28 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "But, my dear fellow, I have seen everything! 
 The roof, the stables, the saddle-room, the roof 
 of the piggery, the stable-boy's room everything. 
 It must all be put off until the end of the month. 
 Adieu!" 
 
 General de Meximieu jumped quickly into the 
 carriage : 
 
 " Drive fast, Baptiste. To the station of 
 Corbigny!" 
 
 He leaned out of the carriage. 
 
 "Tell me, Michel, can you hire autos at Cor- 
 bigny?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I shall hire one the next time, then. The age 
 of "victorias" is passed. Adieu!" 
 
 The carriage was already climbing the avenue. 
 One after the other, under the light of the lan- 
 terns, the spotted trunks of the beeches came out 
 from the shadows and disappeared. At last the 
 victoria turned to the right and was lost behind 
 the hedges of the road. 
 
 Immediately after a very short dinner at a 
 table set for one in the middle of the big dining- 
 room, beneath the two chandeliers, veiled in yellow 
 gauze, which had lighted fifty guests in former days 
 Michel went to his room. He followed the corri- 
 dor of the first floor to the end and pushed open 
 the last door at the right. He had groped his 
 way in the darkness and he crossed the room in 
 the same manner to the window which looked 
 out on the short semi-circular meadow and upon 
 the forest, and leaned out. 
 
 The cold seemed to have grown less, because
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 29 
 
 the wind had died down. The waning moon was 
 just rising and already began to mingle its light 
 with that of the stars, and scarves of mist stretch- 
 ing over the forest, the ponds and the meadows, 
 shone like white snow or like new furrows cov- 
 ered by the hoar frost of the morning. 
 
 Youth stirred in Michel's veins. He shivered 
 with the love which is born from the meeting of 
 the soul with the life that is really made for it. 
 Without opening his lips and heard by no one, he 
 called to the forest: "I am sad at heart to have 
 to lessen your beauty!" And his heart, closed to 
 men, was at last free to bewail itself. "To have 
 to cut down oaks, again and again! The aged 
 ones, the half grown, and the young trees! and I 
 can not refuse. I am not the master. Yet even 
 the forest itself can not suffice for this perpetual 
 need of money. It is being sacrificed, dishon- 
 oured. It is the future that I am destroying. 
 Soon there will be no forest, merely the under- 
 brush without a single head to tower above the 
 others, not even a dead trunk on which a passing 
 falcon can rest! And that is my work! All the 
 rest, my efforts, improvements, new methods, ma- 
 chinery, my father does not even ask about. 
 When he is told, he gives neither thanks nor 
 approval. I will speak to him when he comes 
 back. If he should tell me then that he would give 
 up to me a part of the estate in full ownership, as 
 he led me to think he would do when I came to 
 live here! the farm of Fonteneilles, for instance. 
 I could live and I should be sure of succeed- 
 ing. I would pledge myself, if they wanted me to,
 
 30 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 to repair the chateau. But how to make my 
 father listen to me! Shall I ever succeed? Per- 
 haps. This is what I shall do." 
 
 The young man continued to dream, and to 
 make plans for his future. He had good reason 
 for doing so. No one ever planned for him. And 
 he knew that he would only have a few moments 
 to explain his plan, and to receive his reply, good 
 or bad. People were rarely able to discuss any 
 subject whatever with General de Meximieu. 
 Neither soldier, nor civilian, neither his chief nor 
 his family, could flatter themselves that they had 
 explained any idea freely and completely before 
 this man who was always in a hurry, who under- 
 stood too quickly, who walked while he talked, 
 interrupted, remembered, found a quick conclu- 
 sion and often a just one, and was contented to 
 hold it. He had no idea of economy of any sort, 
 but acted entirely on impulse, with a habit of 
 spurring, galloping, and then turning short. Those 
 who knew him slightly thought this was clever- 
 ness; those who knew him well knew that it was 
 his nature, a vagabond way that was tyrannical 
 toward himself, of spending the force of a body 
 which did not grow old and of a mind which had 
 not matured. He was perpetually in movement, 
 made to act and to hurry along, but he was not 
 a judge who could weigh two opinions. The fac- 
 ulty of judgment had remained rudimentary with 
 him ; the delay which it necessitated appeared to 
 him to be weakness. He had no taste for home 
 life, just as he had no feelings of intimacy. This 
 was one of the reasons which had prevented him
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 31 
 
 from understanding Michel and from being under- 
 stood by him. 
 
 It is true, there was another reason which had 
 kept this father and son strangers to each other 
 and constantly irritated by the feeling of distance 
 and of something not understood which separated 
 them. Several times, in recent years, the papers 
 had published the official notice of General deMexi- 
 mieu's service. A career of rapid promotion, in 
 which influence had had only a secondary place. It 
 was as follows: " Philippe de Meximieu, born at 
 Paris, November 15, 1843; graduated from the 
 school of Saint-Cyr in 1864, was appointed Second 
 Lieutenant of the 5th Dragoons, at Pont-a- 
 Mousson; Lieutenant in the same regiment, at 
 Maubeuge, in 1870; wounded in the war, men- 
 tioned in the order of the day and decorated; 
 Captain in the 2nd Dragoons, at Chartres, in 1871 ; 
 Chief of Squadron in the 5th Chasseurs of Africa, 
 at Blida, in 1881 ; Lieutenant-Colonel of the 6th 
 Cuirassiers at Cambrai in 1887 ; Colonel of the 1st 
 Cuirassiers at Paris in 1892; General command- 
 ing the Brigade of Dragoons at Vincennes in 1897; 
 General of division, commanding the 1st division 
 of cavalry at Paris, in 1901." 
 
 It was at Chartres, in 1879, that Captain de 
 Meximieu married Benoite de Magny. He was 
 over thirty-five. She was twenty-seven. Michel 
 was born the following year, and, a little later, the 
 Captain, who had been appointed Chief of Squad- 
 ron, was sent to Blida. He had "asked for Afri- 
 ca" once. They gave it to him when he no longer 
 wanted it. But he did not hesitate a moment
 
 32 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 about starting. Madame de Meximieu, however, 
 refused to follow him. She gave as a reason the 
 health of their child. There was no discussion. 
 "As you like; I am a soldier; I march to the 
 sound of the bugle as you to that of the piano." 
 But their life together was ended. Madame de 
 Meximieu established herself in Paris, in an apart- 
 ment in the same house where her mother, Ma- 
 dame de Magny, lived. Six years passed in this 
 way, and at the end of that time, Monsieur de 
 Meximieu being ordered to Cambrai, she ob- 
 tained even more easily than at first, and as a 
 matter of no importance to her husband, what she 
 called "an extension of leave." 
 
 The habit of living apart was formed on both 
 sides. When the officer returned to Paris to com- 
 mand the 1st Cuirassiers, he found his son no 
 longer a child, and the time for making plans 
 about his education had passed forever. The de- 
 cisive period was over. Eleven years do not 
 make a man, but they determine his destiny. 
 Michel was not fitted either physically or morally 
 to be the soldier who should continue the tradi- 
 tion of his race. A kind of melancholy, a mute 
 and haughty sensitiveness, and the already de- 
 veloped power of suffering alone, showed a dif- 
 ference of character between son and father, and 
 son and mother, which the early training had in- 
 creased. Michel, entrusted at first to governesses, 
 had just then been placed, as day-scholar, in the 
 Chaperot Institute, an "old family school," the 
 prospectus said, established in the "Ternes" 
 quarter, and under the direction of an association
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 33 
 
 of professors and lay-tutors. The choice of this 
 neutral establishment, midway between the Cath- 
 olic college and the Lycee, had been made by mu- 
 tual agreement between Monsieur and Madame 
 de Meximieu. The latter had herself selected the 
 Chaperot Institute, whose chaplain she knew, who 
 was also a non-resident and watched. Michel used 
 to start off early in the morning and come home 
 only to find his mother getting ready to go out, five 
 days out of seven. The Colonel dined later than 
 his wife, or dined at his club. The child had had, 
 from his earliest years, the feeling that he was in 
 the way. This thought continued to weigh on 
 him as he grew up. At eighteen, his trouble was 
 clearly defined. On the day following his bacca- 
 laureate examinations, in the evening how 
 clearly he remembered the details; the hour, 
 which the Buhl clock marked; the half circle of 
 chairs just as they had been left by visitors who 
 had filed in all the afternoon ; his father standing, 
 leaning against the mantelpiece; his mother 
 seated in a blue easy chair he had suffered an- 
 other examination, shorter but more severe. 
 "Well! Michel, what career do you choose? 
 There is only one which I forbid you; the army. 
 Why? It is no longer what it was, and then, you 
 are not cut out for a soldier!" A glance had com- 
 pleted the thought, the cruel thought. The child 
 had not become the demi-god they had dreamed 
 of. He did not appear to belong to the tradi- 
 tionally handsome race of the Meximieu; he 
 would never be the elegant cavalier, the born 
 man of war, the pride of his soldiers and secret
 
 34 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 admiration of the multitude, like General Phi- 
 lippe de Meximieu, like his grandfather, and his 
 great grandfather and the Field Marshall to whom 
 Louis XIV. had said: " Meximieu, there is only 
 one of the Queen's maids of honour who can 
 boast a better shaped waist than you." Michel 
 had understood the implication. "Be reassured," 
 he had answered, "I shall be a farmer." 
 
 He had determined on this career long before 
 they had asked him for a reply. He loved, with 
 a love inherited no doubt from distant ancestors, 
 and with the love of a child whose world has 
 laughed at him, the forests, the grass, the soli- 
 tude which the peasants who pass by do not dis- 
 turb, and the chateau in which some memories of 
 the past of the family survived. He wished to 
 take up again the tradition of a number of his an- 
 cestors, the noble and useful role of a liberal and 
 educated land-holder, to restock the forests, to 
 refill the stables, to introduce new methods of 
 agriculture, to serve the soil, and, through it, 
 France. The only happy days which he remem- 
 bered were the three or four weeks of the early 
 Autumn passed every year at Fonteneilles on the 
 return from the season at Trouville. 
 
 Very soon after this conversation which de- 
 cided his career, Michel left for the north, and 
 studied at the school of agriculture which the 
 Brothers of the Christian Doctrine directed at 
 Beauvais. The following year he performed his 
 military service at Bourges. And, at last, in the 
 middle of November, 1900, he arrived at Cor- 
 bigny. On a dreamy, golden day he crossed the
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 35 
 
 forest of Fonteneilles; he lifted his hat on seeing 
 the roofs of the abandoned chateau; he listened 
 with ecstasy to the noise of the shutters, which 
 the guard Renard pushed open one after the 
 other; he entered; he caressed the stones of the 
 wall ; he was at home. 
 
 Five years had passed! How much work! 
 How many undertakings! What consoling inti- 
 macy between the soil and the child of the an- 
 cient race who had returned to it! Five rapid, 
 full years, without incident; the time to learn his 
 trade, to lessen some of the prejudices and the 
 enmities which had grown up during his absence 
 and to plan for the future and to taste all the 
 sunshine and all the shadow of home. And now 
 Monsieur de Meximieu threatened to ruin it all 
 with his demands for money. It was the estate 
 which needed capital ; it was the chateau. 
 
 The light grew clearer over the forest, and the 
 floating fringes of mist were touched by the light 
 from the red ball of the moon between the hills. A 
 dog was barking like mad far off, toward the lake 
 of Vaux. The swift flight of birds of passage or 
 of prey whispered through the night. 
 
 How could he secure from the General any 
 assurance for his own future? Who was there 
 who could speak to him? Who? Possibly Ma- 
 dame de Meximieu. She had always been kind, 
 that mother still blond and pretty in spite of her 
 fifty years and very kind. Naturally she had no 
 right to give away the farm and chateau which 
 did not belong to her. But she would not refuse 
 to intervene and to plead for him. She was
 
 36 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 clever at recommending the young officers who 
 confided their interests to her; was it not Mi- 
 chel's turn now? She would surely not object. 
 She loved her son with an affection which, if inac- 
 tive, was still real. For a long time she had held 
 it against him that he was not a daughter, a 
 daughter whom she could have spoiled, adored, 
 and kept near her. But since Michel had been 
 living at Nievre, her affection and her desire to 
 see and encourage her son had brought her twice 
 to Fonteneilles. Neither the forests nor the 
 meadows had any attractions for her; she had a 
 horror of the country: yet what pleasant walks 
 they had had, what eagerness she had shown to 
 learn about rural things! "You must show me 
 your Rambouillet ram. Explain to me the 
 difference between an oak and a beech tree. 
 Can't you have some grain sowed before me ? 
 They say that it is a very pretty sight." 
 
 Yes, she would be his ally in this affair. Through 
 her or through some other means the estate must 
 be protected and kept in his hands. There lay the 
 possibility of wealth in the future and perhaps 
 happiness! Also the certainty of a useful life! 
 The vision of the band of wood-cutters, chanting 
 the Internationale and provoking General de 
 Meximieu, the military chief, the rich descendant 
 of a feudal race, passed through the young man's 
 mind. His mouth drooped, and with a sad smile 
 he gazed out into the night at the waving 
 phantoms of those ancestral trees under which 
 but a short time ago the song of hatred had 
 sounded.
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 37 
 
 "What am I good for?" he murmured. "I did 
 not want to come here, just to shut myself up 
 here, to live and die here for myself alone; I 
 wished, I always do wish for the uplifting of these 
 men of the soil. What moral good have I done 
 so far? What influence have I gained? What 
 friendship from a single one of them? Think of 
 that procession of men this evening. My father's 
 words, which were really so noble, and that reply 
 of Gandhon, who was a soldier only yesterday ! 
 Ah! I know well that this is not the whole of 
 France, that it is only a corner of the country 
 more undermined than the others by evil, more 
 debased by jealous passion, but still. How 
 good it must have been in old times to live 
 in a sound, healthy nation! With the same faith! 
 The same festivals! Where words meant the 
 same thing to everybody. What a spring of in- 
 telligence and of love has been lost ! And they do 
 not know it. I see them swallow the poison, and 
 laugh, and sing, while they are already pallid with 
 approaching death! Ah, these poor people, who 
 proclaim their disease as a victory!" 
 
 Michel straightened himself up and listened a 
 moment; then something within him spoke, and 
 said: 
 
 "After all, I belong altogether to them! It 
 must be! I love them!" 
 
 The night grew soft, and a peace unknown to 
 the day descended on the deserted fields. 
 
 Some hundred yards distant from the window 
 where Michel was dreaming, in a shadowy fold of 
 the mist, a little village slept, its fires out. There
 
 38 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 were five houses in all, three on the left of the 
 forest path and two on the right. In one of them, 
 a poor man was also thinking. It was Gilbert 
 Cloquet, and the thought which held him was 
 that of poverty. Lying on his wooden bed, be- 
 tween the wall and the hearth, he was thinking 
 of "his affairs" which were going badly. He 
 earned less than he needed. "It is true," he said 
 to himself, "that I have enough bread and even 
 stew to eat with it ; it is also true that I can always 
 buy what wine I want from the lock-keeper of the 
 canal" the sourish odour from the little cask 
 wedged in a corner of the room floated through 
 the place, mingled with the remains of the smoke 
 "but I need some new Sunday clothes and I can 
 not buy them. That is no great misfortune. The 
 trouble comes from something else. It comes 
 from Marie. She is extravagant; she is always 
 coming to me and saying: 'Father, I have no 
 more grain for the poultry! Father, the baker 
 refuses us credit. We are behind in the rent. 
 The proprietor of Epine is going to attach us!' 
 To attach the house of the daughter of Gilbert 
 Cloquet! No, I will never allow that. First thing 
 to-morrow I will take Marie half of the twenty 
 francs which I have received for the work which 
 I have not yet begun in the woods. And then, 
 when the grass is high enough, I will go to Mon- 
 sieur Michel and hire myself out to cut his hay." 
 The labourer turned over in bed trying to 
 escape the depressing thoughts which had kept 
 him awake for hours. He heard the dog of 
 his neighbours, the Justamond's, barking at the
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 39 
 
 dead leaves blown about by the wind, or at the 
 passage of some prowling animal. Then absolute 
 silence fell. The cold dew outside stiffened the 
 grass. The poor man went on thinking: "There 
 is no one who cares for me, except Monsieur 
 Michel, who gives me as much work as he can; 
 and yet, he is a nobleman, and they say that 
 noblemen are no good."
 
 n. 
 
 THE INNER LIFE OF A POOR MAN. 
 
 GILBERT CLOQUET had been at the public school 
 of Fonteneilles about 1860, and oh! how long ago 
 that was! He had learned to read, to write, to 
 count, and to-day, a man of fifty, although he 
 barely knew how to write any more, for want of 
 practice, he still counted very well, and read, 
 without difficulty, the papers and hand-bills and 
 even " printed writing," which proves that his 
 teaching had been good. He had had to recite the 
 catechism, sometimes well, sometimes poorly, to 
 the teacher, who showed himself as exacting for 
 that lesson as for the others, and who liked to 
 have him recite it word for word. There were 
 occasionally paternal visits of inspection from the 
 priest of that time, who asked a few questions en- 
 couraged them, told them a story and then went 
 away congratulating the master, and after an 
 examination and a short review of the catechism 
 before his first communion, Gilbert Cloquet had 
 been judged, by the highest authorities whom he 
 knew, sufficiently equipped to live honestly, to 
 resist all evil from without and from within, and 
 later to bring up the children who might be born 
 to him. 
 "You are a grown boy now, my Gilbert," said 
 
 40
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 41 
 
 his mother to him one day; " you are eleven years 
 old, and you must begin to earn your living. 
 We will go to the hiring at Bazolles, although it 
 makes my heart ache to send you away from me." 
 The hiring took place, as was the custom at 
 Bazolles, on the following Sunday, which was 
 that before the Feast of Saint John, just as at 
 Corbigny it is held on the Thursday before Cor- 
 pus Christi. The sloping market-place, and the 
 road which crossed it as a river crosses a lake, 
 were crowded with farmers, who had come to find 
 labourers, and with young people who wanted to 
 "hire themselves out." The young men who 
 wanted a place as carter had a whip hung around 
 their neck; those who would be field labourers were 
 biting a green leaf or wore one on their hat ; the girls 
 held a rose in their hand, and they were poorly 
 dressed, in their worst gown, so that people would 
 not think them extravagant; but each of them 
 had, wrapped up in a handkerchief and put away 
 in a corner of the neighbouring inn, a gown for the 
 dance and a bit of ribbon to tie in her bodice. 
 Each one had brought with her a relative, her 
 mother or an aunt or a friend. And Gilbert had 
 near him his mother, anxious, with her eyes red, 
 and well wrapped up in her " mourning cloak," 
 old Mere Cloquet, who was known all through 
 Bazolles and Fonteneilles, and even beyond, as a 
 poor, but industrious, economical and tidy woman. 
 He was certainly one of the youngest there, as the 
 majority of the servants ranged from fifteen to 
 twenty years old and several even were men 
 grown who wanted to change their places for
 
 42 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 reasons of fancy or money, and the little fellow 
 motionless at the foot of the steps of the tobacco 
 shop a good place which his mother had chosen 
 asked himself if there would be any master who 
 would want him; a little fellow of eleven years, 
 in wooden shoes, and a blue blouse with white 
 buttons, with a face like that of a fair and freckled 
 girl, but with keen, observing eyes of limpid blue 
 beneath the shadow of his wide hat. Who would 
 come to hire him? And his little wrinkled, shriv- 
 elled mother, even smaller than her boy and 
 trembling for a gesture which should choose him, 
 wondered anxiously who would be the first to 
 accost her and to discuss with her the conditions 
 of the hiring? 
 
 It was one of the largest farmers of Fonteneilles, 
 Monsieur Honore Fortier, a man twenty-six years 
 old, who had just come into the property of his 
 father, and who managed the hundred acres of La 
 Vigie. 
 
 "Has he ever looked after cows?" he inquired. 
 
 "Often, Monsieur Fortier," replied Gilbert's 
 mother, with a curtsey. "He is not afraid of them, 
 and his ambition is to plough soon." 
 
 "He is not old enough for that, my good 
 woman, but the lad does not displease me." 
 
 He looked Gilbert over, as he would have done 
 a colt, took the measure of his chest with his eye, 
 felt of his arm, took him by the shoulder and 
 shook him to see if he was vigorous; then said, 
 brusquely: 
 
 "Ten francs a month, to begin, Mere Clo- 
 quet?"
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 43 
 
 "That suits me, Monsieur Fortier. Take off your 
 hat, Gilbert, since Monsieur Fortier does you this 
 honour." 
 
 The farmer drew from his pocket a five franc 
 piece and placed it in her hand; then, looking 
 into the eyes of the boy, who had lifted his hat : 
 
 "Listen well, shepherd; two years, ten years, 
 twenty years you can stay with me, if you wish 
 to; you will make your way; I make one condi- 
 tion only, it is that you shall obey." 
 
 Gilbert shook the hand of Monsieur Fortier, and 
 left Bazolles to go and get his clothes, for that 
 very evening he must go to La Vigie. 
 
 "Are you content?" asked his mother. 
 
 "Well enough." 
 
 "You have not said a word." 
 
 "There was no need," replied the boy. 
 
 This was all quite natural. He was a Niver- 
 nais, the country where wills are strong, even vio- 
 lent, but where the face is expressionless and the 
 tongue generally quiet. 
 
 From that time, La Vigie became Gilbert's home. 
 It was a farm resting proudly on the summit 
 of a round, treeless hill, nearly a thousand feet 
 high, with one hundred acres of good land on 
 level slopes; a farm which the wind enveloped as 
 a lighthouse and from which the view extended 
 in a circle. To the North one could see Beaulieu 
 upon its blue- tinged ridge ; to the West and to the 
 South there lay a valley of grass and fields, and 
 beyond Crux-la- Ville, a forest rising like an enor- 
 mous and long wave ready to break into foam, 
 and bearing on its crest the ragged fir trees of an
 
 44 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 old manorial park ; on the East side there stretched 
 a landscape so vast that even the eyes of its chil- 
 dren have never known it all, forests again, that of 
 Fonteneilles, and that of Vaux with its village of 
 Vorroux, sparkling like a wild poppy in the 
 leaves, with the bend of the great ponds hidden 
 by the lofty forest trees, and beyond a hollow like 
 a great shell, with a succession of slopes which 
 seem to be only trees, and which rise from story 
 to story and from green softness to blue softness, 
 up to the hills of the Morvan, rounded, transpar- 
 ent and changing all day long with reflections from 
 the depth of the sky. 
 
 The beauty of this landscape had mysterious 
 charm for the shepherd of La Vigie, the little 
 Cloquet who was cutting his teeth, and whose eye, 
 getting keener in the open air, could discover a 
 goshawk floating half-way from Collancelle. He 
 had been quick to learn his trade and to wish for 
 another, the work of the young men, to drive 
 horses, or to crack his whip at the head of the yoked 
 oxen, singing when the white beasts, Griveau, 
 Chaveau, Montagne, and Rossigneau, slackened 
 on the chain, to harrow, to cut the green forage 
 and to do his part in the harvest season. He went 
 up one grade and was better paid. He had to work 
 hard, so that Monsieur Honore Fortier could pay 
 his rent, which was ten thousand francs. And he 
 wanted for nothing. The master was harsh and 
 always on hand. He governed his large house- 
 hold with the help of Madame Fortier, who was 
 equally serious and severe. The master himself 
 acted as a kind of overseer presiding at the ser-
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 45 
 
 vant's table, when there were four farm hands, a 
 shepherd, a maid servant, without counting the 
 day-labourers whom they hired at the time of the 
 heavy work. For ten, twelve and even fourteen 
 hours the soil absorbed all the powers of body 
 and mind of the men. How should it help yield- 
 ing a harvest? At the meals, which were taken in 
 the kitchen adjoining the master's room, Gilbert 
 listened in silence to the workmen. They talked 
 about the work, the price of hay and current 
 prices at the fairs, repeated scandalous gossip, or 
 told coarse stories or amusing ones, and they 
 rarely spoke of politics. The oldest, who had 
 served in the army, put no restraint on their talk. 
 There was never a word which could either lift, 
 guide, or refresh the minds of these men or lessen 
 the jealousies which divided them; nothing but 
 orders, discipline, and a supervision of a purely 
 external kind, and the desire each one had for his 
 own interest to stay at La Vigie. On Sunday, 
 those who went down to Fonteneilles did so only 
 in the afternoon. 
 
 Only the two women who directed the farm, 
 the wives of the master and of the overseer, 
 went down in the morning to mass. They had 
 all been confirmed, and that ceremony over the 
 men at Fonteneilles, if not anti-religious, at least 
 showed themselves no longer at church except at 
 Easter, All Saints, at funerals, or sometimes on 
 the 3rd of May, the day of the Finding of the 
 Holy Cross, when the cure" blessed the " little 
 crosses" which protected the " patrimony." Mon- 
 sieur Fortier himself on Sunday inspected his
 
 46 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 lands, smoked his pipe and made up his accounts, 
 or else he harnessed his mare to the yellow spring 
 wagon, and went to pay a visit to some farmer or 
 cattle merchant in the neighbourhood. Gilbert, 
 in the beginning, usually put on his best suit and, 
 at the first sound of the church bell, ran to join his 
 mother in the last row of seats near the font of 
 holy water. He liked to warn her when the sac- 
 ristan passed, and to pay for the two chairs, like 
 a man who was earning his living and who had 
 the proper feeling. His mother thought him re- 
 ligious because of this. She feared indeed for the 
 future, knowing that young boys are seldom good ; 
 that they escape even from mothers who are near 
 enough to watch over them, and that they can 
 easily deceive mothers who are far away. But 
 she showed her uneasiness only by a few words 
 spoken low to Gilbert, and the troubled look in 
 her eyes even when she smiled at him. Her 
 look was that of the Ave Maria, which she often 
 recited, awake or half asleep, always with the 
 same vision of her child growing up and adven- 
 turous. "Happily he loves me!" she thought. 
 Her husband also had loved her and that gave 
 her a little confidence in the men of her house. 
 
 At La Vigie, the seasons passed and repassed 
 quickly, changing upon the sides of the hill, from 
 the green of the pastures to the violet of the fresh 
 fallow lands, the pale yellow of the oats and 
 the red gold of the wheat. At dawn, Monsieur 
 Fortier, standing in the court ; among the labourers 
 and the wagons, would sometimes say : 
 
 "Well, boys, there's a hard day's work before
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 47 
 
 us! If the field is all plowed this evening, I'll 
 pay for a round of red wine ! Who is going to get 
 my hay in before the storm? Who will carry the 
 most sacks to the granary ? Who will dare to 
 climb to the top of the chestnut tree and knock 
 the chestnuts down?" 
 
 At those times, Gilbert was the first to come or 
 to go, or to volunteer, one of the most skilful and 
 the most enduring. The blond little boy had 
 become a tall, fair young man, who was serious, 
 habitually a little absent-minded, but with eyes 
 that would light up with an emotion or a jest, a 
 defiance, or an order, which drew his eyebrows 
 together and lifted up the corners of his lips under 
 the new yellow beard. When he went to bed at 
 night, upon the straw, in his "lair" in the old 
 wagon box placed at the left of the stable-door, 
 he rarely dreamed; fatigue prevented him from 
 talking with his older companion who slept on 
 the other side of the entrance; he slept so heavily 
 that neither the noise of the chains, which the 
 cows dragged or let fall upon the floor of their 
 stalls, nor their lowing, nor the stamping of the 
 horses in the stable nearby distupbed his rest. 
 He was sober, partly from economy, partly be- 
 cause he was ambitious, and because every one in 
 the villages notices the men who are never over- 
 come by drink. He was chaste also, from lack of 
 temptation, and thanks to the hard work which 
 he did. He grew up, in fact, straight and honest, 
 without any one being able to say: "It is on 
 account of my influence that he is better than 
 the others."
 
 48 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 Until he was of age, Gilbert often greeted the 
 cure of Fonteneilles, but only once did he see him 
 mount to La Vigie and speak to the men assem- 
 bled together. This was during the war. The 
 abbe brought to the inhabitants of the farm a 
 letter from an old servant, drafted from Nievre, 
 who wrote in a few lines some sad news. He 
 arrived at the farm on one of the evenings of 
 that hard winter when the setting suns were so 
 red that mothers were frightened, and he met 
 Gilbert Cloquet, who was bringing home the team 
 from the plowing, in the little path leading from 
 the road to the farm. 
 
 "Ah! Good-day, Gilbert. I see things are go- 
 ing well with you. How you have grown! It is 
 a pity that one sees you so rarely at Fonteneilles!" 
 Had the cure added: "Come sometime and talk 
 with me! I am a friend, I assure you, and you, 
 you are a soul, a dear child, who is entrusted to 
 me, and who will soon have no religion left but the 
 seed sowed at your baptism; come and see me," 
 perhaps the young man would have gone to the 
 priest's house. Gilbert seldom went to the village 
 and when he did go, it was to the inn to drink 
 a single glass with his comrades, or, sometimes on 
 market days, which are holidays in the country, 
 to the dancing halls or to the platforms erected 
 in front of the houses, where the young girls of 
 Fonteneilles, Bazolles, and Vitry-Lache, came to 
 dance. 
 
 One could easily count the occasions on which 
 he had found himself in the presence of the great 
 proprietors of that region. Once, while still a boy,
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 49 
 
 he had delivered a heifer at the chateau of Vau- 
 creuse. He remembered the date well ; it was the 
 3rd of May, the day of the Finding of the Holy Cross. 
 Madame Fortier, as soon as the morning soup had 
 been eaten, had summoned the new drover. 
 "You are to start for Vaucreuse, Gilbert. In go- 
 ing down pass by the stubble-field of Troches, and 
 cut me there a dozen little crosses, solid ones 
 and one particularly fine one for the hemp-field, and 
 bring them to me when you come back. Find a 
 boy to watch the heifer while you are having them 
 blessed, but be careful whom you trust her to." 
 
 "I will take care, Madame Fortier," the drover 
 had replied. And he had gone off dressed in his 
 best blouse, leading the white heifer, and rubbing 
 the blade of his knife on a stone to sharpen it. In 
 the "stubble-field," he had gathered twelve sprigs 
 of the hazel tree the hazel is sacred, since it 
 served as a staff to Saint Joseph on his journey 
 he had cut and made twelve little crosses, and 
 one large one which still bore a tuft of leaves on 
 the end. He had entered the church, as Madame 
 Fortier had told him, and afterward, holding his 
 crosses, which had been blessed by the priest, 
 fastened in a light bundle upon his shoulder, he 
 had continued his way toward the valley of 
 the Aron where he could see, in the distance, the 
 chateau of Vaucreuse white among the meadows. 
 The mistress of the chateau was always ready to 
 see any one who wished to speak to her. She was 
 old Madame Jacquemin, who walked softly, 
 spoke softly and had more will than ten men put 
 together. While Gilbert was passing by the wall 
 
 <;A NT ANTHONY'S SEMiNARV
 
 50 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 of the stable, before he had even seen her coming, 
 she was there, examining the animal which he 
 brought and the face of the drover. When she 
 had looked the heifer over and had felt of it, as it 
 stood motionless in the paved court in front of 
 the chateau, she threw back her masterful head, 
 gave a little gurgle, which was her way of laugh- 
 ing, and said : 
 
 "Why, you are in blossom like a bush of gorse, 
 Gilbert Cloquet! Sixteen years old! It is the 
 age when boys begin to be little men, and that is 
 not saying much good of them. Luckily, my boy, 
 you are like your mother. Try to be like her in 
 everything, for she is an honest being, very close 
 to God, industrious and tender to those who are 
 not so." 
 
 Then she tapped the shoulder of the heifer. 
 
 "Now lead her to the stable. Au revoir!" 
 
 Gilbert had stood without making any reply, 
 for the words had touched his heart too deeply 
 and he watched the slender little lady go away, 
 all in black, with her clean-cut face as white as 
 ivory. 
 
 Some years after that he was about twenty 
 years old when he was at the great fair of the 
 llth of November at Saint Saulge, the fair for 
 calves, which is so important that cattle mer- 
 chants are wont to say: "There is only one Saint 
 Martin in France," he had met at the bend of a 
 road the Marquis de Meximieu, driving up in a 
 carriage. The Marquis, then a lieutenant of dra- 
 goons, elegant, with a slender figure, and the 
 shoulders of an athlete, had tossed him his reins
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 51 
 
 and said, with that smile which adds so much to 
 words, and which all Meximieus have : 
 
 "Take my mare, Gilbert, will you? I only 
 trust men like you, who are from home. I will 
 find you again in front of the Touchevier Hotel." 
 
 In front of the Touchevier Hotel, near the old 
 Gothic church all incrusted with low shops, Gil- 
 bert had waited, holding the mare. And after an 
 hour, " Monsieur Philippe," as they called him at 
 Fonteneilles, had come back and had given a five- 
 franc piece to the lad of La Vigie five francs with 
 a clasp of the hand and a glance of good humour 
 which were well worth another hundred sous. 
 Unhappily, the Marquis did not live at home and 
 occupied himself solely with collecting the rents 
 and with the price of the wood; he was an officer 
 in a garrison, far, very far away. 
 
 And this had been all the share that Gilbert 
 had had in the life of the "authorities" of the 
 parish, and all of the direct evidence he had to 
 judge them by. Fortunately, he had no time for 
 reading, for not having any guide nor any way of 
 choosing, he would have run every chance of 
 spoiling his judgment, which was healthy and 
 sound. 
 
 At this time he had already been for a year the 
 head man on Monsieur Honore* Fortier's farm, 
 under the orders of the overseer. His light mus- 
 tache curled up at the ends, his blue eyes, in 
 which there was fear neither of men nor of things; 
 his tall figure ; his youth, which found expression 
 only in his strength, in the fearlessness of his 
 walk, in the upright carriage of his head on his
 
 52 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 shoulders, in the steady grasp of his two hands 
 when they seized the handles of the plow, or lifted 
 at the end of the pitchfork a double sheaf of 
 wheat, like a bundle of rushes; his calm gayety, 
 his reputation as a steady, well-paid young man, 
 who knew how to save his money; his skill as a 
 poacher, caring little for the guards, and who 
 could offer a hare to the prettiest dancer the day 
 of a fair; all this union of energy, health and suc- 
 cess pleased the maidens of Fonteneilles and of 
 the neighbouring villages. 
 
 Already more than one had let him see this, and 
 often, when he walked away in the gloaming, his 
 body bent forward, his feet stiffened by the fur- 
 rows as he followed the team which drew and 
 lengthened the traces: "Good evening," cried 
 they, " Monsieur Gilbert. Are you coming on 
 Sunday to Fonteneilles?" 
 
 "That depends," said he. On what? He did 
 not say. And over the thorn-bushes, the white 
 coifs watched the team going away, the youth 
 absorbed in the work like his oxen. 
 
 Gilbert, when the men were talking around 
 him, kept silent, unless the conversation turned 
 upon the things of his trade, and then he became 
 interested and talked well. What he heard them 
 say about religion and morals, wealth and politics, 
 disturbed his untaught honesty. He gave up, 
 little by little, his old habits and ideas without 
 any fuss and without boasting of the change as the 
 others did, for he was not sure that he was doing 
 right in changing them. He had great good faith. 
 He yielded to slight considerations and to the gen-
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 53 
 
 eral influence, because he had little affection for 
 anything and his strength was without guidance. 
 This was why he had gradually given up entirely 
 his custom of going down to Fonteneilles on Sun- 
 day morning to mass. His little old mother, 
 standing on the high church steps, looked tow- 
 ard the square and waited vainly each Sunday 
 until the last stroke of the bell. She continued to 
 pray, and to grow old, and God without doubt 
 would provide for her. Gilbert did not fear the 
 game-keepers, but he did dread all of the un- 
 known, invisible apparatus of the state repre- 
 sented by placards, conscription, the police and 
 the tax collector, who stopped once a month at 
 the inn of Fonteneilles, and by the news of the 
 day which reached even to La Vigie. The news- 
 papers, bought irregularly either on fair days, or 
 from pedlers, or at the tobacco shop, were first 
 read by Monsieur Fortier, then by Madame For- 
 tier, and the maid-servant, then by the rest of 
 the household, and finally, worn to tatters, and 
 the letters all blurred by the rubbing of hands 
 and tables, they were carried in the evening into 
 the " lairs" and there read by the servants by the 
 light of round lanterns. The servants read espe- 
 cially the serial stories because of the romance 
 in them and the accounts of local events. The rest 
 of the paper was merely glanced at, and it left in 
 the minds of the men only a kind of ardent haze, 
 a feeling of dissatisfaction and a desire for change. 
 One single idea remained in the unnourished mind 
 of Gilbert : the idea of justice. He applied it only 
 to the very limited world which his eyes could
 
 54 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 see; but, in his relations with other men, in his 
 daily conduct, and in his manner of judging others, 
 he showed a kind of passion for it. Some of his 
 ancestors must have without doubt loved it; it 
 was in his blood, this thirst for justice, which at 
 times exalted itself into a spirit of revolt. If he 
 saw one of his companions plowing carelessly, he 
 grew red with anger, and led back the oxen into 
 the furrow himself. If he heard any day-labourer 
 at La Vigie, or the men at Fonteneilles, who were 
 all wood-cutters in the winter months, boast of 
 having cheated in the piling up of the wood and 
 of course, there were many frauds in the way of bad 
 stacking of the fire-wood, reserved young trees 
 from which the workmen effaced the red marks, 
 wood which they did not count, cords of wood 
 stuffed with chips, bundles of bark filled out by 
 parings of the trees which had been cut in a bun- 
 gling way when he heard these boasts he would 
 say boldly: "Who ever did that is a bad work- 
 man." And neither sneers, nor grumblings, nor 
 abuse, made him change his opinion. As to the 
 threats, those he never heard they were spoken 
 too low for he had fists of which men were afraid, 
 and a way of looking one in the face which showed 
 he would follow up any provocation. 
 
 This rude and combative disposition more than 
 once brought him into conflict with his master, 
 who gave abrupt orders and allowed no discus- 
 sion. The other labourers, who were younger than 
 he was, did not lose the chance at these times to 
 suggest: "Leave, Gilbert, go settle your account 
 and begone!" and three times at least he had
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 55 
 
 said: "I will leave." But each time the hidden 
 and deep love which he felt for La Vigie, and also 
 the thought that his master, though arbitrary, was 
 generally just, had kept him at the farm. Mon- 
 sieur Honore Fortier, even if he did not express it, 
 nevertheless showed at every opportunity, the 
 confidence which he felt in the experience and the 
 integrity of his head man. When he sent cattle 
 to Paris he had them taken by the well-known 
 driver, Father Toutpetit, who, twice a week, from 
 June to the end of November, took to Villette 
 wagon loads of ca^le, bringing back the price in 
 small linen sacks sealed with red wax, to the 
 cattle raisers. But when the buyer demanded 
 that the cattle be delivered in some other part of 
 France, and there was no driver available, Mon- 
 sieur Fortier said, knowing that it pleased Gil- 
 bert: "I have some one who will take them." In 
 this way Gilbert- Cloquet made trips to Lyon, to 
 Belfort, to Nancy and to many other places. 
 The young man gained from this more initiative 
 than his comrades and more authority and had 
 some idea of the variety of the world. 
 
 At the age of twenty-four as the son of a 
 widow, he was exempt from military service 
 Gilbert passed already for a rich man. As he 
 made good wages, five hundred francs a year ever 
 since he was seventeen, and spent nothing, and 
 had also inherited a small sum at the death of an 
 uncle, an old farm hand and day-labourer at 
 Crux-la- Ville, he had the right to choose from 
 among the best matches of the countryside. 
 There was great astonishment when it was learned
 
 56 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 that Gilbert was " keeping company" with the 
 daughter of a small shop-keeper of Fonteneilles, 
 a dealer in barley sugar and hardware, cloth and 
 white earthen ware. She was not rich; her 
 father was a drunkard, and everybody knew that 
 she had more taste for dress than for work. Still, 
 when she passed through the square., on Sunday, 
 dressed like a lady, her hair turned back, her bril- 
 liant eyes with shadows under them and her lips 
 open, showing her white teeth, all the young men 
 of the town asked laughingly: "Is it for you, 
 Baptiste? Is it for you, Jean? Is it for you, 
 Franc. ois?" One day Gilbert, who made few jokes 
 and contented himself with laughing, biting his 
 blond mustache, rose in the middle of the wine 
 shop where some thirty men were drinking, and 
 said: "It is for me!" And immediately he 
 crossed the road and greeted the pretty girl, and 
 they saw them both walk off ' ' talking." His moth- 
 er was troubled when she learned that her Gilbert 
 had chosen "one who was not his equal." She 
 tried to struggle; but she had become so old that 
 she could only say no at first so as to say yes 
 afterward and to weep in secret. 
 
 She would have liked to have had the wedding 
 in the month of May, because she was devoted to 
 the Virgin. But the parents of the bride inter- 
 fered! "Girls who marry in May," they said, 
 "have too many children!" So it was in the be- 
 ginning of June, on a brilliant day that was good 
 for the harvest, that Gilbert Cloquet led to church 
 the beautiful Adele Mirette, daughter of the 
 grocer of Fonteneilles. All the village stood at
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 57 
 
 the doors to see the newly wedded couple, the 
 handsomest of the year, with their wedding train, 
 which stretched along the road up the hill. A 
 couple of very small children led the procession, 
 to chase away misfortune from the bridal pair, 
 then came the violin players, then Gilbert, su- 
 perb, giving his arm to his mother, who tried, 
 without success, to smile. The poor people, ac- 
 cording to custom, had arranged along the route 
 of the bridal party chairs covered with white 
 linen and decorated with bouquets. And every 
 body remarked that Mere Cloquet, the poor old 
 woman who had only just enough to live upon, 
 placed a piece of silver on each one of these chairs 
 of the poor. Her heart under her forced smile 
 was full of sorrow. 
 
 Mere Cloquet could not long bear this new 
 trouble added to so many others. Less than two 
 months after the marriage, she died, feeling sure 
 that her son would be unhappy in his home. 
 In this she was partly wrong. The coquettish 
 young girl made a steady wife, whom no one talked 
 about. She had loved pretty clothes especially as 
 a means of making herself loved. Her husband 
 would not have tolerated a rival. Possibly, too, it 
 was a spirit of precaution as much as economy, 
 which caused him in renting a house, to choose 
 the hamlet of Pas-du-Loup situated in the open 
 woods a few hundred yards from the village. He 
 continued to work as a servant at La Vigie but 
 he left the barn where he had slept in the straw 
 for thirteen years and came to live in the last 
 one of the houses of the hamlet, the one set far-
 
 58 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 thest back in the forest, to the left. Every morn- 
 ing at daybreak he walked up to La Vigie; at 
 dusk, he came back again. No one could tell 
 whether he was happy or unhappy. People only 
 noticed that he often returned very late from the 
 farm, and then, after a while, that he had bought, 
 or had given to him, no one knew which, a sheep 
 dog named Labri with a smooth coat and eyes 
 like burning coals, who never left him. "He tells 
 his secrets to the dog," whispered the neighbours. 
 The truth is that his wife was no housekeeper. 
 Her health was delicate, and that served, for a 
 long time, as excuse when the soup was not ready, 
 and when her husband found the house in dis- 
 order, the linen badly arranged in the clothes- 
 press and his working clothes still unmended 
 after two or three days. He loved her, with all 
 the strength of his unspoilt youth, and she also 
 loved him in her way. She was proud to show 
 herself, on Sunday, by the side of the handsomest 
 man of the country and to go with him to wed- 
 dings, assemblies, and sometimes to fairs when 
 Monsieur Fortier sent him there. She always kept 
 the tastes acquired in her early childhood, which 
 had been passed in a village shop, selling and gos- 
 siping. Neither the Jiving in the forest nor the 
 housework pleased her, and the fowls in her poul- 
 try yard did not have the well-fed comb, the shin- 
 ing feathers and full crop of those of her neighbour, 
 Mere Justamond. "What can you expect?" 
 she would always say to Gilbert when he com- 
 plained. "I have no heart for anything because 
 you are never here. Even if you worked out by the
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 59 
 
 day, as nearly all of the married men of your age 
 do, I should have some pleasure in working with 
 you in the garden during the slack season and in 
 keeping your house in order; but Monsieur Hon- 
 ore Fortier does not leave you even an hour for 
 yourself; he even takes you away often on Sun- 
 days, because he says that he can trust you to 
 look after La Vigie! Do you think that it is 
 very amusing for me? What is the good of your 
 money?" Gilbert pretended not to hear her; he 
 went up to La Vigie, with his dog with the eyes like 
 burning coals. Adele Cloquet was not bad. She 
 was merely what she had been made : a girl who 
 did not understand her condition in life. On the 
 other hand, she did believe all the superstitious 
 stories of the neighbourhood. Not for all the 
 wealth of the Marquis would she have been seen 
 sewing between Christmas and New Year's Day, 
 nor would she have washed on a " Lady's Day," 
 she who often worked on Sunday. Omens and 
 sorcerers made her afraid, and, when she met 
 Grollier, she smiled at him, secretly crossing her- 
 self, so as to combat the evil eye of the tramp in 
 two ways. 
 
 Water wears away the stone and the wind gnaws 
 it. The complaints of Adele wore down slowly, 
 though without appearing to do so, the man's will. 
 He knew very well that he would make a mistake 
 if he left the farm where he had worked for so long, 
 where every sod had been trodden by his sabots 
 and turned over by his hands. The words of the 
 woman he loved and whom he silently pitied, the 
 talk of men of the new generation who were be-
 
 60 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 ginning to raise their voices in the inns, changed 
 the workman's heart. In 1883, about the middle 
 of the hay-making, which took place early, Gil- 
 bert had a dispute with his master. He said, as he 
 passed by an old strip of pasture land which had 
 been turned into a meadow and was called the 
 "chaume basse:" 
 
 "You want me to cut the hay here, master; it 
 is not ripe yet." 
 
 "Yes it is. I know what I am talking about, 
 Gilbert, and it is I who command here." 
 
 "I, too. know what I am talking about, and I 
 will not cut hay which is not ripe. That disgusts 
 me!" 
 
 Monsieur Honore" Fortier probably had never 
 before been so patient; he did not reply, and let 
 Gilbert go on, with three of the young labourers 
 who had overheard, to a meadow higher up, where 
 the seed at the end of the thick grass was beaded 
 with gray dew. But in the evening, as he was 
 coming back along the path, stretching his legs, 
 he was rejoined by Gilbert Cloquet who was walk- 
 ing rapidly with his scythe on his shoulder. 
 
 "You are warm, it seems to me, Gilbert?" 
 
 "And something more than that." 
 
 "That is?" 
 
 "That I am going to leave La Vigie at Saint 
 John's Day." Monsieur Honore* Fortier stopped 
 short. His strong, smooth-shaven face, sharpened 
 by sudden anger, grew ten years older. 
 
 "This is- the fourth time that you have said that, 
 Gilbert, and that is enough. Why are you leav- 
 ing?"
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 61 
 
 "To be my own master." 
 
 "Be your own master, then! I will be so no 
 longer! Die of hunger if that suits you! But re- 
 member well what I am saying to you! Neither 
 at the present time, nor when you are old, will I 
 ever take you back again." 
 
 "I shall never come back, Monsieur Fortier." 
 
 "Not if you should go down on your knees, 
 there on the ground ! Come in to La Vigie, I will 
 settle your account now. Not at Saint John's 
 Day. Immediately!" 
 
 Gilbert went on ahead of his master, and while 
 he was walking away, taking short steps to show- 
 that he was not afraid, he heard rolling over the 
 furrows after him: 
 
 "Nineteen years of friendship! Nineteen years 
 of good pay ! You will regret your master, Gilbert 
 Cloquet!" 
 
 A little farther on he heard again: 
 
 "You are doing me an injury, you are unjust!" 
 
 Then Gilbert, furious, turned his head. 
 
 "I forbid you to say that!" he cried. "I am 
 doing what I have a right to do. I am not doing 
 you any injury! You will replace me!" 
 
 But the voice from below replied: 
 
 "Good servants cannot be replaced every day 
 in the week. Yes, you are doing me a great 
 wrong, and because you are going away without 
 any reason you are behaving unjustly!" 
 
 The words were lost over the furrows and the 
 men said no more to each other. 
 
 That evening for the last time Gilbert followed 
 the path leading from the farm to the village. His
 
 62 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 heart beat as he approached Pas-du-Loup. A tor- 
 por lay over all the land after the heat of the day. 
 Even the aspen leaves were at rest. The man 
 went down with glad pride, regretting nothing and 
 he saluted the invisible house, hidden by the tall 
 forest trees. "I shall be able to watch my little 
 girl grow up," he said. A little daughter had been 
 born to him four years before. He loved her pas- 
 sionately, but during the week he saw her only in 
 her sleep, for he went to his work too early and 
 returned too late to find little Marie's eyes still 
 open. She had been one of the reasons for the 
 resolution which he had just taken, and the only 
 one which he acknowledged to himself. When he 
 reached the cottage the little one was playing on 
 the door step. She turned her back. Her father 
 lifted her up, startled, in his arms and kissed her 
 noisily. 
 
 "It is a day-labourer, little Marie, who is kiss- 
 ing you! You will get to know me now !" 
 
 A new era began then for Gilbert Cloquet. He 
 was thirty years old. His strength was known, 
 and so was his honesty as a workman; people 
 wanted him at once on the farms and in the for- 
 ests. He had his work engaged for more days 
 than any one of his many companions who hired 
 themselves out. The steward of the Marquis de 
 Meximieu engaged him for the hay-making; 
 others hired him for the harvest. He was "his 
 own master"; at least, he thought he was, and 
 he worked hard, but more joyously than at La 
 Vigie. The worst part of this trade of working 
 out by the day or by the week was not the per-
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 63 
 
 petual change of work and of place Gilbert liked 
 the chance of comparing in this way the different 
 people and the different parts of the country 
 but it was the slack seasons and very soon it was 
 also the low wages that were paid. From the 15th 
 of November to the middle of March, good work- 
 man as he was, there were easily fifty days when 
 he could only get work in the woods. In April, 
 people on the farms hired him to help in the 
 Spring work, and in the breaking up of the clods, 
 but it was a bad month. In May he returned to 
 the forest with his wife, whenever she was willing 
 to follow him, for the cutting and the barking 
 of the young oak trees; then came the busy 
 weeks of the harvest hay-making in June, wheat 
 and oats in July; then a lull bringing days of en- 
 forced rest; and by looking around and offering 
 himself here and there to dig potatoes and for 
 the Autumn sowings, he managed to get through 
 to All Saints' Day, the season when he buried 
 himself again with his comrades in the forest. 
 A hard season, but one in which he lived with 
 many companions, and which he loved. 
 
 He often had to go three or four miles in the 
 morning and again in the evening, to reach the 
 wood yard and to return from it. When her father 
 returned home, always after dark for the work 
 was finished about five o'clock, a little before sun- 
 set the child would say : 
 "You love the woods too much, papa!" 
 He would lift her up at arm's length and hold 
 her turned toward the flame of the hearth so that 
 he could see the joy of youth in the depths of the
 
 64 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 child's almond-shaped eyes, so full of life and of 
 the tone of the beech trees in autumn, and he 
 would answer laughing: 
 
 "I work hard, my little Marie, so that neither 
 of you need work!" 
 
 In the single room which filled the whole space 
 between the four walls of the house two beds in 
 the back, a great chimney-place on the right wall, 
 a large wardrobe opposite reaching up to the 
 joists, a door and a window looking out upon the 
 forest road, a few household utensils hung from 
 nails, a wooden box in which the food was kept, 
 a cask of wine wedged between two split logs he 
 never remained for long. His work took him far 
 away, and so did that life among other men, which 
 becomes a habit, a school, and in a short while a 
 tyranny. 
 
 The men talked together on their way to work 
 through the lines of trees and when returning in 
 the evening with their staffs on their shoulders, 
 and also when at mid-day all the wood-cutters of 
 the clearing collected together in groups in the 
 shelter of the corded firewood, and opened their 
 lunch bags. Gilbert, who had the prestige of his 
 size and the reputation of an independent char- 
 acter, was listened to with attention. They often 
 took him for umpire in the disputes between the 
 workmen and the sworn clerks who watched them 
 in behalf of the wood merchants. He complained 
 aloud the others merely grumbled in undertones 
 that the pay was not enough. A franc and a 
 half a day was too little, it was unjust. And this 
 also gave him an ascendency over his comrades.
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 65 
 
 He did not earn any more than at Monsieur For- 
 tier's, but the freedom of his life and the variety 
 of the work took away any regret for the past 
 from this tall wood-cutter, who felt that his youth 
 gave him a sure future and who exercised a pow- 
 erful influence over his equals. 
 
 The health of his wife, never good, grew rapidly 
 worse. The poor woman, consumed by an insidi- 
 ous disease, grew as pale and thin as a wax taper. 
 She lost her hair and her teeth, which had made 
 her smile brilliant, and even her love for dress. 
 Little Marie, on the contrary, prettier even than 
 her mother had been, slender, blonde, fresh, with 
 eyes that flashed readily with anger but were fasci- 
 nating when her mood was gentle, grew up like an 
 oak on the edge of the forest. Her father knew 
 of nothing that was as beautiful. He who was so 
 rough with men was weakness itself before her. 
 He spoiled her, and he said to excuse himself: 
 
 "I am too much away to make her weep when 
 I do see her. You, the mother, have plenty of 
 time to make yourself loved! But I have only 
 supper time." 
 
 When she was ten years old she was confirmed 
 with the other children of her age. It was a great 
 fete, and a great expense for the Cloquets. Gil- 
 bert wanted Marie to be the best-dressed child in 
 the village, and his wife had the work done by the 
 seamstresses of Corbigny. 
 
 The morning of the f&te, at the first sound which 
 rang out from the steeple of Fonteneilles over 
 the forest, the four neighbours of the Cloquets, the 
 Justamonds, Pere Dixneuf, the Lappes, and the
 
 66 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 Ravoux, with their wives and their children, went 
 out on the road to look at Marie in her white dress. 
 They all said, "Isn't she a dear," but only Mere 
 Justamond embraced her with the emotion which 
 the understanding of religion gives. She mur- 
 mured something in the ear of the child, who re- 
 plied with a discreet yes. Marie's whole attention 
 was occupied with holding up her veil and her 
 gown, and in walking very straight, so as not to 
 put her white shoes in the ruts. Every ten steps 
 her mother admonished her: " Don't get your- 
 self dirty, Marie!" It had rained during the night 
 and a few large, left-over drops fell on her veil and 
 on her hair which had been so carefully waved. 
 Marie walked in front between the cliff-like rows 
 of trees and her father and mother followed, one 
 on the right and the other on the left, in their 
 Sunday clothes. Gilbert had even put on his top 
 hat which he wore only on the most formal occa- 
 sions. Any one would have thought that they 
 were true Christians, who had seen them a little 
 later in the church, silent, serious, even affected 
 and looking often at the little one behind her ta- 
 per, in the second place of the first row; but their 
 emotion was entirely paternal, maternal, and hu- 
 man, like that felt by parents who are taking their 
 daughter to her first ball. After the mass, and 
 when the cure", who was a courteous and timid old 
 man, conquered by inertia through his despair of 
 conquering it, had returned to the parsonage, there 
 in the sandy path, he found the Cloquet family who 
 had come to pay their respects and to give him the 
 cakes ordered from the local baker. The brioches
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 67 
 
 seemed so large to him that he rejoiced at first, 
 regarding them as a proof of devotion. He thanked 
 them. 
 
 " Monsieur le Cure," said Cloquet, caressing his 
 blond beard, "we are doing this because you have 
 never given us anything to complain of, and I 
 wanted to show you we appreciate it. It is not 
 my custom to be indebted to any one who is our 
 friend." 
 
 "I am not as much your friend as I would 
 wish, Gilbert Cloquet, but your intentions are 
 good, all the same. Thank you!" 
 
 "Good-by, Monsieur le Cure." 
 
 " Bring the child to vespers at half-past two, 
 punctually." And that was all. The mother and 
 daughter returned at half-past two. They were 
 red in the face. They had eaten too much. Clo- 
 quet himself had begun to sharpen his scythe, for 
 the hay-making season had come, and the evening 
 before the guard from the chateau of Fonteneilles 
 had engaged the reapers. 
 
 Two years later his wife died. His daughter 
 was not yet twelve years old. This was a great 
 grief to Cloquet and the cause of much anxiety. 
 Poor and disorderly a housekeeper as his wife had 
 been, she was better than her daughter. "My 
 little girl is not old enough to do such hard work," 
 she had always said, and the child had not learned 
 even the little cooking and sewing that her 
 mother could have taught her. After the mother's 
 death, the father stayed at home with Marie for 
 eight days, without doing anything, as the cus- 
 tom is, between the burial service and the mass
 
 68 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 for the dead, and he tried to understand Marie, to 
 advise her, to show her how to do some work. The 
 girl was strong enough to do the house-work, if she 
 had been willing to try. She was so tall and so 
 entirely a woman in figure and manners that she 
 looked fourteen, and some said even sixteen years 
 old. He did not. succeed at all. He was opposed 
 by caresses, then by refusals, and finally, when he 
 persisted, by a sulky and morose anger as un- 
 yielding as ingratitude. Near the end of the 
 eighth day Cloquet, who was engaged in removing 
 the knots of crpe which he had fastened, in ac- 
 cordance with the custom, to the straw of his 
 hives, saw approaching fat Mere Justamond, 
 his neighbour. 
 
 "Pere Cloquet," she said, "I already have five 
 children to take care of, and your daughter shall 
 make the sixth. Do not worry about her." 
 
 And Marie went on playing with the little 
 Justamonds, and idling her time away until she 
 should be old enough to be apprenticed. She 
 wanted to be a seamstress so that she might leave 
 the forest and see the world. 
 
 Gilbert was now worse taken care of, more iso- 
 lated and more unhappy in his home even than 
 before. He fell back entirely on his companions, 
 many of them day-labourers the year round whom 
 he met on the farms, and others who were wagon- 
 ers, masons, small proprietors, pensioners, and 
 mechanics, who worked as wood-cutters during the 
 winter season or as strippers when the sap began 
 to rise. The obscure feeling of sympathy which 
 the practice of a trade develops, the need of being
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 69 
 
 with a number of people who agree together and 
 who help each other, made him often hire himself 
 out on distant farms, and return home late be- 
 cause he would go off for a drink among friends, 
 and sometimes even sleep away from home. His 
 clothes were in bad condition, his beard grew 
 long and the dogs barked at him when he ap- 
 peared again at the hamlet. The neighbours said: 
 " Gilbert Cloquet is getting wild." But it was 
 not that. He was really living more fully, with a 
 more earnest, eager, generous, and restless life; he 
 w r as living for others and with others of his trade, 
 in the reviving union. His generous nature was 
 filled with illusions, with blended angers and joys. 
 In 1891 and in the two following years, the wood- 
 cutters of Nievre leagued themselves together 
 to obtain an increase of their insufficient wages. 
 In the woods, at the rest hour, in the drinking- 
 places, and on Sundays, and in the farms where 
 machines were replacing the rollers and the flails, 
 the men gathered in large groups and the tillers 
 of the soil discussed the affairs of their trade. 
 Words that had not been heard for more than a 
 century were spoken under the high forest trees or 
 between the hedges. Some very old trees had 
 shuddered once before at similar utterances. You 
 could hear such sentences as: "The common in- 
 terests of the workmen! No more isolation, in- 
 dividuals are weak! Let us combine to uphold 
 our rights! Let us form a fund and each one 
 sacrifice a part of his wages." Complaints were 
 plentiful, and one stirred up another! "We can 
 not live! The merchants exploit us! No more
 
 70 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 famine wages! Is a salary of one franc twenty 
 to one franc fifty enough? And how about our 
 wives? And our children? And the days when 
 there is no work?" Life, children, home, these 
 great primitive words filled the hearts of the men, 
 and after they had talked of poverty, they uttered 
 threats and defiance against the speculators, those 
 who were at Nevers, in the small villages, or in the 
 country, in houses built from the wood of the 
 felled forests. Other things were talked about 
 also ; the dreams in which they did not all believe 
 equally, but which were nevertheless in every 
 one's blood, for they were in the air they breathed, 
 in the smell of the young buds and the new grass. 
 "The future belongs to the people," they said. 
 "Democracy is going to create a new world. The 
 right to bread, the right to rest, the right to di- 
 vision." The whole forest was in a state of agi- 
 tation that year. The underwood always being 
 cut down murmured beneath the oaks: "We, 
 too, have a right to the sea-breeze like the tall 
 trees." 
 
 Gilbert Cloquet, with his passion for justice, 
 was one of the first to demand a union. He spoke 
 without skill, with controlled force, and, in 
 the beginning, with a slight stammering which 
 gave a quality of unexpectedness to his phrases. 
 But he knew well the conditions throughout that 
 region and he had the reputation of authority 
 among his comrades. He traveled through the 
 whole department to bring about an understand- 
 ing with the neighbouring unions. He drew up 
 the regulations. During months he lived, as he
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 71 
 
 said with pride, "for the cause of universal jus- 
 tice." The instructor of Fonteneilles declared 
 repeatedly: "This Cloquet must have had ances- 
 tors among the Communists of the Nivernais." 
 And he would have liked to talk about those 
 peasant corporations preserved by the ancient 
 common law, and which, in the sixteenth century, 
 grouped the families of labourers and of wood- 
 cutters together, working under one head, and 
 inheriting among themselves. 
 
 Gilbert even had his moment of fame. 
 
 He was present at the reunion of the wood- 
 cutters and workmen, convened by the prefect at 
 Nevers, the 4th of February, 1893, where the wood- 
 cutters' unions of Chantenay-Saint-Imbert, Saint- 
 Pierre-le-Moutier, Neuville, Fleury, Decize, Seme- 
 lay, Saint-Benin-d' Azy, Fermete, Molay, and others 
 were represented. When the wood-cutters were 
 asked to state their claims, several voices cried 
 out : ' ' Cloquet ! Cloquet ! " "Is Monsieur Cloquet 
 here?" said the prefect. "Cloquet, day-labourer, 
 present," replied Gilbert. And that was his first 
 success. Then the tall wood-cutter standing, un- 
 embarrassed, supported by the living passion that 
 was in all hearts and all eyes, went on : 
 
 "We want. to live; it is not wealth we ask for; 
 it is bread, and, if we give up butter, to have a 
 bit of ribbon for our daughters. I have one my- 
 self who is growing up. We demand that the 
 merchants accept the new tariff; that is one 
 thing. And then that a cord of firewood should 
 not be more than ninety inches high. If the mer- 
 chants agree to that, we will all return to the
 
 72 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 woods; if not, no. We must have justice which 
 has been driven from the forest." 
 
 They applauded him for the power of his voice, 
 for his energy, his size, and his fearlessness. It was 
 a triumph. Chanting the Marseillaise, his com- 
 rades brought him back to his house at Pas-du- 
 Loup where Marie, tall and beautiful, was stand- 
 ing, pale, on the threshold, to which she had run 
 on hearing the singing. One of the wood-cutters 
 who was a young man, went up to her and said : 
 
 "Pere Cloquet has spoken well. Vive Marie 
 Cloquet ! Vive Pere Cloquet ! " 
 
 It was the second time that he had been called 
 "Pere Cloquet." He did not pay much atten- 
 tion, for the wine and the glory had excited him. 
 He only said: 
 
 "Lureux, just because you are young, you need 
 not make fun of me. I have done what I ought. 
 I hope that we are going to succeed. Kiss me, 
 Marie, and give a glass of wine to the friends." 
 
 And Marie kissed him, his Marie, with her eyes 
 like those of a fawn, long, ardent and golden. 
 
 For a long time after the men had finished 
 drinking and had disappeared down the forest 
 paths, the father and daughter remained upon the 
 threshold of the door, listening to the voices sing- 
 ing in chorus, and to cries growing fainter and 
 fainter, of "Vive comrade Cloquet!" 
 
 The glory was brief. Even in the first strikes, 
 Gilbert had to reprove the violence of some of the 
 young men. One evening, after a discussion of the 
 tariff with Monsieur Thomas, the wholesale wood- 
 dealer, when several of the wood-cutters had pro-
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 73 
 
 posed that they go and sack the house of the 
 " sweater," he had taken sides against them and 
 made them give up their vengeance. At another 
 time, when he had been called upon to join the 
 members of the union, who had resolved to go 
 into a wood yard and drive out the non-union men, 
 he had refused to leave his house. "It is not 
 right," he had said: " those who do not belong to 
 the union have wives and children just as we have ; 
 let them come and do not force them to be idle. 
 It is hard to be without work." A third time he 
 had joined the procession of strikers to see what 
 happened. And he had seen a clearing in the 
 middle of the forest invaded by a howling mob, 
 and six men of Fonteneilles, surrounded, beaten 
 and forced to walk through the woods and along 
 the roads, at the head of the strikers. They 
 passed through the villages. They gathered up 
 some cowards who joined with the band. The 
 frightened prisoners, wounded by their sabots, 
 begged to be spared. " March on!" And on they 
 went crying for mercy, amidst the clamour of 
 voices which drowned their complaints. Finally 
 two of them fell in the road. Then there was a 
 savage struggle in the twilight. One man, and 
 one man alone, fought against ten. Cries were 
 heard on the edge of the pond of Vaux, cries of 
 death and of horror, so piercing that the people 
 in the houses hidden under the trees heard them 
 and closed their blinds. That night Cloquet came 
 home very late with his clothes torn and his jaw 
 bleeding. And when Marie, trembling, questioned 
 her father, he said:
 
 74 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "Don't worry, the others are worse hurt than 
 I am." 
 
 From that time on he had bitter enemies in the 
 forest. Those who liked him defended him only 
 indifferently when Supiat, one of the leaders, 
 proposed to take away from him his office of presi- 
 dent of the union of wood-cutters. In place of 
 Gilbert, the founder of the union, the spokesman 
 of the forest workmen and of the fields of Nievre 
 at the meeting at Nevers, they elected his neigh- 
 bour, his opposite, Ravoux, a chief who was not 
 so handsome but younger and more stubborn and 
 who controlled the leaders because he spoke rarely 
 and because his eyes never lost their fierceness. 
 Gilbert still went to the reunions in the wine-shops 
 of Fonteneilles or of the neighbouring villages; 
 the men listened to him, but they voted against 
 him. The young men said: "You better give up 
 Gilbert; now that the machine is started, do not 
 pull backward!" Many who dared no longer 
 follow him respected him. And he, whose heart 
 was all simple and fraternal, minded less being 
 relegated to the second place than because he 
 could not approve of the plans and words and 
 deeds which offended his sense of justice. "So 
 noble a cause," he said, "our bread, our defense; 
 they do not love it as I do! Not as much, any- 
 way!" 
 
 Months and years passed and Marie grew into 
 a woman. She went out "by the day" in the 
 village and on the farms. She w&s tall and was 
 prettier than her mother had been, although she 
 had not the same softness either of features
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 75 
 
 or of manners. Her clients found her brusque, 
 changeable, sometimes "good at her work," 
 sometimes indolent and so cross-grained that they 
 could not get an answer from her. 
 
 Her father had the same opinion of her. He 
 was afraid both of her and for her. When he was 
 far off, reaping wheat or eating, in a corner of the 
 hedge, the bread which he had brought from 
 home, he would think: "What is she doing now? 
 I only know about her what she is willing to tell 
 me. Girls have secrets at her age. What a pity 
 it is when they have no mothers ! " But she was so 
 affectionate with him, when he tried to scold her! 
 Though she was attentive and anxious at first, she 
 soon learned that she never would have any 
 trouble in defending herself against vague gossip. 
 She said: "The girls here are jealous of me just 
 as formerly the young men were jealous of you." 
 She made the soup carefully on these evenings, 
 and she would bring out a bit of salt pork or a box 
 of sardines which are luxuries to the peasants of 
 Fonteneilles. Then, after the supper, she would sit 
 down near her father before the fire or behind the 
 house where there was an orchard no longer than 
 a hay-rick, with three apple trees, some currant 
 bushes, a very old rosemary bush, some beehives, 
 and the forest rising all around. Marie caressed 
 her father and made herself small beside him who 
 was so tall. They seated themselves upon a thick 
 oaken plank, which for twenty years had been rot- 
 ting along the wall. Sometimes it was hard to 
 make her father smile. But Marie nearly always 
 succeeded. "Why did you lose the custom of the
 
 76 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 Durge* sisters? It seems you refused to sew the 
 bags because it was too hard work? Why did 
 you leave me all alone on Sunday until five 
 o'clock? Is it true that you allow this Lureux to 
 pay attention to you? He is not industrious, 
 Marie, nor a reliable man, either." She laughed 
 so merrily that the neighbours envied Gilbert 
 Cloquet his happy half-hour. But he did not 
 altogether believe what she said; he let himself 
 be just enough deceived to make himself stop 
 complaining and talking of the past. "Well, 
 Marie, you must do me credit, you must act hon- 
 estly and discreetly. Your teacher has told you 
 that many times, has she not? She was right. 
 And besides, it would hurt me so if you had a 
 bad reputation through the country!" But he 
 felt that his advice carried no weight. He shrugged 
 his shoulders and said: "Bring me my pipe; it 
 always listens to me when I talk." The thin blue 
 smoke curled upward. Marie got up to go and 
 lock the chicken-house. And the stars moved on 
 over a house restored to silence, but not to peace. 
 
 One evening, at the time of the potato-harvest 
 in September, 1898, after taking supper with the 
 master of the farm that stands on the hill side 
 facing the great dam, weary with the day's work, 
 Gilbert had thrown himself down on a bed that 
 had not been used for a long time, and whose posts 
 were rotting away in the midst of piles of sacks, 
 heaps of potatoes, bands of straw, and piles of old 
 harness which covered nearly the whole floor of 
 the lumber room. The smell of the earth, that
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 77 
 
 smell of the earth which rises from the open fal- 
 low lands, came from the balls of earth still hang- 
 ing on the roots and the blades of the tools, and 
 mingled with that of old, waxed, and mouldy 
 leather. Gilbert Cloquet was thinking, reminded 
 doubtless by all this, of the work which he must 
 shortly do in a valley where the plow would not 
 meet with a stone and where the wheat sprouted 
 readily. His mind was always occupied with his 
 work or with the slack season that was approach- 
 ing. Some one knocked at the door and entered. 
 
 "This is no time to disturb one," said Gilbert 
 roughly. ' ' What do you want ? ' ' 
 
 He was seated on his bed, his open shirt show- 
 ing his hairy chest. 
 
 "Beg pardon," said a young man who entered 
 briskly and remained standing at the foot of the 
 bed; "I hurried, but I could not get here any 
 earlier; I come from beyond Saint-Reverien and 
 am on my way to sleep to-night at Vaucreuse, 
 where I have been hired." 
 
 "That is a country which I know well," said 
 Gilbert, ' ' but that does not explain why you have 
 come, Lureux." 
 
 "You won't return to Pas-du-Loup until the 
 end of the week, Monsieur Cloquet, and your 
 daughter Marie has charged me to speak to you 
 on my way." 
 
 "My daughter?" 
 
 "Yes," said the youth, still in the shadow; 
 "we have come to an understanding; she likes 
 me, and I, I like her." 
 
 For some minutes Gilbert made no answer.
 
 78 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 Many things came to his mind which he had heard 
 said against this youth. He longed to get up, 
 just as he was, in his shirt, and to drive him out, 
 crying to him: "Begone, and seek elsewhere than 
 at my house!" 
 
 But the vision of Marie arose before him, 
 Marie, displeased, offended, and forever set at 
 variance with him; he dreaded that final loneli- 
 ness; then fixing his eyes upon this man who 
 leaned forward a little, attentively, and whose 
 eyes, even in the obscurity of the lumber-room, 
 shone with youthful impatience, he felt a certain 
 pity for one who, like himself, earned his bread in 
 the forests, the fields and amongst the wheat with 
 difficulty, like the birds, and who, like them, had 
 to change his granary with the seasons. 
 
 "I would not have chosen you, Lureux, because 
 people call you a spendthrift." 
 
 "Monsieur Cloquet, I do not drink." 
 
 "You do not drink, perhaps, but you are in- 
 clined to be extravagant; you pay for others to 
 drink and you gamble. You will have to reform. 
 Listen: if, as you say, Marie is willing, I shall 
 find out and I will not oppose her. Send word to 
 her by one of your relatives that, not later than 
 Thursday, after the potatoes are dug, I will come 
 and talk with her." 
 
 He had dreamed sometimes that his future son- 
 in-law, the man through whom his race would be 
 renewed, would throw himself on his neck and 
 press him in his arms; and, at that moment, he 
 felt in his heart the sharp sting of disappointment. 
 No, that could never be i later, perhaps, friendship
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 79 
 
 might come. He held out his hand to the man, 
 who had walked around the bed and approached 
 him. 
 
 "For the time being, my boy," said he, "do not 
 go too fast in your friendship with Marie, and do 
 not enter my house before I return there, because, 
 in that case, and you know me, what would follow 
 would not be a marriage, but a shot at the corner 
 of the road." 
 
 A suppressed laugh answered him. 
 
 "I will do as I say, Lureux!" 
 
 "Why, what are you thinking of, Monsieur 
 Cloquet? Well, then, thanks. I have a long way 
 to go to-night; I must be off." 
 
 "You promise not to stop at Pas-du-Loup?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The door closed, but Gilbert did not sleep. He 
 had used too great self-control in order to save 
 Marie from tears; and it was he who wept. 
 
 He reflected that he had always been alone, 
 that no one in the world except his old mother, 
 and Adele to a certain extent, both of whom were 
 now dead, had ever loved him, poor tiller of the 
 soil and harvester of grain that he was! He 
 thought: "What have I got to live for now? For 
 whom shall I work? For myself all alone? Oh, no ! 
 That is not worth while!" 
 
 For Gilbert Cloquet the world had ended when 
 his comrades threw him over. 
 
 That same night, with r his heart beating high 
 with pride, life, and love, Etienne Lureux took the 
 cross-road, descended the hill, crossed over the 
 embankment between the ponds glistening under
 
 80 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 the moonbeams, and entered the forest so as to 
 reach Pas-du-Loup more quickly. He ran over 
 the ground thick with grass and laughed. He 
 looked up over the thickets at the clouds sailing 
 past the moon and filling themselves with light. 
 Then, stopping to take breath in the deep soli- 
 tude, he cried aloud twice: "Vive Marie Cloquet! 
 Vive the most beautiful girl of Fonteneilles, Cor- 
 bigny, Saint-Saulge, and the whole world!" 
 
 Finally, his feet white with dust and dirt, he 
 reached the hamlet. The five houses, hemmed in 
 by the woods on the edge of the forest road, were 
 sleeping. He approached a window and called 
 softly: "Marie?" He did not wish Ravoux in 
 the house opposite to catch him. He grew 
 pale and the anguish of his thought carved an- 
 other face there. "Where can she be? Dead? 
 Disappeared? Marie?" Then, all at once, youth 
 reappeared and happiness relaxed his features; 
 the outside shutter opened and the head of Marie, 
 her hair unbound and her eyes closed by the 
 semi-darkness of the night, reached down for the 
 man's kiss. 
 
 "Marie, I have just come from the farm of 
 Vaux!" 
 
 "Did you see him?" 
 
 "He did not dare to say no." 
 
 "Ah! What luck, my little Lureux!" 
 
 Then she asked, smiling drowsily: 
 
 "Did he promise the dot? " 
 
 "I did not think of it." 
 
 u You are stupid, my poor boy; he has one!" 
 
 He chatted for a minute or two, and then, as he
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 81 
 
 had promised not to stop and did not wish to be 
 too false to his promise, he again passionately 
 embraced the young girl, picked up the game 
 pouch which he had laid on the ground and with a 
 bound, leaped to the middle of the forest path 
 and disappeared. Marie, her head between the 
 open shutters, her eyes large, her lips smiling and 
 her heart full of pride, looked after the man who 
 would take her away from her life of dependence 
 and from the gloom of those very trees among 
 which he was disappearing. 
 
 Shortly afterward, Etienne Lureux married 
 Marie Cloquet. The father, seeing that his daugh- 
 ter was in love with this handsome man, could 
 refuse her nothing. He yielded to that kind of 
 intoxication into which mothers are often thrown 
 by their children's happiness; he believed all that 
 she said; he wished everything which she asked 
 for. So that she might he happy as he had never 
 been, he loaned her all his money, four thousand 
 francs, which he had saved and invested by dint 
 of self-denial all his life. The father's dream was 
 realized by the daughter. Marie leased a small 
 farm of twelve acres, called Epine, quite near 
 the forest and almost entirely surrounded by the 
 estate of Fonteneilles, and which, sold on the 
 death of a peasant proprietor of Crux-la- Ville to 
 satisfy a claim, had been quite recently bought by 
 the principal mortgagee, a merchant of Avallon. 
 She had one servant who did all the heavy work, 
 new furniture, cows, sheep, two mares, heavy 
 ornaments of little value, and the right to look 
 down on her old companions, the seamstresses who
 
 82 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 worked out by the day. It is true that when she 
 leased the farm she owed a considerable sum of 
 money, without counting the loan from her 
 father. But Lureux swore that in less than five 
 years he would undertake to be free from debt. 
 In vain Mere Justamond, a matron who spoke 
 plainly, had said to her neighbour, the evening 
 before the signing of the deed: " Excuse me if I 
 seem to be meddling in your affairs, Gilbert Clo- 
 quet, but you ought not to give everything to 
 your children. They take whatever is given them 
 as if it were their due. They promise gratitude, 
 but that is a seed which seldom sprouts." He 
 had answered: "Mere Justamond, I have worked 
 for my wife, and she is dead. I have worked for 
 my comrades, and they begin to desert me. I am 
 trying now to gain the friendship of my daughter 
 and my son-in-law; you must let me act." 
 
 Since that day more than seven years had 
 passed, and many changes had taken place in 
 Gilbert's surroundings. 
 
 Nievre, at least the valley of Corbigny, Saint- 
 Saulge, and Saint-Bernin-d'Azy had become a 
 great cattle-raising country. White oxen, white 
 cows, and black draught-horses wandered in the 
 pasture-lands in herds twice as numerous as before. 
 And to nourish them the pastures had been mul- 
 tiplied. The grass had crept from the hollows 
 of the valleys up on the slopes of the hill. It 
 was taking the place of wheat and rye, and eating 
 into the country that had always been kept for 
 the hemp-fields. The beautiful knoll of La Vigie, 
 which used to be plowed every year, was now
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 83 
 
 smooth and green as an emerald clear to the top, 
 and more than half the land which covered its 
 slopes was clad with the same grass, continu- 
 ally getting higher up and only resowed after 
 a very long time. This whole Nivernais clump 
 resembled a park. The less cultivated country 
 grew more silent. Something primitive and 
 peaceful came back there with the shadow of the 
 woods moving over the meadows. One could see 
 at the fairs of Corbigny or of Saint-Saulge more 
 than two thousand head of cattle. Cattle-dealers 
 flocked there from all over France and from 
 abroad. The farmers became rich. But the day- 
 labourers complained, for there was less soil to 
 work, fewer harvests to cut. Machinery also 
 stole hundreds of days' work from them. For a 
 long time past no one had threshed with the roll, 
 and the flails astride the joists no longer moved 
 except when the wind blew through the tiles. The 
 drill plow, the mower, the reaper, and the binder 
 now did the work formerly done by men. 
 
 The forest even no longer gave the sure work 
 which had been found there before. After years 
 of efforts, failures, new attempts, legitimate 
 strikes, and unjust outrages the wood-cutters had 
 obtained a perceptible increase in their wages. 
 The day's work was well paid. But people who 
 came from all parts of the country, from Morvan 
 and Cher, from Allier or parts of Nievre far dis- 
 tant from Fonteneilles and often men who did not 
 belong to the trade, enrolled themselves in the 
 union and claimed the right to work. No one 
 asked them: "What brings you?" It was sup-
 
 84 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 posed, naturally, that it was hunger. No one 
 said to them: "Have you handled axes or saws 
 before?" They just let them enter and they 
 crowded the cuttings. They considered that, ac- 
 cording to the old custom, " every cutting hired 
 is free for all," as soon as a wood merchant de- 
 clared it open. The number of the workmen les- 
 sened in this way the gain of each individual, and 
 the profit of the year did not mount up as the 
 day-labourers of Fonteneilles had hoped. 
 
 Gilbert suffered greatly from this uncertainty 
 about the future. He was fifty-two years old. The 
 habit of work, the air of the fields, and his simple 
 food had kept him in good health. His strength 
 and the accuracy of his stroke with the axe were 
 the same as of old. He dug like a young man. He 
 still had the elastic step which men have who are 
 physically sound, whose muscles extend and relax 
 in unison, with no one lagging behind the other. 
 His beard was .still blond, only one who was very 
 near could see the few white hairs in the fox-fur 
 on his chin. When, on Sunday, well groomed and 
 having had his glass of wine, he went down the 
 road leading from the town to Pas-du-Loup, more 
 than one of his comrades and even the girls of 
 Fonteneilles often mistook him and asked : 
 
 "Who is the young fellow who is coming back 
 so early?" 
 
 When he laughed his eyes grew bright like 
 those of a child who believes in joy. 
 
 But he rarely laughed on account of the slack 
 seasons and on account of the comrades who had 
 deserted him, although they respected him, and
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 85 
 
 on account of Marie, who was not making a suc- 
 cess of the farm of Epine. Lureux's promises had 
 proved to be vain boasts. He worked without 
 enthusiasm or steadiness and spent much, although 
 they had no children. There was always a free 
 meal at his house. The road was quite nearby 
 and much travelled and people stopped at the Lu- 
 reux's to gossip a little and, to drink. And the 
 wine which the master of Epine imported from 
 the South, by the boatmen of the canal, never had 
 time to age. " Youth must pass," people said. 
 "It has passed," replied Gilbert. From time to 
 time he heard people say that debts were accu- 
 mulating, not with the tradespeople of the town 
 whom they succeeded in paying, but with the 
 notary where they owed three instalments of rent 
 and with the money-lenders of Corbigny and Ne- 
 vers. For a long time Marie denied these debts. 
 Finally she owned up to them and came to her 
 father for money nearly every week. He gave 
 the money and he hardly dared to reproach his 
 daughter for at the slightest word she threatened 
 to break with him. The next day she would go, 
 dressed in her Sunday clothes, to a fair or to 
 market or to a wedding leaving her house in 
 the care of the servant or of any shepherd who 
 happened to be passing. Several times Gilbert 
 offered to take care of the animals and to manage 
 the farm for Marie. But they did not want him 
 to see at too close range the disorder of their 
 household. So he only went to Epine when they 
 invited him and the invitations were rare. 
 And that is what kept Gilbert Cloquet from
 
 86 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 sleeping on that March night when Michel de 
 Meximieu was also meditating, his elbows on the 
 window sill. The wood-cutter was thinking of 
 things long past , but he told himself also that 
 since he had received twenty francs in advance 
 for his work of the next few days, he would go 
 early in the morning, and give half of it to 
 Marie, who would be pleased. 
 And who knows what might happen?
 
 III. 
 
 THE READING IN THE FOREST. 
 
 GILBERT CLOQUET did not have to go far to see 
 his daughter; a foot-path led through the trees to 
 the corner of the pond of Vaux, which lies quite 
 near the hamlet of Pas-du-Loup. It wound 
 around the bank among the marshy meadows and 
 disappeared on the way up in the middle of the 
 first field. These fields, upon the " broadside" of 
 the forest, as Gilbert called it, these twelve acres 
 divided into about fifteen parts, with the house in 
 the middle, and forming the extreme limit of the 
 township, made up the estate of Epine, which, 
 thanks to Gilbert's generosity, the Lureux had 
 leased. 
 
 It was very early; the silence was so profound 
 that the noise of the water rippling over a stone 
 in the ditches could be heard. Gilbert carried his 
 axe on his shoulder, holding the handle first with 
 his left hand and then with his right on account 
 of the cold. He stopped to count the white cows 
 in the meadow which began on the outskirts of 
 the forest and which was crossed by a trench; he 
 cast a glance at the furrows in the field above, 
 plowed land where grain was growing, to judge of 
 the work of the plowman and of the sower. When 
 he entered the court he found Marie, who had 
 
 87
 
 88 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 just drawn a bucket of water, in a short skirt and 
 with her hair uncombed and only twisted up at 
 the back. When she saw her father she put the 
 bucket down on the manure pile at the side of the 
 well, and came toward him in a pleased and affec- 
 tionate way. 
 
 "Why, is it you, father?" 
 
 He looked at her as she came toward him care- 
 lessly and offering her lips for a kiss. She still 
 kept her youthful, shining eyes so hard when 
 she was not smiling but her cheeks were paler 
 than they had been and her features had coars- 
 ened. Gilbert allowed himself to be kissed. 
 
 "So, all goes well?" asked Marie. "Where are 
 you going with your axe now? Lureux told me 
 he would not be through till this evening." 
 
 "I have left my cutting because I had finished 
 it," replied her father dryly. "And now I have 
 some other work to do and am on my way 
 to it." 
 
 "You are all the luckier to have work. Every- 
 body can't get it," said Marie piqued. 
 
 "Ah! Marie, how can you keep on complain- 
 ing? If I had a fine farm like yours, I would 
 never have left it, in the first place. I would have 
 dug it up and manured it and weeded it. Why 
 does your husband work in the forest? Is that 
 any place for a farmer?" 
 
 "Three or four days here and there; is there 
 any harm in that?" 
 
 "It would be better if he worked at home." 
 
 "It is because we owe some money, father! 
 We cannot pay the rent!"
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 89 
 
 "Ah, indeed! The rent has not been paid? Nor 
 the wine merchant, neither?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And the cartwright, who sold you your yellow 
 spring cart?" 
 
 "No, nor he, either, nor many others, too! It 
 is not worth while keeping it from you now." 
 
 "Lureux lied, then, when he told me that you 
 owed scarcely anything and that if I helped him, 
 he would be able to pay it all?" 
 
 She turned away her head as if she heard a 
 noise in the house, but really to avoid answering. 
 
 Gilbert put down his axe which stood up by 
 itself, with the handle in the air. 
 
 "It is ruin, then, which is coming, Marie? 
 Both to you two and to me?" 
 
 "Perhaps so, father, unless you are more liberal 
 than you have been!" 
 
 The big wood-cutter made a forward movement 
 with his head lowered, as if he meant to throw 
 himself upon her. 
 
 "Ah! Heartless that you are!" he cried. 
 
 The woman started back, her body stiffened, 
 and her face so hard that its beauty was entirely 
 gone. 
 
 "Heartless girl! This is your thanks! I have 
 given you the whole work of my life and the tor- 
 ment of my soul. And it is never enough! Now 
 work yourselves, you lazy pair! Struggle for 
 yourselves!" 
 
 "Did mother trouble herself about anything? 
 Tell me that? Did she work? Not as much as 
 I do!"
 
 90 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "Any way, she combed her hair before she did 
 her housework." 
 
 "Thanks, papa!" 
 
 "She would never have put a pail of water down 
 on the manure pile. She was careful; she had 
 some pride." 
 
 "Thanks again!" 
 
 "And on Sunday she did not pretend she was 
 a lady with laces and city gowns!" 
 
 "Aren't we as good as the ladies? Why not, 
 indeed?" 
 
 "You're not as rich, anyway! And all this 
 time you have only eight cows, and lean ones 
 too!"' 
 
 "They have enough to eat, though." 
 
 "You should have a dozen." 
 
 "We have sheep, father." 
 
 "Yes, and where are your lambs? You asked 
 me for money to buy some ; where are they?' 
 
 The daughter came up to her father whose anger 
 was growing and tried to appease him. But she 
 put little heart in it, and she only succeeded in 
 lying a little with her eyes. 
 
 "We are unhappy, I tell you; every one is after 
 us. The bailiff threatens to come." 
 
 "The bailiff!" 
 
 The woman began to weep. Gilbert took from 
 his pocket two five-franc pieces and, with a rough 
 gesture, placed them in his daughter's hand. 
 
 "I am very poor at present, Marie, but I do not 
 want to see the bailiff at your house ! Tell Lureux 
 that I am giving you my pay for work which I 
 have not yet done."
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 91 
 
 The woman looked at the two silver pieces and 
 slipped them into her pocket. 
 
 "Tell him that there are not enough cattle in 
 his pastures." 
 
 "That's easily said!" 
 
 "Not manure enough on his land!" 
 
 "No one asked you to go and look!" 
 
 "And no child in his house." 
 
 This time, the woman all red and her lips 
 quivering with anger, replied: 
 
 "No child! That is our affair! And you, my 
 father, why did you only have one?" 
 
 The father did not reply. The daughter had an 
 obscure sense of the sacrilege she had committed. 
 She blushed. They looked at each other, embar- 
 rassed by the reproach and by the avowal which 
 their silence prolonged. Then Marie turned to 
 pick up her pail of water and carry it to the 
 house. Her father let her go. 
 
 When she reached the threshold : 
 
 "Marie Lureux," Gilbert cried, "you are a 
 girl who is going to her ruin; I have loved you 
 only too well, and that has been your undoing; I 
 gave you too much and you have become the 
 lazy creature you are. Hereafter you will get 
 nothing more from me. All is over between 
 us! Tell Lureux so that he may not come 
 again!" 
 
 She called, turning half around : 
 
 "You will not see him again! Indeed, no! No 
 matter what happens!" 
 
 The wood-cutter picked up his axe and started 
 toward the corner of the stables so as to go round
 
 92 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 the house and back to the road. He turned over 
 in his mind confusedly, as a child shells chestnuts, 
 the good and bad words he had spoken, and he 
 murmured, shaken by anger: 
 
 "When I think that this was my little Marie, 
 the child I dandled on my knees!" 
 
 Before reaching the road by which he must go 
 down to the forest, there was a point from whence 
 one could see, well above the village and a little to 
 the left, the hill of La Vigie, the roofs of the vast 
 farm placed on the rising ground and the round 
 ash tree which commanded its entrance. Gilbert 
 stopped. As usual, he imagined himself in that 
 court where he had so often unyoked his oxen; 
 then he looked at the fields, sloping down from 
 there all green and fresh with the morning. Gil- 
 bert Cloquet could never look at this most beau- 
 tiful hill of the region without thinking how he 
 had climbed to La Vigie at the age when small 
 lads, their short breeches suspended from their 
 shoulders by wide braces, begin to feel the desire 
 to make large animals afraid and to strike them 
 with branches of leaves, and how he had not left 
 it till after his marriage because his wife wanted 
 him to. 
 
 "It has always been women who have thrown 
 me from one trouble into another," he murmured. 
 "I had trouble up there and that is the truth. 
 And ever since then! And now, too! Come, go to 
 the woods, my poor Cloquet! Go hide yourself, 
 you father of a bankrupt! Fifteen days of cut- 
 ting wood, it is worth doing." 
 
 He stopped looking up, crossed over the road,
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 93 
 
 and went on through the avenue of the chateau 
 to the forest. 
 
 It was past noon. The wood-cutters were eat- 
 ing their lunch in the large cutting of Fonteneilles, 
 near the pond of Vaux, and far from the place 
 where Gilbert was working. Those whose cut- 
 tings were near and who gathered together to 
 eat and chat and take a few moments nap, 
 formed groups here and there in the cleared glade. 
 Seated upon their heels, leaning against handfuls 
 of cut twigs which bent like springs, or lying on 
 their sides, they ate crusts of bread taken from 
 their bags, taking care to add to each mouthful 
 a small slice from the bit of cheese or bacon held 
 under the left thumb. Each one had his quart 
 of wine uncorked beside him and thrust down in 
 the chips or leaves. It was warm in the sheltered 
 places and cold in the wind. The men talked 
 little, but they felt that they lived together and 
 they laughed at the least thing. The fatigue dis- 
 appeared from their tingling legs and arms. 
 Their hats drawn down over their foreheads, 
 protected them from the sun which was intense 
 in the clear air. 
 
 Ravoux's group was nearest the pond at the 
 left of the cutting. 
 
 The president of the union had already finished 
 eating. Seated upon a trunk of witch-elm, he had 
 drawn a paper from his pocket and was reading in 
 an undertone, with nervous grimaces which stirred 
 his black beard and stretched the dry skin of his 
 cheek bones. Eight workmen had gathered around
 
 94 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 him. They had hardly exchanged thirty words 
 since the beginning of the meal. One of the 
 workmen had merely said: "The work will be 
 finished this evening. I do not know when I shall 
 find anymore;" and another: " Hear the black- 
 birds singing; that means the Spring." Some had 
 closed their eyes and some had their mouths stu- 
 pidly half-open. Their bodies sought the comfort 
 of the sun. At Ravoux's right and a little in 
 front was Fontroubade, the mason of Fonteneilles 
 whom they nicknamed Goose-beak, because he 
 had a long nose, a retreating chin, and always 
 looked as if he were laughing, a sort of professional 
 grimace made by his eyelids which were wrinkled 
 by the glare from white walls; next came Dix- 
 neuf who leaned against him and supported him 
 with his shoulder, a mason also, a former zouave, 
 quite old, very deaf and proud of his goatee and 
 of the reputation which he had of making better 
 than any one else "cambrouse," with the blood from 
 the neck of the roe-deer; then Lampriere, a tall 
 thin man, who always seemed to be in a passion 
 and who frightened the " bourgeois" when he 
 looked at them in passing on the highway; then 
 Lureux, son-in-law of Cloquet, a farmer whom 
 they were surprised to see there, a tippler whose 
 mustache was colorless and softened by the fumes 
 of alcohol, a joker, lazy and unreliable; then the 
 tile-maker Tournabien, a quarrelsome young fel- 
 bw with the face and litheness of a wild cat ; then 
 Le Devore, a farmer's lad, sluggish, red, and sad- 
 looking; then Supiat, who called himself a joiner, 
 but never did any joiner's work, a poacher of fish,
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 95 
 
 setter of snares in the woods, a speech-maker with 
 the face of a fox and the eyes of a ferret, who de- 
 nounced those who were lukewarm to the General 
 Confederation of Labour; lastly, a tall youth of 
 about twenty, a handsome smiling fellow, called 
 Jean- Jean. He had come whistlihg down from 
 the forests of Montreuillon, without saying why 
 he came. And the warm sun inclined the men 
 comfortably to repose, and no thought aroused 
 them from their half sleep or excited them until 
 Fontroubade, who did not know the difference 
 between a manuscript and a printed paper, asked, 
 pointing to Ravoux : 
 
 "What is our president brooding over, there? 
 Is it a speech of the deputy?" 
 
 "Something better than that, and which car- 
 ries farther/ 7 said Ravoux, lifting his shaggy 
 beard and keen eyes, irritated now because his 
 thought had been noticed before he was ready. 
 "Let me finish. This is a secret document, an auto- 
 graph letter, which I must read to all our friends." 
 
 "Holloa, Mechin!" cried a voice. "Holloa! 
 friends! Ravoux is going to read, come along!" 
 
 The call flew through the immense glade, and 
 far off, wood-cutters rose up, as if they had sprung 
 from the roots of the oaks, and came in haste, 
 dragging their feet and making furrows through 
 the dead leaves. Ravoux was absorbed again in 
 his manuscript but political passions had been 
 roused. 
 
 "The deputy?" said big Le DeVore. "He will 
 come whenever we have orders to give him!" 
 
 "He will come right here into the cutting, and
 
 96 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 we will make him sit down on a pointed stick if 
 we feel like it!" 
 
 For the first time there was spirit, ring, and 
 pride in their words. They uncrossed their legs. 
 Two men lying down sat up and stretched their 
 arms. Supiat, leaning his sandy laughing face 
 forward said: 
 
 "Have you heard what happened to the dep- 
 uty of last week?" 
 
 And he named another forest district of the 
 centre of France. 
 
 "No, tell us, Supiat." 
 
 The blackbirds began to fly away from this corner 
 of the forest where people were speaking so loud. 
 
 "Well, he came to visit his 'dear constituents'; 
 people like ourselves; and he found them at table. 
 'How do you do, my friends?' They were eating 
 herrings and the youngest of the band, Bellman, 
 who has plenty of spirit, answered him: 'You 
 call us your friends?' 'Most certainly I do.' 
 'Well, we're not, we are your masters, and you 
 are our servant ! We are eating herrings ; you see 
 them and you have got to eat some, too ! ' ' 
 
 "What did he do? That must have been fun!" 
 
 "He ate them, my children! He would have 
 eaten the very bones if they had not said: 'That 
 will do!'" 
 
 "Deputies amount to nothing at all!" said 
 Fontroubade with his thick voice. 
 
 "What is the matter with Ravoux? Why did 
 you call us?" asked four young men belonging to 
 the Union who came up arm in arm. 
 
 "He is going to read," said Jean-Jean.
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 97 
 
 "Is that all? Just something from the paper?" 
 
 "No," said Ravoux, lowering the paper, a 
 double sheet, in folio form, covered with the 
 regular round handwriting of the copyist. "No, 
 it is an appeal which comes from Paris to the till- 
 ers of the soil ! After the factory workmen 
 they are going to enroll the tillers of the soil, all 
 of them, all!" 
 
 The men's faces grew grave. They formed a 
 semicircle before Ravoux and they drew a few 
 inches nearer, without rising, just dragging them- 
 selves along over the leaves. There was a rustling 
 commotion of branches and twigs. And still the 
 blackbird sang, but very far off. Ravoux opened 
 his mouth like a bow. He enunciated clearly and 
 rolled out the phrases, and he had white teeth 
 with which he smiled at the fine points : 
 
 "To the tillers of the soil! 
 
 "Comrades, for years and years, for centuries 
 and centuries, we have been ground down to the 
 earth from morning till night, without reflecting 
 on our lot, without looking around us, convinced 
 that all we could do was to earn a morsel of bread 
 with the greatest effort." The audience let this 
 introduction pass without showing any emotion. 
 They knew the beginning. They were already 
 tired of it. Ravoux resumed: 
 
 "But it is never too late to do well! Let us ask 
 this question, and reply to it honestly: 
 
 "Who produces the wheat, that is to say, the 
 bread for everybody? The peasant! 
 
 "Who grows the oats, the barley, all the cere- 
 als? The peasant!
 
 98 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "Who raises the cattle for meat? The peasant! 
 
 "Who produces the wine and cider? The 
 peasant ! 
 
 "Who feeds the game? The peasant!" 
 
 "There's something that is true! The game! 
 yes, the game!" 
 
 "Be silent, Lampriere. There is no more 
 game, thanks to you and Supiat." 
 
 "Let the president go on!" 
 
 "In a word, you produce everything! What 
 does your farmer-general or your landowner pro- 
 duce? Nothing!" 
 
 "That is true!" 
 
 "He provides the ground, all the same!" 
 
 "Who said that?" 
 
 "Jean- Jean." 
 
 "Keep still, Jean- Jean! You are too unim- 
 portant to speak!" 
 
 Supiat, giving a twist to his back, fell forward on 
 his knees, then, stretching himself flat, leaning upon 
 his hands, remained intent, like an animal, looking 
 at Ravoux. He was like a fox who scented game. 
 Every passion blazed in his half-closed eyes. 
 Tournabien drew his knife back and forth over 
 his bread, as if it was a stone he was sharpening it 
 on. Lureux chuckled inwardly, his eyes fixed on 
 the ground, thinking of his creditors from whom 
 a revolution would help him to escape. An ex- 
 traordinary silence came over the thirteen men. 
 They thought they were listening, but really they 
 were seeing visions. The same words grew for 
 each one of them into different yet clear images. 
 They saw beings of flesh and blood the propri-
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 99 
 
 etor, the farmer-general, the overseer, the forester, 
 the wood merchant, clerk, all their enemies. 
 The grievance so often unexpressed finally took 
 form. They rejoiced to have their own resent- 
 ment clearly expressed. They recognized them- 
 selves in these ideas, written in Paris by a man 
 unknown to them. And their confidence in their 
 own strength, the more vague vision of the crowds, 
 unions, revolutions, pillagings, justice, revenge, 
 unheard-of intoxications, made them grimace or 
 open their mouths as if to cry out: "I am part of 
 it!" There were hardly two or three who under- 
 stood the falseness of the appeal. All were strang- 
 ers in the realm of words. They did not stop 
 there; they went beyond it and judged the whole 
 world. The anonymous declaration of their rights 
 sufficed for the expression of their sufferings. 
 There was no force within them to oppose this 
 passion of envy. Their faces all expressed the 
 same emotion. They were the faces of believers, 
 of men inspired, or of wild animals on guard. The 
 four men who had come from far still held each 
 other arm in arm. And a golden light fell on their 
 lifted heads. 
 
 " Comrades in the country. We are small be- 
 cause we bow down before the rich; let us hold 
 up our heads, once for all, and we shall see that we 
 are taller than they! Our comrades of the mines 
 and of the shops have shown us the way; they 
 are only waiting for our organization, which will 
 be a great power, to march forward. Comrades 
 of the country, let us consider this well : If to- 
 morrow all the tillers of the soil should disap-
 
 100 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 pear, what would be sure to happen? A general 
 famine, frightful distress, and probably the death, 
 in a few years, of a great majority of those who 
 were left. And if, to-morrow, all the people of 
 leisure should disappear, it is fair to suppose that 
 no great harm would result, but that, on the 
 contrary, humanity would heave an immense sigh 
 of relief. And yet, we do not want to make any 
 one disappear." 
 
 A few heads nodded approvingly. 
 
 "But we wish to see the day when every one in 
 the world will be obliged to work in order to live, 
 when there will be neither exploiters nor exploited. 
 That day will surely come. That will be the com- 
 mencement of our work. Comrades, let us go 
 forward toward the great goal! Vive the eman- 
 cipation of the workingman!" 
 
 Ravoux stopped speaking, but they listened 
 still, thrilled, breathless, with dilated nostrils. 
 Two or three, the poets, the musicians, the young, 
 were dreaming of an idyllic future. Jean- Jean 
 had risen to his feet and was gazing into the clear 
 blue of the sky, with enchanted eyes; he loved 
 a pretty girl of Corbigny and he saw her with him 
 in Paris, in a carriage with two horses rolling along 
 the avenues. The light glorified the rugged bark 
 of the trees. The immense forest also was drink- 
 ing in a new life. The men's thoughts were still 
 on the misleading words. They had floated over 
 them as the smoke of a train trails over the 
 ploughed field. The smoke had cleared away; 
 but something of it still remained by which the 
 soil was invisibly penetrated and spoiled.
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 101 
 
 "It strikes home," said Lampriere. 
 
 "It's a masterpiece," replied Ravoux, folding 
 up the paper. "There is a plan of organization!" 
 
 "Down with the proprietors! Who will set fire 
 to the woods? " cried Tournabien, springing to his 
 feet. 
 
 He felt in his pocket for his tinder-box. 
 
 "No foolishness!" cried Ravoux. "The forest 
 is our living. These friends in Paris do not tell us 
 to burn, they tell us to organize, to enroll all the 
 day-labourers of Fonteneilles." 
 
 "There are some who do not pay their assess- 
 ment!" cried Tournabien. 
 
 "There are some who do not want to join with 
 us, the canailles!" cried Lampriere. 
 
 The cords of his throat remained tense and 
 quivering with anger after he had spoken. 
 
 "There are traitors among us, Ravoux!" 
 
 "What are you saying? Who are you talking 
 about?" 
 
 It was Supiat, who suggested that there were 
 traitors. Ravoux rose and walked over to the 
 carpenter wood-cutter, whom he detested. 
 
 "Are you speaking of me?" 
 
 A tumult interrupted him. 
 
 "No! No! Explain yourself, Supiat!" 
 
 Groups of men were watching in the distance. 
 Supiat half closed his eyes; he was on all fours; 
 he laughed wickedly and pushed back his hat, 
 with the back of his hand, on his neck, and 
 ground his teeth, as if he were going to bite 
 Ravoux, who was bending over him. 
 
 "You never know what is going on," he said
 
 102 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 laughing, "you are a poor president, Ravoux. 
 Yes, there are traitors. There are those who hire 
 themselves all alone, for a cutting, and who say 
 nothing about it to their comrades, so as not to 
 have to share with them." All the men who were 
 still seated or lying down rose together. Supiat, 
 who was half a head taller than Ravoux, stood up 
 facing him, his look vibrant with the evil joy of 
 his disclosure. 
 
 "Just look and see who is missing here?" 
 
 Ten men counted and named rapidly the wood- 
 cutters present. Two cried at the same time: 
 
 "Cloquet! It is Cloquet!" 
 
 "It is he!" 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 "Ask Lureux." 
 
 Four of the most excited surrounded Lureux, 
 seized him by the shoulders and shook him. The 
 son-in-law of Cloquet was frightened, but he tried 
 to joke. 
 
 "Let me go! I have no wish to run away! I 
 will tell you what you want to know. Why do 
 you crowd around so! Let me go, I say! Well, 
 now, I will tell you that as I came here this morn- 
 ing I saw my father-in-law going down into the 
 cutting on the left of the chateau." 
 
 "Had he his axe?" demanded Ravoux. 
 
 "Why, yes, he had it!" 
 
 "He has hired himself all alone! The traitor!" 
 cried Tournabien. "Let us go and take him 
 away from his work ! Halloa, comrades ! Who is 
 coming to take Cloquet away?" 
 
 Tournabien had shouted at the top of his lungs,
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 103 
 
 making a speaking trumpet of his two hands. 
 Out from the shelter of the cords of firewood, or 
 from behind piles of charcoal, men started up. 
 Some only looked in the direction of the voice. 
 Others came running toward them, leaping over 
 fallen branches. The wood-cutters around Ra- 
 voux gesticulated and jostled each other, some 
 wanting to go down to Fonteneilles, others not. 
 The president, with his face pale with emotion 
 over his black beard, tried to stop Tournabien, 
 Supiat, and Lampriere, the three most violent. 
 Clenched fists were raised against him, but that 
 did not trouble him. With his two hairy hands 
 he held the strongest of the fanatics by the arm 
 and struggled with him. 
 
 "You must listen to me, Tournabien!" 
 
 "No, I am going! Down with the traitors!" 
 
 "Do not go, I say! Gilbert has the right to 
 work!" 
 
 "Not all alone!" 
 
 "Yes, indeed, all alone, since he has been hired 
 by the proprietor. That is recognized by every- 
 body." 
 
 "I don't care! To the woods of Fonteneilles, 
 comrades! To the hunt!" 
 
 Tournabien tore himself away. A band of 
 wood-cutters, some with cudgels, others with 
 axes, came running up. They did not stop to 
 argue with Ravoux, nor to listen to the explana- 
 tions of Tournabien. There was something to do 
 and that "amused" them. They started. With 
 one impulse they broke through the group around 
 Ravoux, carrying along with them all the worst
 
 104 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 ones and some of the moderates. Another little 
 group, crossing the clearing obliquely, joined the 
 crowd that came down. One of the wood-cutters 
 who was at the head of the column drew a bugle 
 from his bag and sounded a call. They; began to 
 run, and, like a band of wild boars, plunged into 
 the underwood and disappeared. Ravoux, furi- 
 ous, hesitated whether to run after them or not. 
 His lips trembled. He thought of the distance 
 and heard the cries and the bugle call. He was 
 afraid of entirely ruining his prestige, which was 
 already lessened. 
 
 "What is the use?" he cried. "I can do noth- 
 ing there!" 
 
 Picking up the sheet of manuscript which had 
 fallen to the ground during the struggle, he re- 
 sumed his place in the cutting he had opened in 
 the wood. But after a few strokes of the axe he 
 stopped and listened. The men who had re- 
 mained near him, and especially Lureux, did the 
 same. The wind was very light. The twenty 
 wood-cutters who had dashed off on the hunt for 
 Cloquet, took precautions, and sang less loudly 
 as they drew near the preserves of the chateau, 
 for the noise of their voices became like that of a 
 band of singers, a little the worse for wine, who 
 do not all finish the song they begin. 
 
 Gilbert had worked since morning. At half 
 past eleven, he had gone home to warm his bowl 
 of soup. Then he had returned to the cutting, 
 a fine underwood, thick, full, overflowing, on the 
 skirts of the forest. Joyous at feeling himself 
 alone and master of a cutting for fifteen days, he
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 105 
 
 had thrown down, with great blows, pieces of 
 beech, birch, aspen, and even oak, for there was 
 to be no stripping of bark, Monsieur de Meximieu 
 had said, as everything was to be burned, either 
 in fagots or in firewood. 
 
 He had tossed his jacket upon the first fagots at 
 the beginning of the long, bushy pile which rep- 
 resented the result of his half-day's work, and he 
 was going straight on, lengthening the opening 
 which he had made, not entirely upon the " broad- 
 side" of the forest, but in a line parallel to the 
 meadows of Fonteneilles and some fifteen yards 
 away. 
 
 He was in good condition, and felt that his 
 muscles were supple. With one stroke he cut 
 through twenty years of growth; he was so alive 
 that he forgot the cares of life. Every now and 
 then he straightened himself up, let his axe slip 
 down by his foot, till the blade cut the earth, while 
 the end of the handle, weighted by its thick band 
 of iron, drove into the moss and held the foot up- 
 right. Then, raising his left arm, with the sleeve 
 of his shirt he wiped the perspiration from his 
 face and forehead, and took two or three long 
 breaths, laughing out loud. During one of these 
 pauses he saw, through the thicket, Tournabien 
 and Lampriere and their companions, who were 
 picking their way along in single file, at regular 
 distances, like beaters in the chase. He under- 
 stood at once what it meant, for he, too, had helped 
 to take non-union workmen away from the forest 
 cuttings. But now his case was different. 
 
 "What are you doing there?" demanded Tour-
 
 106 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 nabien, stopping on the other side of the barri- 
 cade formed by the felled wood. 
 
 "Why have you deserted your comrades?" 
 said Lampriere, whose moustaches were the only 
 pale spots on his face, reddened by the race and 
 by anger. 
 
 He stopped a little to the left of Tournabien. 
 Meanwhile the other wood-cutters went to the 
 other side of the wood pile, completely surround- 
 ing Gilbert. But they kept at a distance. And it 
 was Supiat who advanced straight in front of the 
 wood-cutter and said: 
 
 "We have come to take you away; you under- 
 stand? Throw down your axe and return to the 
 wood yard. And then, to-morrow, we will all 
 come back here with you to do the work." 
 
 "That remains to be seen/' said Gilbert, slip- 
 ping his hand a little lower down on the handle of 
 his axe. 
 
 "Who has hired you all alone?" 
 
 "Meximieu. He has the right to do so. And 
 I to accept." 
 
 "You know very well," said Supiat, "that 
 when a cutting is engaged it is open to all. 
 Any one may come who chooses." 
 
 "Yes, when a wood merchant buys it. But 
 when the owner keeps it, he does what he chooses. 
 That has always been so." 
 
 "Well, anyway! We are going to change all 
 that, Gilbert! And you are going to trot out of 
 this in front of us, until we all return here together." 
 
 "Tournabien is right," cried the others. "Down 
 with the traitor!"
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 107 
 
 "I am in my right. Do not come any nearer!" 
 
 Some of the men came forward and there was 
 a noise of rustling leaves and broken branches in 
 the rear and on the side. Supiat had crouched 
 close to the ground like the agile brute that he 
 was; he threw himself forward, trying to seize the 
 axe or the legs of Gilbert, who did not recoil but 
 raised his heavy blade. A flash cut the air above 
 him; cries rose on every side and stampings like 
 the charging of horses; the axe, released volun- 
 tarily or not, in the middle of its course, flew above 
 the back of Supiat and rebounded on the cut 
 branches. In the midst of threatening fists and 
 waving arms, Gilbert, his legs pulled forward by 
 his adversaries, was thrown down backward, like 
 a tree sawed close to the ground. Then ten men 
 threw themselves upon the fallen man. 
 
 "Death to the traitor! Assassin! Take that! 
 There, and that!" 
 
 They fought each other to strike Gilbert better. 
 Growlings of rage and of pain rose from this 
 crawling mass, hemmed in by the other men who, 
 bending forward, ready to rush in, howling with 
 rage, their fists clenched, eyes furious, waited like 
 a pack of hounds who cannot reach the hunted 
 creature fastened down by the bravest of the pack. 
 
 Then a voice cried: 
 
 "Stand off, cowards! Let him go!" 
 
 In a second the heap broke apart. The human 
 ball unwound. A motionless body remained 
 stretched on the ground. 
 
 "It wasn't me, Monsieur Michel! It wasn't 
 me ! He tried to kill me ! "
 
 108 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 Supiat advanced to meet the Comte de Mexi- 
 mieu. 
 
 The others had already reformed the circle, at 
 a distance, and, recoiling slowly, enlarged it. Mi- 
 chel de Meximieu ran forward, pushing aside the 
 branches. He was unarmed and dressed in his 
 morning suit of blue serge. As he ran he 
 counted and tried to recognize the wood-cutters 
 who buried themselves in the background and 
 disappeared behind the underbrush. The young 
 man, pale, exhausted by his effort, slackened his 
 pace as he crossed the cutting which had been 
 barely opened, and, thrusting aside Supiat who 
 continued to protest, he knelt down by Gilbert. 
 The face of the wood-cutter was covered with 
 blood, his eyes were open but fixed. 
 
 " Gilbert! Do you hear me?" 
 
 There was no reply. His waistcoat was in bits, 
 his shirt torn, stained with mud and red in places. 
 
 Michel turned toward Supiat who stood at a 
 distance, with a regretful expression. All the 
 others had disappeared. The sun was playing with 
 the shadows, and the wind. 
 
 "Help me, Supiat! We must carry him." 
 
 They lifted him, Michel by the shoulders and 
 Supiat by the feet. His head hung down and a 
 red stream flowed from his lips down upon his 
 tawny, tangled beard. 
 
 It took half an hour to carry Gilbert to Pas-du- 
 Loup, which was not really so far away. But he 
 was heavy and the woods were dense. 
 
 It was an hour after nightfall; the physician,
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 109 
 
 summoned in haste from Corbigny, had just left 
 the house of Pas-du-Loup. A careful and minute 
 examination of the wounded man had revealed, 
 besides very severe bruises over the whole body, 
 a fractured rib. "Three weeks of rest," the doctor 
 had said, "and you will be able to take up your 
 axe again, my good fellow!" Gilbert had been 
 unconscious nearly an hour, but now life had come 
 back to his eyes. He spoke, he even tried to 
 laugh, which is an expression of endurance among 
 the poor. Only, it would have been hard to recog- 
 nize the regular features of Gilbert Cloquet in the 
 swollen and violet-coloured mass of flesh beneath 
 the linen bandages which hid his forehead. In the 
 light of the little lamp placed on the mantel-piece 
 his blue eyes moved slowly between his eyelids, 
 swollen by past weeping. They watched the 
 door through which Michel de Meximieu, with 
 the doctor, had withdrawn a moment before and 
 which the wind shook, as if a hand tapped it 
 at regular intervals, and they watched Mere 
 Justamond, who had put on a coarse linen apron 
 to care for her "patient," and having placed near 
 the fire a row of pots of different sizes, in which 
 some of the last Summer's herbs were brewing, 
 had sunk down in a low chair, at the foot of the 
 bed and was thinking, with her head resting on her 
 hands; the eyes of the wounded man gazed also 
 into the empty space between the floor and the 
 beams, dreamy, clear, and sorrowful. 
 
 "Mere Justamond, has not Ravoux come home 
 yet? It has been night now for at least an hour." 
 
 "I don't know."
 
 110 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "I would like to know. He is not usually late." 
 
 "The wicked rascal! After what he has done 
 to you, why should you trouble yourself about 
 him? He frightens me, with his white face and 
 his black beard. However, I will go and see, if 
 you want me to. It is not far from your house to 
 his." 
 
 As she rose from her chair the door was un- 
 latched by a nervous hand and Ravoux entered. 
 He had just come from the forest and had only 
 stopped to lay down his axe at the door of his 
 house. He took off his cap when he saw his com- 
 rade stretched on the bed and came swiftly to 
 the place which Mere Justamond had just left. 
 His face, always nervous and feverish, contracted 
 as he leaned forward, and his eyes met Gilbert's. 
 
 "Well, old man, have they hurt you?" 
 
 "Only the bark was touched," replied Gilbert, 
 "the heart is sound." 
 
 "So much the better, old fellow! But all the 
 same, they hit hard!" 
 
 The woman had retreated to the corner of the 
 room, and she stayed there, motionless, as if 
 afraid of being seen. The two men, accustomed 
 to read each other's faces, did not speak for sev- 
 eral minutes. Then the president of the "Union 
 of the wood-cutters and allied industries of Fon- 
 teneilles" drew a little package, wrapped in a 
 newspaper, from the pocket of his waistcoat. He 
 placed it on the covering by Gilbert's knees, and 
 unrolled it with care. When the paper was 
 opened some pieces of silver and copper coin fell 
 in a line on the bed.
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 111 
 
 "There! When the day's work was done a 
 corner of the cutting was left which had been as- 
 signed to no one. So, in place of coming home at 
 five o'clock, I set myself with three comrades to 
 do your half-day's work. And that is about the 
 price that you would have earned." 
 
 Gilbert accepted the money with a gesture. 
 
 "Was Supiat one of them?" 
 
 "No, but Lampriere and two others, who are 
 friends of mine. Tell me, Cloquet, you are not 
 going to lodge a complaint?" 
 
 To lodge a complaint? With all the expense 
 and the uncertainty of witnesses besides the cer- 
 tainty of vengeance later? And to go back on all 
 the efforts which the wood-cutter had made to 
 combine the men who had to-day turned against 
 him! And also, without Gilbert's being con- 
 scious of it, the habit of forgiving offences was 
 in his blood, in that blood which was drying on 
 his face and his chest. Not for one moment had 
 he thought of lodging a complaint. 
 
 Slowly he turned his suffering head upon his 
 pillow with a gesture: "You have nothing to fear. 
 I shall not call on the judge." 
 
 Ravoux's face softened a little and into his 
 look there came a kind of thanks and tenderness. 
 He thanked him for the cause, for the party, 
 though he said nothing, for his ordinary assurance 
 had quite abandoned him. He well knew that 
 the members of the Union were wrong in demand- 
 ing the sharing of the cutting with Gilbert; that 
 their claim was based only on force. He was 
 ashamed and he remembered that it was the
 
 112 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 reading of the appeal that had preceded and 
 aroused the attack on Gilbert. But of that he 
 did not want to speak. 
 
 Gilbert was suffering, and three times the pain 
 checked the words on his lips. At last he spoke 
 with the manner of one to whom misfortune and 
 pardon give authority: 
 
 "You believe yourself to be their head, and you 
 are not, Ravoux. You have not much authority. 
 You have to let them do as they choose because 
 they are the strongest. " 
 
 " I know it." 
 
 "As for them, most of them have not, like you, 
 their desires turned toward their work; they only 
 wish for disorder and pillage; since I have known 
 them, they have grown worse. " 
 
 "Do not say that, Cloquet; our affairs are going 
 well; we have made a great step in advance." 
 
 "Possibly, Ravoux, but their hearts grow 
 worse. The feeling of Brotherhood has not come. 
 I have waited for it. " 
 
 Ravoux jumped at the theme which was offered 
 to him. For a moment he forgot the wounded 
 man. He began the stilted phrases of the reunions. 
 
 "You only see the imperfections of proletarian 
 organization! That is so simple! So easily said! 
 But we must make allowances for new move- 
 ments, my friend! The future will teach the 
 severity of law to these men, who now know 
 nothing; the future will make them free, by mak- 
 ing them intelligent." 
 
 Gilbert stopped him, raising his arm. 
 
 "Do not rant, Ravoux! You always talk of
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 113 
 
 the future when you are embarrassed. But I tell 
 you that they will never learn much if they have 
 not yet learned anything. Is it the school-teacher 
 who will teach them justice? They have already 
 passed through his hands. Will it be the priest? 
 Every one knows that the day of the priest has 
 gone by ! Will it be the newspaper? They read it 
 every day. Will it be you, perhaps? Come, now!" 
 
 Gilbert rose in bed in spite of his pain, and 
 his voice grew feeble and whispering. 
 
 "I will tell you what worries me, Ravoux, what 
 I think about our comrades. You can let me do 
 that at least, since I am not going to lodge a 
 complaint. Well ! They have not enough to live 
 on." 
 
 'That is true!" 
 
 "Nor you, either! Not enough to live on." 
 
 Ravoux believed that Gilbert was delirious and 
 that he was talking of daily bread. But Gilbert 
 was speaking of souls and spirits without the 
 means of nourishment or the provision for life. 
 They misunderstood each other. 
 
 The visitor took advantage of a moment when 
 the wounded man closed his eyes to go out, mak- 
 ing as little noise as possible with his heavy sa- 
 bots. Mere Justamond rekindled the fire, cooked 
 and sugared and filtered her teas, and with ma- 
 ternal kindliness gave the infallible remedy to her 
 neighbour, exhausted and incapable of sleep. 
 
 Evening was slowly growing into the true night 
 when men abandon the earth to darkness. Some 
 children called and came to knock at the door. 
 Mere Justamond could hear them, even when they
 
 114 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 did nothing but think as they sat grouped around 
 the fire, " Mother is not here! How long she 
 stays at Cloquet 's!" 
 
 When she was sure that she had done her whole 
 duty as nurse, she watched for some moments 
 the wounded man who was breathing with diffi- 
 culty on account of his broken rib and the band- 
 age on his chest. She thought that he was asleep 
 because he had closed his eyes and she went out, 
 after turning down the lamp. 
 
 Gilbert remained alone. He was not asleep. 
 He was thinking of his wife who had only half 
 trained their child; and of Marie, who had shown 
 herself so ungrateful that very morning and 
 whom he had forbidden them to send for, and of 
 his comrades who had beaten him, their old leader, 
 who had been their friend from the beginning, and 
 he whispered low, between the coarse wrinkled 
 sheets which were divided in great folds like 
 cracks in the ice melting hi a meadow. 
 
 "No! They have not enough to live on!" 
 
 A space of time which he could not measure 
 passed. A soft, young voice came through the 
 crack of the door. The forest was silent and the 
 words sounded clearly. The passer-by had seen 
 the light through the crannies of the shutter. 
 
 " Monsieur Cloquet, if you are not sleeping, how 
 do you feel?" 
 
 " Badly, my boy. Who is it that asks? You 
 can come in." 
 
 The voice still lower replied : 
 
 "No, I won't come in because of Ravoux. But 
 I am on your side, Monsieur Cloquet."
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 115 
 
 The footsteps withdrew lightly and were lost in 
 the night. 
 
 Gilbert thought that probably it was the son of 
 Mehaut, the old tile-maker, a young man with a 
 good heart, which showed in his face; unless it 
 were Etienne Justamond, a fine, pleasant-spoken 
 lad who always greeted him in the evening like a 
 friend. 
 
 Or it might even have been Jean- Jean, the man 
 who had come whistling down from the forest of 
 Montreuillon. The wounded man could not be 
 sure. But however small the consolation was, it 
 soothed him. Gilbert soon slept and the night 
 passed.
 
 IV. 
 
 VAUCREUSE. 
 
 AT the end of March the sun already has power 
 when the fog is driven away. The mist had gone 
 before mid-day. Two o'clock had just struck. 
 Upon the road leading from Fonteneilles to Crux- 
 la- Ville, which first goes up and then down, to 
 mount again in a gentle slope the great curve of 
 land crowned by the forest of Troncay and that of 
 Crux, the sorrel mare harnessed to the victoria of 
 Michel de Meximieu trotted quickly, excited by 
 the odour of the Spring. The sap was stirring in 
 the still unopened buds of the beeches and oaks, 
 and gave a purple glow to the thickets which 
 stretch away on the left toward La Vigie, and 
 which, like the ocean, have no limit but the hori- 
 zon. The General and his son, seated side by side, 
 their heads thrown back and bathed in the soft 
 air of the first Spring, were silent, each dreaming 
 his own dream, and following with his eyes the 
 flocks of linnets rising from the edge of the road, 
 or the busy magpies carrying in their beaks the 
 framework of their nest. They were going to call 
 on the Jacquemins at Vaucreuse. Soon the land- 
 scape changed, as they entered the valley of the 
 Aron, with its vast meadows and poplar trees, 
 solitude and richness on the two sides of a stream. 
 
 116
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 117 
 
 Down the valley could be seen the thick grass 
 already ruffled by the wind, stretching back to the 
 rocky land where the river started, and in front to 
 where the blue haze, mingling together grass, river 
 and trees, turns with them to rejoin the canal of 
 Nivernais. 
 
 The carriage, having left the main road, fol- 
 lowed a track parallel to the Aron and then went 
 down a long avenue through the middle of the 
 meadows. It stopped before a white chateau of 
 the eighteenth century, not imposing like that of 
 Fonteneilles. Vaucreuse had in front a large 
 flight of steps shaped like a horseshoe, a raised 
 ground floor, with one story above it and a frieze and 
 roofs of slate pierced by only two dormer windows. 
 On the right side a low pavilion, with a heavy man- 
 sard roof, recalled the old chateau which the new 
 Vaucreuse had replaced in 1760. 
 
 It was to this family estate that Lieutenant 
 Jacquemin had retired, when, in 1891, he had re- 
 signed from the army. He was thirty-two years 
 old and he brought with him to Vaucreuse his 
 wife and a little four-year-old daughter, Antoi- 
 nette. Shortly after this, and when he had scarcely 
 recovered from the terrible shock of his broken 
 career, he lost his wife, who died from an attack of 
 pneumonia in the midst of her youth and beauty. 
 Nothing was left to him but the child. Fortu- 
 nately the child was one of those beings who are 
 natural comforters, who help the world to bear 
 its suffering, who understand sorrow that they 
 have not experienced, who always feel its pres- 
 ence, and though unable to remove it, command
 
 118 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 and subdue it under their charm, like a wild beast 
 whose cruelty has no longer power in their pres- 
 ence. Antoinette had saved her father from 
 despair in his great trials. As she grew up, she had 
 become the confidante, the friend, even the guide 
 of this man who had preserved all the vigour and 
 apparently all the energy of his earlier years, but 
 whose mind wandered as soon as anything re- 
 called to him the two joys he had lost: his young 
 wife who had died or the army he had given up. 
 Antoinette alone could touch these memories. 
 She knew the way to do it. But no stranger 
 must make any allusion to the sorrowful past. 
 She guarded him from it, she was always there 
 to make a sign: "Be quiet! Do not talk of these 
 things !" She would turn the conversation or, 
 rather, she would throw herself into it, guarding 
 her father, keeping him out of the discussion 
 with an anxious, distrustful and almost maternal 
 tenderness. 
 
 The carriage stopped before the steps of the 
 chateau of Vaucreuse. Monsieur de Meximieu 
 and Michel were kept waiting a moment in the 
 large round room, hung with rose-coloured cre- 
 tonne, lighted by the three huge windows opening 
 on the terrace. 
 
 "I am really agitated, if you will believe it, 
 Michel, at the thought of seeing Jacquemin again ! 
 Fifteen years! It is fifteen years ago that he was 
 under my command, in the 6th Cuirassiers, at 
 Cambray. A man of iron will, with cursed ideas 
 of preaching morality to the soldier, of apostle- 
 ship, as he termed it, whose wings I had to clip,
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 119 
 
 but a good officer, severe for himself, kind to his 
 men, firm on his horse, firm every way. He must 
 have changed physically." 
 
 "I do not believe so. A trifle stouter, perhaps." 
 
 "Oh, yes, country life. Do you think that he 
 still holds it against me for having interrupted his 
 career? For, after all, it was I who, in the course 
 of duty, in spite of myself did cause his resigna- 
 tion. He felt that he could not remain. I only 
 asked him to yield." 
 
 The General walked about, looking at himself 
 in the narrow mirrors which separated the panels 
 of light cretonne. 
 
 The door in the rear opened. A tall, fair man 
 entered, walking rapidly. He walked across the 
 room and shook hands, bowing slightly. 
 
 "General, I am embarrassed. You see me in 
 jacket and boots. I have just come in from x an 
 inspection of my meadows near the mouth." 
 
 "Yes, yes, 'the mouth/ the local term, I re- 
 member. How are you, Jacquemin! How are 
 you! I am glad to see you again." 
 
 He held the hand of his officer turned land- 
 owner. He made him turn half round to get him 
 in the full light. He was a little pale. He gazed, 
 bending forward with his back to the windows, 
 into the broad face of Monsieur Jacquemin, now 
 flushed with emotion. 
 
 "It is indeed the same man! Short hair, black 
 eyes without fear and without reproach, and 
 hooked nose, and moustache cut short. Not 
 many gray hairs ; you have not changed, Jacque- 
 min; a little extra flesh, perhaps, like your cattle
 
 120 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 for market. Ah! Pardon, Mademoiselle, I did 
 not see you." Monsieur de Meximieu dropped 
 the hand of his host and greeted cordially Antoi- 
 nette Jacquemin, who had followed her father and 
 whom only Michel had noticed. The young peo- 
 ple had already spoken to each other. The 
 General's eye of command suddenly became the 
 eye of the connoisseur, which, half closed, looked 
 her all over, returning to the same points several 
 times. An unspoiled youth, a proud and noble 
 face, the hair of two shades of gold that Michel 
 had spoken of a slender figure, and so much 
 natural poise. 
 
 "I should not have been surprised I did not 
 at once remember but Mademoiselle has just re- 
 minded me that your ancestors were among the 
 models of Latour. You belong to a very old 
 family; why the deuce did you drop the 'de,' 
 Jacquemin?" 
 
 "My father did it, and I kept it up. He be- 
 lieved that the peasants here would like him 
 better if he called himself just simply Monsieur 
 Jacquemin." 
 
 "And did it help him any?" 
 
 "No. When he offered himself for election to 
 the General Council, he was defeated as a "bour- 
 geois," to cries of: 'Down with capitalism!' In- 
 stead of being defeated as a noble, to the cry of 
 'Down with the tithes!' That is all." 
 
 "You must resemble him?" 
 
 "Very much. But pray be seated, General. 
 There, the large arm-chair? No? You prefer the 
 straight chair? That is the habit of the saddle. "
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 121 
 
 " Monsieur Jacquemin is mistaken," inter- 
 rupted Michel. "His father left a widely known 
 reputation as an agriculturist, in all Nievre, and, 
 whatever he may say, many true friendships 
 among the people of the country. They knew 
 him to be just and helpful, and they loved him. 
 Elections prove nothing." 
 
 "Of course! Whatever disagrees with your 
 humanitarian dreams can prove nothing. Just 
 imagine, Jacquemin, my son defended, a fort- 
 night ago, the strikers who were howling the In- 
 ternationale before me before me!" 
 
 "Excuse me, I was only explaining." 
 
 The General had turned toward the back of the 
 room where Michel and Antoinette Jacquemin 
 were sitting on a sofa. It was a young voice that 
 answered him: 
 
 "General, do you want to know what I think 
 of our wood-cutters?" 
 
 "What, Mademoiselle?" 
 
 "They seem to me to be orphans without either 
 father o,r mother; no father to guide them. " 
 
 "That does not concern us." 
 
 "And no mother to love them." 
 
 "You would take that place, perhaps?" 
 
 The proud little head bent forward, her eyes 
 shone. 
 
 "Why, yes, I love them. I could go all alone 
 to the very end of those woods yonder, beyond the 
 river and the hill which you see through the win- 
 dow. There would not be a single man who 
 would insult me, and I am sure there would be 
 some to defend me."
 
 122 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "Ah, Mademoiselle, don't imagine that I am 
 going to contradict you! To be pretty, and 
 eighteen years old, those are strong reasons for 
 optimism. I have never had the first, and I no 
 longer have the second. You must forgive me. 
 And you are satisfied with your establishment at 
 Vaucreuse, Jacquemin?" 
 
 The "gentleman farmer" had crossed his legs 
 and looked silently at his former superior officer. 
 Painful memories came back to him. His expres- 
 sion, ordinarily firm and cold, became hard. The 
 General saw it and put himself on his guard, his 
 body erect, his head upright, his black moustache 
 lifted by the half smile which Michel and Mon- 
 sieur Jacquemin both knew. 
 
 "You are contented?" 
 
 "One is never entirely contented." 
 
 "I hear that you have transformed the valley 
 although it was naturally very fertile. " 
 
 "That is partly true."' 
 
 "That the cattle of Vaucreuse takes prizes at 
 Villette." 
 
 "In other places, too." 
 
 "And, finally, that you make large profits." 
 
 "I am not the only one who does that." 
 
 "I congratulate you. Fonteneilles does not 
 do that yet." 
 
 "That will come, General. Your son is beginning 
 very well. Time is necessary. You see, I have 
 fifteen years of seniority." 
 
 The word was said with a bitterness which 
 caused the Marquis de Meximieu to start in his 
 seat. The old wound still bled and Jacquemin
 
 was suffering. The General, leaning toward him, 
 ready either to rise and to embrace him, or to be- 
 come angry if he had cause, asked : 
 
 "What do you mean? Do you regret the regi- 
 ment? Truly, what the army has become, ought 
 to lessen any regrets. But, in any case, what have 
 you to reproach me with? Could I have done any- 
 thing else? Did I not do my duty? " 
 
 Before Monsieur Jacquemin had time to reply, 
 a quick hand, from the depth of the drawing- 
 room, made a gesture of denial. 
 
 "No, General! It was my father who did his." 
 
 Without even noticing the unusualness and al- 
 most the absurdity of discussing a military ques- 
 tion with a young girl, General de Meximieu 
 changed opponents. He was offended. He made 
 a nervous movement of his fingers, well known to 
 all the officers under his command. 
 
 "You speak like a child, Mademoiselle, and you 
 do not know the facts. I will explain them to 
 you. Your father was the ablest of my lieuten- 
 ants in the 6th Cuirassiers, that is true; the most 
 exact, that is also true ; but he was also the most 
 obstinate and the most clerical of all. He pro- 
 claimed before every one, even before the men, 
 doctrines on which, for my part, I set the same 
 value as on the ideas which are giving us trouble 
 to-day." 
 
 "But they are just the opposite." 
 
 "That makes no difference to me. They were 
 a creed. And I will have no creeds in the bar- 
 racks; no ideas, that do not belong to our profes- 
 sion, and no preaching that is not about patriot-
 
 124 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 ism. But he pretended that there ought never 
 to be a review or a march on Sunday morning, so 
 that the men should be free to go to church. He 
 wanted to elevate their morals, to have instruc- 
 tive readings and lectures, in fact, to have ths 
 barracks a school!" 
 
 "But we have that now, have we not?" 
 
 "Not yet! And for my part, I do not command 
 a school, I command soldiers. I do not ask them 
 to be saints nor to be of my opinion, since I do not 
 tell them what I think. I demand that they shall 
 obey, march well, and never be afraid. The rest 
 is not my affair. I belong to the old army myself, 
 to the army which went to battle because it was 
 their duty which suffered hunger, thirst, heat, 
 because it was their duty their duty, do you 
 understand? And that was enough. That is 
 why, when Lieutenant Jacquemin, without my 
 permission, gave a lecture to the cavalry men in 
 the training school, I warned him. When he did 
 it a second time outside the barracks, but after 
 giving notice in the mess room, and in uniform, 
 I placed him under arrest. He appealed. The 
 Minister upheld me. I had the regret of seeing 
 Jacquemin hand in his resignation and leave the 
 army when he was only thirty-two, but for what 
 I did I have never felt any regret." 
 
 "Well but, General, you must have regretted 
 it once, at least." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "A fortnight ago. When you were indignant 
 at hearing the strikers sing the Internationale." 
 
 "Parbleu! Was it not an outrage?"
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 125 
 
 " Perhaps it would not have been sung if the 
 lectures of Lieutenant Jacquemin had not been 
 forbidden by Colonel de Meximieu." 
 
 ' ' Antoinette ! General, you will excuse. " 
 
 "By you, who believe that you have no respon- 
 sibility for this disturbance of the men's minds, 
 who should cry mea culpa, because although I 
 am only a child, I must say it to you because you 
 and the others have discouraged officers like my 
 father." 
 
 "Antoinette!" 
 
 Michel bent toward her and said very low: 
 
 "I beg of you, Mademoiselle!" 
 
 Mademoiselle Jacquemin stopped, trembling 
 with indignation, her bosom still heaving with emo- 
 tion. Her pretty face lost its anger very quickly. 
 She turned a half smile to Michel, which ex- 
 pressed: "It is for your sake that I stop defending 
 my father against yours." The General was no 
 longer looking at her. He was looking at Jacquemin 
 who lay sunk back in his arm-chair, his arms rigid, 
 his eyes closed, like a man who suffers cruelly and 
 who does not want to show it. Two tears ran 
 down from his eyes. He felt them suddenly, hot on 
 his cheeks, and raised his hand to his face. But 
 this hand, all wet, General de Meximieu seized 
 and the two men found themselves on their feet 
 facing each other. 
 
 "Jacquemin, I have not ceased to regret you 
 for a day, my friend; we have not the same idea 
 about the army. I belong to another generation; 
 but my esteem, you know, my affection, my admi- 
 ration even, has not changed! Not in the least!"
 
 126 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 They still looked at each other silently. Their 
 hands fell apart. 
 
 "I should not have recalled that memory, had 
 I been as clever a man as people pretend, for I 
 have a service to ask of you, a great one." 
 
 "So much the better, General; if I can do it for 
 you." 
 
 "You can." 
 
 "Then speak!" 
 
 Monsieur de Meximieu looked at Michel and 
 Antoinette. 
 
 "Let us go outside, if you are willing; the chil- 
 dren will follow us." 
 
 The gravel on the terrace, the long, sloping 
 meadow, the blue thread of the Aron, the 
 grassy hill which rose beyond, all vibrated with 
 new life in the clear light. The General went out 
 first. Half-way down the steps Antoinette joined 
 him and, bending down, said very low: 
 
 "General, you will forgive me, won't you? I 
 was hasty. I am always so moved by that story 
 of his resignation, which we speak of every 
 day." 
 
 "You are a thoroughbred; you come of soldier's 
 blood; do not excuse yourself, it pleased me." 
 
 She smiled, glancing back over her shoulder so 
 that those behind might see that all was over. 
 
 "And also, General, if I must tell you, I spoke 
 because he cannot speak of that affair before 
 any one but me; it hurts him. Come, father, I 
 will leave you to talk with Monsieur de Meximieu. 
 We shall take the path of the Garenne, shall we 
 not?"
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 127 
 
 Along the raked gravel path, distinct as a fur- 
 row between meadows, the General and Monsieur 
 Jacquemin took the lead, Monsieur de Meximieu 
 on the right, making large gestures, questioning, 
 bending forward, and sometimes, with a stroke of 
 the cane, taking off the head of a tuft of dande- 
 lions growing on the edge of the path; Monsieur 
 Jacquemin, shorter than he, stout, and sparing of 
 his gestures! Only from time to time one saw his 
 square head, with its soft hat, which nodded 
 " yes "or "no." 
 
 Some fifty yards behind, Michel was question- 
 ing little Antoinette Jacquemin, whose youth, in 
 the midst of the sunlight, the air, and the grass, 
 was like a pastel set in a wide, light frame. She 
 had neither parasol nor cloak. She smiled on all 
 things because of the soul which love gives them. 
 She pointed them out to Michel; the warren, the 
 great clump of elms and oaks in front, the river, 
 the pond, the long stretches of the farm, and Mar- 
 mantray in the distance. 
 
 "You love this country as I do, do you not?" 
 
 " Deeply, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "I, I adore its meadows." 
 
 "And I its forests." 
 
 "I love its brightness." 
 
 "And I its solitude." 
 
 'Jeanne who laughs and Jean who weeps, then? 
 Are you really Jean who weeps?" 
 
 "Often enough." 
 
 "Here, that is forbidden. I have not even per- 
 mission to dream, as they say all young girls do. 
 Much less would I be allowed to be melancholy,
 
 128 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 even if I were tempted to be so. There is one per- 
 son at Vaucreuse who has the right to be sad and 
 he would feel it too much. It is my duty to be 
 joy, distraction and forget fulness. I am the pres- 
 ent and the future in a continual fight against 
 the past." 
 
 "That must be difficult." 
 
 She thought a minute and answered seriously: 
 
 "No; like everything one does from love, it 
 is easy. You understand what I am trying to 
 say? My father, if he were alone, would have 
 gloomy thoughts. His regiment, his broken career, 
 business cares, memories. I interrupted just now 
 a conversation between your father and mine. I 
 seemed to step out of my place. You thought 
 so, did you not?" 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "Well, in fact, I stayed in my place. My work 
 is to watch over old memories. I prevent them 
 from coming and, when I cannot keep them off, 
 I discuss them and chase them away. " 
 
 She sighed and she lifted her head, and the rays 
 of light shimmered on her hair as over a field of 
 waving oats. 
 
 "However, to tell you the truth, I need help 
 sometimes. Do you know what we lack in our 
 corner of Nievre? Neighbours. There are a few 
 chateaux, but the owners do not live in them. 
 Two or three months is the longest time they stay. 
 They have only the time in the country to love 
 themselves, but to really care for it and to be loved 
 by it, that is the true life. They never have it." 
 
 "You expressed that well!"
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 129 
 
 "Do you think so? I assure you that I have 
 no trouble in finding the definition of this life 
 which is ours and yours also. And those who do 
 not live in this way are of no use to anybody or 
 to anything. Why, think and tell me if you do 
 not agree with me? I begin to think that my 
 father is having a most important conversation 
 with Monsieur de Meximieu; he has stopped to 
 argue a point. I know it, because he is pulling his 
 moustache. That is his way of saying: 'There- 
 fore, Monsieur ' ; ' Consequently, Monsieur.' ' 
 
 "They are starting on again." 
 
 "Yes, but here he is again turning aside and 
 not to look at us; he is pointing to the forest, 
 what one can see of it, just a few tops of some 
 oak trees. I beg your pardon if I am indiscreet. 
 I am only a girl, but I have already all the 
 faults which I shall have when I am grown up: 
 can you tell me what this great service is that 
 Monsieur de Meximieu is asking of my father?" 
 
 "I do not know at all, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "He has said nothing to you!" 
 
 "Unfortunately, no." 
 
 "Usually, I am told everything. That is why 
 it vexes me to-day that I do not know. Oh, 
 my father will tell me the whole thing this even- 
 ing. Yours will do the same to you, I am sure. 
 There ! They are taking the little footpath which 
 turns to the warren. They are out of sight. 
 But, now I think of it, Monsieur, I was complain- 
 ing because we have no neighbours; you may 
 solve that difficulty." 
 
 "And how?"
 
 130 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 This time the young spontaneous laugh, quicker 
 than thought, the laugh without a false note, rang 
 out joyously. 
 
 "Why, marry! You will bring your wife to 
 Vaucreuse. She will be my friend. We will be 
 neighbours. Isn't that a way?" 
 
 Antoinette Jacquemin saw that Michel did not 
 laugh, that he was silent and let his eyes wander 
 over the distant view of Marmantray. Her 
 trained sensitiveness, her life so close to suffering, 
 had made her clairvoyant. She understood that 
 she had not hurt him; but had only, without 
 meaning to, passed near some sorrowful secret. 
 Her whole heart was moved. She stopped as 
 Monsieur de Meximieu and Monsieur Jacquemin 
 had done just before, and almost in the same place. 
 
 "Look at me," she said. 
 
 He saw before him a child face already made 
 maternal by compassion, lifted by the purest feel- 
 ing of tenderness, eyes trained to read and to feel, 
 and with a look which penetrated so deeply into 
 his soul, that Michel felt himself understood. 
 He who was so unexpansive and forced by his life 
 to do without a confidante, was incapable of re- 
 sisting this feeling or even of being silent about 
 it. He said, still looking at Antoinette Jacquemin : 
 
 "It is true, I am very unhappy." 
 
 "Have you been so long?" 
 
 "Always." 
 
 She clasped her hands and with her delicate fair 
 head made a motion of pity. 
 
 "And I who am so much loved here, have 
 often complained!"
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 131 
 
 Her eyes turned away toward the farm. 
 
 "Then, what I said in jest, is truer than I 
 thought. When you marry, so many things will 
 be forgotten! Let me talk to you as I am in the 
 habit of doing. It does not seem to me that you 
 are naturally a sorrowful person; you are only a 
 man who suffers. Trouble comes and goes. A 
 wife could surely keep it away, since a child can 
 succeed in doing so. I have known that since I 
 have been old enough to understand at all." 
 
 Michel hesitated a moment. So much sincerity, 
 such evident confidence, and a secret hope of com- 
 fort, led him on. It was the response of youth to 
 the call of youth. 
 
 "I am not the kind of man who is apt to please," 
 said Michel. 
 
 He blushed as he said it. Antoinette looked 
 him up and down and back again, and answered 
 with a very serious air: 
 
 " Why do you say that? Really, you judge your- 
 self wrongly and you libel yourself. Most women 
 are like me, I imagine, less susceptible to beauty 
 of feature in a man than to the character beneath, 
 and a face is never unattractive when one sees in 
 it great energy and uprightness." 
 
 He held out his hand to her. 
 
 "Thanks; you have the gift of comforting, 
 Mademoiselle, I see that. But what you tell 
 me would have to be repeated to me many times 
 before I could believe it. I have been too often 
 told the contrary. " 
 
 "If that is all that is needed, I will repeat it to 
 you!"
 
 132 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "We only see each other every two or three 
 months. You will have time to forget it!" 
 
 "I never forget. I will go as far as Fonteneilles 
 to tell it to you if need be! I am very free at 
 Vaucreuse." 
 
 She was laughing now. They had begun to 
 walk on again, quickly, in the clear sunshine. At 
 the end of the grove they met the General and 
 Monsieur Jacquemin. The two men had come to 
 some agreement. This showed plainly in both of 
 them by their air of relaxation and that lassitude 
 which follows an animated discussion. 
 
 But a shade of embarrassment survived the 
 agreement. Antoinette, too young to notice 
 everything, only saw, in the glad expression 
 which lighted up her father's face, as he met her, 
 a new sign of the paternal tenderness and pride 
 which showed itself every day in a thousand 
 ways. But Michel was disturbed when Monsieur 
 Jacquemin took him by both hands and said to 
 him in a brusque and emphatic tone : 
 
 "My dear neighbour, I beg your pardon for 
 having neglected you a little to-day; you were 
 gayer back there than you would have been be- 
 tween us two; but I want the chance to say to 
 you that you have had an excellent, happy in- 
 fluence at Fonteneilles. You are a good man and 
 a progressive one." 
 
 "I hope to continue so," said Michel. 
 
 Monsieur Jacquemin started and his expression 
 showed surprise. 
 
 "Assuredly, my dear friend, you will remain 
 what you are. I do not doubt it."
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 133 
 
 The four pedestrians followed the path around 
 the warren, and returned to the chateau by a road 
 which, going up the side of the hill, passed between 
 the groups of oaks and went down again toward 
 Vaucreuse. The conversation was about agri- 
 culture, cattle-raising, and hunting. Monsieur de 
 Meximieu was absent-minded. He took leave of 
 his host at the steps of the chateau. His gravity 
 contrasted with his ordinary manner of taking 
 leave, gay, and with a well-bred cordiality. 
 
 They returned in silence. The General found 
 waiting at Fonteneilles the wood merchant to 
 whom he had sold the year's cuttings. He settled 
 his accounts with him, received the promised 
 sum, remained for some time alone and, about 
 five o'clock, rang for his valet. 
 
 "Go say to Monsieur le Comte that I am wait- 
 ing for him in the smoking-room." 
 
 The smoking-room was a vast apartment hung 
 with old green damask and, with the dining-room, 
 occupied the southern end of the chateau. The 
 windows opened, two upon the forest, two upon 
 the avenue and the terraced fields looking toward 
 the village. It was on this side, near the windows 
 through which the last daylight filtered, that the 
 General was seated before a table loaded with 
 volumes and letters, when Michel came in. 
 
 "Sit down, my dear fellow; I have something 
 to say to you. It is an important matter." 
 
 The young man seated himself, facing the light. 
 
 "Michel, I am selling Fonteneilles!" 
 
 "You are selling! Fonteneilles! You?" 
 
 "I told you to sit down and you are getting up.
 
 134 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 Sit down again and listen. I am not offering it for 
 sale; I am selling it! That is not the same thing. 
 In fact, I have sold it. Do not interrupt me!" 
 
 "But how can I help interrupting you! It is 
 infamous!" 
 
 Michel was pale and his two outstretched hands 
 grasped the table. 
 
 "Infamous! What is to become of me?" 
 
 "Exactly true; that is the question. I ex- 
 pected it. We will come to that presently. But, 
 listen to me. Listen to me, I say. And do not 
 turn pale like that. Am I speaking to a man 
 or to a chjld?" 
 
 A strong voice replied, and the very windows 
 vibrated under the shock of the words. 
 
 "To a child, my father, who suffers, and who 
 has already suffered much through you!" 
 
 Exhausted by the constraint which he had used 
 to keep from crying out his grief, Michel threw 
 himself back upon an arm-chair and dropped his 
 head. 
 
 It was indeed the child who suffered, and the 
 man who was silent. 
 
 Monsieur de Meximieu had taken from the 
 pocket of his waistcoat a monocle without a cord, 
 which he always used in a discussion when he had 
 need of a diversion and of a moment of respite. 
 The muscles of his left eyebrow knotted around 
 the glass, the right eye remained wide open, and 
 the figure of the old General was entirely changed. 
 A restrained irony, the elegant and supercilious 
 politeness of a diplomat, in whom there lived the 
 experience of a race, sharpened and drew up the
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 135 
 
 wrinkles of his soldierly face. Beneath the man 
 of command another man appeared who seldom 
 had a role to play, but always played it well. 
 
 "My dear fellow," he said with deliberate slow- 
 ness, "you condemn what was before your time. 
 That is a mistake in life. The situation was made 
 for me by long-past causes. My father left debts. 
 The estate of Fonteneilles is mortgaged." 
 
 "I knew it." 
 
 "You knew it but you thought that the debts 
 were mine. That is not so! They are inherit- 
 ances. In the second place, there is your mother. 
 She had no fortune." 
 
 "And you allude to that!" 
 
 "I remind you of it precisely because I cannot 
 reproach her for her extravagance. I should feel 
 like a blackguard if I did, or if I refused her the 
 money which she asks. Now, she asks for a great 
 deal. We lead a stupid and ineffectual life. The 
 world holds us. I mean to say that it holds me 
 through your mother. And it does not let go." 
 
 With his left hand the General touched a bundle 
 of papers. 
 
 "Here are my accounts. They show that I am 
 three-quarters ruined! Do not cry out! Do not 
 throw up your arms! It is a fact and I have 
 had my share in this result. I am going to tell 
 you what that is. You would suppose a thou- 
 sand things if I did not accuse myself." 
 
 "No; that is enough." 
 
 "You would think it was play! You would be 
 wrong. I have paid, here and there, the debts of 
 some lieutenant or non-commissioned officer, but
 
 136 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 I do not gamble. Play does not count in my life. 
 Women? Very little." 
 
 "I beg of you ! I do not ask you for con- 
 fidences!" 
 
 "I offer them to you. Ah! My boy, we must 
 understand each other fully once and I shall tell 
 you everything. What has been my great per- 
 sonal expense? I can answer: The service of the 
 king, or of the country, which is the same thing; 
 the Colonel's table, the Colonel's hunts, the Gen- 
 eral's receptions; private help given to the house- 
 holds of poor officers, my profession, my career, 
 my responsibilities. To be lavish in position is a 
 tradition with the Meximieus. They ruin them- 
 selves by it." 
 
 "They die of it." 
 
 "No. There remains to me my pay and some 
 income; just enough to live on." 
 
 "And for me, what remains for me? To ask for 
 a position as underwriter? With your influence 
 and my name, I shall, perhaps, succeed. 'Count 
 Michel de Meximieu, assistant inspector of in- 
 surance.' That will sound well, will it not? I 
 cannot help judging you, my father! To allow 
 me to fit myself for a profession, to allow me 
 to look upon Fonteneilles as my property and 
 my life, and after five years of work to break it all 
 suddenly is a wrong, and a cruel wrong." 
 
 "It is one for me in the first place. And then 
 it is easy to say ' a wrong.' Misfortune would be 
 a truer word. I do not find that my conscience 
 accuses me." 
 
 "I do."
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 137 
 
 "Always the same! You add to the command- 
 ments of God, my dear fellow. Eight are enough." 
 
 "Ten, father." 
 
 "That may be. There is none that forbids me 
 to sell my land. Besides, Jacquemin has prom- 
 ised me to keep it absolutely secret, even from his 
 daughter; and we have agreed that I can take 
 back my word at the end of the year while he 
 remains pledged in any case, if I wish it. Who 
 knows? Something may happen between now 
 and the end of the year." 
 
 "Nothing will happen except more creditors. 
 And I ask you again. In this ruin, what is to 
 become of me? I am twenty-six years old. I 
 am an agriculturist. What do you expect me 
 to do?" 
 
 "Only one thing; to come and live with your 
 mother and me." 
 
 "In Paris?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "To do nothing there? Thanks. I am accus- 
 tomed to work. I do not accept. I cannot 
 accept." 
 
 Monsieur de Meximieu had let his monocle drop. 
 He was troubled, embarrassed, and secretly hu- 
 miliated. With the tips of his fingers he rubbed 
 off the moisture collected on the window panes, 
 and looked out down the avenue, as if a carriage 
 were coming. But the solitude was complete. 
 The darkness had confused meadows, fields, 
 boundaries, until there was left only two kingdoms 
 over which she ruled with unequal power the 
 earth, entirely dominated, and the sky, where a
 
 138 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 little light still fought for life. He said, without 
 turning around, in a voice that showed his pride 
 was weakening : 
 
 "What do you want? I have nothing better to 
 offer you now. The hardest thing in ruin is to be 
 obliged to confess it. I have done so twice 
 to-day." 
 
 During several moments the Marquis de Mexi- 
 mieu and Michel remained silent. Both were 
 thinking. Plans were made and rejected one 
 after the other; a tumult of thoughts, reproaches, 
 useless questions, hopeless complaints, continued 
 within them the interrupted dispute. Tears which 
 come after anger and after irony, began to swell 
 up from the depths of these passionate hearts. 
 But they must not even be suspected. The whole 
 past forbade it. Michel's arm-chair moved in the 
 darkness. The General thought that his son was 
 going to renew the discussion. But that was not 
 what happened. Michel had risen. In a calm 
 voice, almost in his usual tone, he asked: 
 
 "Do you believe that my mother would be 
 willing to live here? You have only two years 
 before retirement. We could keep the chateau 
 and a little land. " 
 
 Monsieur de Meximieu replied in three words: 
 
 "My poor fellow!" 
 
 One of the two men left the smoking-room. No 
 one stopped him. The other remained sitting be- 
 fore the desk, but he forgot, until the dinner hour, 
 to ring for a lamp. 
 
 At seven o'clock the valet came to announce 
 that dinner was served and that Monsieur le
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 139 
 
 Comte, who was not feeling well, would not come 
 down. 
 
 The next day, early hi the morning, the General 
 left for Paris.
 
 V. 
 
 THE PETITION FOR MERCY. 
 
 MICHEL wrote, that same night, a long letter to 
 his mother, which began with cries of grief, but 
 which, as the strong handwriting covered the 
 sheets of paper, grew tender, supplicating, and 
 even let a little hope shine through. He had re- 
 read it, and had added this postscript: "Do not 
 answer me, reflect upon all that I have just said; I 
 will come in a few days to kiss you, to ask you for 
 an answer and to thank you." 
 
 During the first week of April his hope con- 
 tinued to grow. It followed Michel through the 
 fields, for he had to hurry from one end of the 
 estate to the other. They were ploughing the fal- 
 low land; they were planting maize, clover, French 
 grass; they were beginning to cut the first acres of 
 green rye upon the heights along the road of Fon- 
 teneilles, and near the ponds of Vaux; they were 
 rolling a new meadow, and everywhere, in the 
 old pasture lands, it was necessary to see to the 
 drainage ditches and canals, and the trenches, 
 which the Spring had swollen with fresh water, 
 and whose banks were already covering them- 
 selves, in the sun, with tufts of mint, pimpernel, 
 and hemlock. The sap spread in the branches; 
 the earth opened, the dogs barked at night at the 
 
 140
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 141 
 
 passage of the beasts roaming the woods. Grollier 
 had put on a straw hat. Gilbert Cloquet, partly 
 convalescent, had been seen in a hemp field be- 
 ginning to enjoy his work again, and digging with 
 one hand ; the maids who watched the cows, when 
 they answered a good-morning called across the 
 paths, had stars in their eyes. Why should he 
 not hope? "If I can persuade my mother, after 
 she has said yes, to pass three days at Fonte- 
 neilles, she will be enchanted. She is artistic! 
 And above all, she is kind; she will have pity on 
 me, and on the estate, which has belonged to us 
 for more than three centuries, and on the people of 
 Fonteneilles, who are not perfect, but who would 
 be worth even less if we were not there. I will 
 give her more time, if she wants it, to leave Paris 
 and to come and settle here: till the middle of 
 Summer, or the middle of Autumn. She will 
 come. " 
 
 The 9th of April, which was Holy Monday, 
 Michel started for Paris. In the rack of the rail- 
 way carriage in front of him, he carried a valise, 
 a hat box in which was the silk hat, never seen at 
 Fonteneilles, and a large map, rolled and wrap- 
 ped up, of the estate, "to talk over and explain 
 things, if need be." He always looked forward for 
 weeks in advance to these trips to Paris, made 
 three or four times a year. But this time, mixed 
 with the usual pleasure of renewing old acquaint- 
 ances and meeting friends of childhood, and en- 
 joying all the elegancies of life which he had always 
 liked, there was mingled an emotion which kept 
 him awake and excited through the whole journey.
 
 142 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 At the Paris station he sprang into a cab, and said 
 to the driver: " Drive fast, I am expected." He 
 was not expected, because he had not written 
 again; and he was not sure whether his mother 
 would be in at half past three in the afternoon. 
 
 She was at home. He had scarcely entered the 
 apartment of the avenue Kleber, when he heard a 
 well-known voice, a gentle voice which said : 
 
 "Why, of course I'll see him! Is it really 
 Michel?" 
 
 Three seconds later a door opened ; Madame de 
 Meximieu ran to meet the traveller, took his big 
 head in both her hands and kissed him again and 
 again. 
 
 "How do you do, my dearest. How glad I am 
 to see you again! Since Christmas, just think of 
 it! Your father has not come in. But he will be 
 here at seven o'clock. We are dining out. How 
 happy I am to have you here! Come to my 
 room." 
 
 She took him by the hand and drew him into a 
 room hung with cream-coloured stuff flowered 
 a la Pompadour, and bright with all the light of 
 the avenue. 
 
 "You are looking well. You are not tired with 
 the journey? No. Then you can stay up this 
 evening? Do you know what I will do? I will 
 telephone the Virlets, that I am bringing you. 
 They are intimate friends whom you do not 
 know. They will be delighted. That is settled, 
 is it not?" 
 
 He had seated himself by her side and he let 
 her talk on for he found it pleasant to have some
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 143 
 
 one doing things for him. And it was a pleasure 
 to see her so animated, gay, and young. 
 
 It was only after a half hour that he asked her, 
 almost without trembling, as about a thing the 
 time for speaking of which would naturally come 
 in the first pause: 
 
 "And my great question, have you thought 
 about it?" 
 
 Madame de Meximieu raised her hand and 
 waved it as if to brush aside his words and scatter 
 them. 
 
 "Do not let us talk about that now. Like all 
 serious questions, it must be put off as long as 
 possible. Yes, I have thought about it. Your 
 father has repeated to me your conversation 
 together. Then, he has left me free to do what- 
 ever I like." 
 
 "So much the better!" 
 
 "Do not say 'so much the better/ my son. I 
 do not know it depends a little upon you." 
 
 "Upon me?" 
 
 She smiled a maternal smile. 
 
 "Yes, I will explain to you. I have perhaps 
 found a way out. Do not ask me to talk about it 
 now. I will give you an appointment. When 
 must you go back?" 
 
 "Day after to-morrow." 
 
 "Very well! The day after to-morrow at three 
 o'clock. Does that suit you?" 
 
 She kissed him again and they separated. 
 
 In the evening Michel dined with the Virlets; 
 with his father, who showed no resentment for the 
 violent scenes at Fonteneilles; with his mother,
 
 144 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 who showed herself more tender and kind to her 
 son than ever before. Tuesday he went about and 
 made some calls. Wednesday morning he went 
 to La Villette, and passed several hours watch- 
 ing the arrival of the cattle, and talking with 
 cattle-dealers and merchants whom he knew 
 would be there. He had to find out the condition 
 of the market in France and in Belgium; to buy 
 some animals; to renew some commercial rela- 
 tions which would be- useful, if they kept Fonte- 
 neilles; he must keep up to date in his profession, 
 and take care of the future, either for himself or for 
 some one else. He lunched rather late at the res- 
 taurant Dagorno, rue d'Allemagne, where land- 
 owners, merchants from the valley of Auge and 
 from several provinces of France met together. 
 Then, as it was only two o'clock when he found 
 himself in front of the Printemps shops, he re- 
 solved to walk the rest of the way home. 
 
 As soon as he was alone in the crowd and had 
 begun to walk toward the fitoile quarter, the 
 anxiety, which he had restrained with difficulty, 
 seized him again. In a few moments his fate 
 would be decided. All kinds of dark presenti- 
 ments seized him and weighed him down. He 
 could not explain why. He battled against them. 
 He tried to recall his mother's words and looks, 
 and to foresee what she had decided. Poor sport ! 
 Wilful delusion! He knew it well! All the same 
 he repeated to himself, as the only argument to 
 which there was no reply, "She is kind, fortu- 
 nately, very kind." 
 
 Madame de Meximieu was not, in fact, without
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 145 
 
 kindness of heart. Her friends even said: "Mar- 
 guerite has real feeling underneath." And they 
 spoke of visits which she had made to them in times 
 of trouble; they recalled things she had said, well 
 fitted to encourage a sad heart, and they told a 
 story about a cabman, a poor drunken devil, who 
 had fallen from his seat in the street in winter, 
 with a stroke of apoplexy, and whom Madame de 
 Meximieu who was in the cab had helped to 
 pick up, had had carried to the nearest drug store 
 and had taken care of herself, "yes, my dear, her- 
 self, during an hour and a half! The druggist, 
 whom she herself paid, declared that the cab- 
 man could not bear any more rubbing and blister- 
 ing and that he must be taken to the hospital. 
 Otherwise she would have kept on working over 
 him, she told me." They could have proved 
 in other ways the kindness of Madame de Mexi- 
 mieu. Unfortunately, she dispensed it outside of 
 her family by fits and starts, like money, in the 
 least judicious way. She lacked common-sense, 
 the habit of using words to express a clear idea, of 
 using her mind to think with, of using knowledge 
 of the world for anything except to observe the 
 weakness of her neighbours. Madame de Mexi- 
 mieu, at the age of forty-eight, paid the penalty of 
 her early education, which had been what is called 
 fashionable, that is to say, distinctly empty. She 
 had never known what home meant ; she had dis- 
 sipated her life, her time, her reflections, her tastes 
 and her money, without having anything to show 
 for what she had given. In the beginning of her 
 married life, if her husband had known how to
 
 146 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 judge her less severely and to love her less lightly, 
 and really to understand her better, he could have 
 repaired the lack of training of his young wife. At 
 present she was almost an old woman, in whom 
 the faculty of understanding many things was 
 already dead. Pleasure, diversions, and gossip had 
 become the greatest influences and the important 
 things in her life. She really suffered when she 
 had to pass three weeks outside of Paris; she had 
 no personal opinion upon any subject; she pos- 
 sessed merely, in her memory, a badly ticketed 
 and incomplete collection of the opinions of other 
 people, very varied in origin and nearly all anon- 
 ymous, the memories of superficial reading or of 
 conversations, fragments of confidences or of 
 talks which had not taught her anything and had 
 not even given her information, but which she 
 used with such natural art that it was often said 
 of her: "She is extremely intelligent." She was 
 passably so. Prudent about history, discreet 
 in the abstract, yawning over politics, she spoke 
 with ease upon other topics. Her voice was 
 musical and cultivated. She kept her mind 
 warm and cradled it. Sometimes, and without 
 desiring it, Madame de Meximieu had a glimpse of 
 the poverty of her heart, her life, her past, and her 
 future, and she was frightened. Suddenly, when 
 she heard some tale of love or of death, she pitied 
 herself. Floods of unreasoning tears sprang to 
 her eyes and she felt that she might have shed 
 them to better purpose. The woman she might 
 have been appeared to her vaguely, but still enough 
 to make her suffer. Her fear of solitude was the
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 147 
 
 result of these experiences. She was afraid of her 
 approaching old age, when she would no longer 
 be diverted or be able to "go out," when she 
 would be face to face with herself and with death. 
 She would have had the illusion of living and then 
 all would be ended. 
 
 Michel did not know his mother well. He had 
 woven a romance for himself about this life beside 
 which he had grown up. He had filled up the 
 empty places and explained its mystery with his 
 childlike heart. From the words of passionate 
 tenderness, furtive complaints and tears at his 
 departure, he had created a mother, exquisite and 
 delicate, obliged to live in Paris, but really suf- 
 fering from the absence of her son. It would not 
 have surprised him to have heard that Madame 
 de Meximieu spent a great deal of money and 
 time in works of charity; he understood that she 
 was admired ; he had always dreamed of bringing 
 her back to Fonteneilles, later, when the chateau 
 should be restored; he went even farther in his 
 dream and he thought sometimes: "What a friend 
 she would be, what a guide, and what a mother, if 
 one day a young wife should come to live with us ! " 
 He saw them, the two dear women's figures, side by 
 side in the avenue, at the hour when the declining 
 day lends itself to confidences and softens the 
 shadows under the deep green of the oak trees. 
 His mother appeared to him more distinctly than 
 the other figure. He thought her incomparably 
 beautiful. For him she never grew old. In the 
 depths of his eyes, the portrait of his mother was 
 the one which he had seen all his childhood in the
 
 148 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 little drawing-room of the avenue Kle*ber, the 
 pastel of Dubufe, suspended from the end of a red 
 cord, and which moved in the wind from the door. 
 The Marquise de Meximieu still had small and 
 regular features, and that complexion of a red- 
 dish blonde which prolongs for a while the twilight 
 of youth. But her fiftieth year had come, and noth- 
 ing can resist that. Age was written in her flesh 
 which was changing under her still beautiful skin. 
 On seeing his mother again, after months of sepa- 
 ration, Michel had felt that impression, so familiar 
 and so cruel: " She has aged!" Not sudden ruin, 
 but the eyelids grown heavy, the fine wrinkles 
 which were almost pretty, lengthening the eyes; 
 a slight puffiness at the base of the cheeks, and 
 certain livid reflections which shot at intervals 
 beneath the admirable pearl of her shoulders and 
 neck. At the end of three days he no longer no- 
 ticed his mother's loss of beauty. He had a mo- 
 ment of surprise and delight when, on returning 
 from La Villette, at three o'clock, at the exact hour 
 of the rendezvous, he found Madame de Meximieu 
 in the ante-chamber, in visiting dress, with a hat 
 with aigrettes on her head, her veil knotted, her 
 collar of sable half open and showing a collar of 
 gold with a pendant of emeralds and pearls. 
 She was only thirty again, the age of the portrait. 
 "You have just come in, mother?" 
 "No, dearest, I am going out, but I was wait- 
 ing for you as we had arranged; I have still a 
 moment. Come in the little drawing-room." 
 
 He followed, displeased, and seated himself near 
 the white mantel-piece, turning his back to the
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 149 
 
 light. Madame de Meximieu seated herself on the 
 opposite side. She smiled; you might have 
 thought that it was at her gown of crepe de Chine, 
 which was quite new and hung admirably. 
 
 "Fancy, I had forgotten; yet the invitation 
 was stuck in the corner of my mirror; I have a 
 matine'e at Madame de Grechelles. The poor 
 woman is so unhappy; she lost her only daughter 
 three years ago, and she is so grateful when you 
 go to see her! She consoles herself by having a 
 little literature and music at home. Only, as it is 
 Holy Week it will be for a very intimate circle. 
 Why won't you come? Must you absolutely go 
 this evening?" 
 
 "Absolutely. And I counted on our having 
 time to talk; I hoped to pass the last hours with 
 you." 
 
 "But I have explained to you, my dear child! 
 It is impossible." 
 
 She stretched out her gloved hand and caressed 
 the hand of her son. 
 
 "Do not be angry; tell me everything. I said 
 a moment, but I can give you ten, though no 
 more." 
 
 "It would take half a day!" 
 
 "And for what, mon Dieu!" 
 
 "To tell you all my life, which you do not know." 
 
 "That is a phrase which I have heard at the 
 theatre, my dear." 
 
 "It is not from there that I have taken it 
 though, believe me." 
 
 He made an effort to gather his thoughts and 
 the wrinkle between his brows deepened.
 
 150 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "Very well; I will go straight to the end. My 
 father, as you know, has told me that we were 
 almost ruined." 
 
 "Did he accuse me of it?" 
 
 Michel made a vague gesture; she took it as a 
 denial. 
 
 11 So much the better, for the injustice would 
 have been too glaring! Your father has never 
 known the value of money. All his life he 
 has spent more than he had. And you under- 
 stand that it was not I who could reproach him 
 with it! I am in a delicate position; he married 
 me almost without dot, and the fortune which he 
 has dissipated, as a matter of fact, he was the 
 master of." 
 
 "Mother, I do not judge between you. I, on 
 the contrary, ask that you judge me. If there 
 be any one who has no responsibility listen 
 to me well and understand, please for these 
 excessive expenses, you will admit that it is I. 
 Well! I am attached to Fonteneilles by every 
 kind of tie; it is our ancestral property; I beg 
 you to save it by coming back there." 
 
 "Forever?" 
 
 "Surely. My father has told me that we can 
 only keep up one establishment." 
 
 "The country all the year round! Why, my 
 dear boy " 
 
 Madame de Meximieu had sunk back in her 
 easy-chair, bewildered, hardly understanding 
 how such a proposal could have been made to 
 her. Her son waited, trembling, for a more defi- 
 nite answer. She recovered herself. With a
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 151 
 
 feminine gesture which caressed the material, 
 she touched her corsage, the embroidery on her 
 sleeve, her skirt of crepe de Chine. Her head fol- 
 lowed the gesture with a youthful movement. 
 
 "Tell me, Michel! Do I look like a shep- 
 herdess?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" 
 
 "Then you would not sentence me to live in 
 the woods?" 
 
 "Is it really a penalty to live with me and my 
 father, usefully and simply!" 
 
 "I would like that, my dear boy, I would ask 
 nothing better than that!" 
 
 "Then do it!" 
 
 "But my health needs so much care." 
 
 Michel replied eagerly : 
 
 "But you only need rest and quiet, my mother! " 
 
 "Still, one must consider a rest that is practi- 
 cable, my friend! What would we do, down there, 
 without occupations, without society?" 
 
 "Without diversions? That's what you mean 
 to say, isn't it?" 
 
 "Well, yes, if you like; I cannot get on with- 
 out them." 
 
 "Without matinees of literature and music, 
 without soirees, without plays, without gossip, 
 and without an auto? What would we do if we 
 could be of use to somebody! If we should econ- 
 omize, instead of ruining ourselves! If we could 
 make ourselves loved ! If we could think of others 
 besides ourselves? In truth, the question is a 
 bitter one and I understand it." 
 
 "You are hard, Michel, very hard like your
 
 152 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 father you are like him; I would not have be- 
 lieved it. And you hurt me very much." 
 
 She wept. Tears gathered on her eyelids, and 
 to prevent their dropping and wetting her veil, 
 she sopped them up with little dashes, her face 
 turned toward the dying fire. The tip of her boot 
 tapped the andirons. 
 
 * ' Yes, you are hard. You think only of yourself." 
 
 "And you, my mother, whom do you think of? 
 You do not see, then, that of us three I am the 
 youngest, that mine is the only future to be 
 thought of? I am not hard, in reminding you of 
 that. You wish to bring me here, where I shall 
 be an idler. You have allowed me to fit myself 
 for a career, enter upon it, learn to love it, and 
 now you break it up. Ah no ! The most cruel one 
 of us is you." 
 
 He rose and took a step toward her. 
 
 "You must understand that I have been un- 
 happy all my life, mother!" 
 
 Madame de Meximieu raised her hands and 
 sobbed. 
 
 "Ah, my dear! And I! I do not wish to com- 
 plain. But I do not want you to feel that I 
 have not thought of you. Do not look at me as 
 you are doing, with such reproachful eyes. Listen. 
 You will see." 
 
 She tried to smile. 
 
 "I have thought of a way your father has told 
 me of your visit to Vaucreuse. He has told me 
 that Mademoiselle Antoinette Jacquemin was 
 charming. Do you think so?" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 153 
 
 "She is eighteen years old. She is rich, very 
 rich. Well! Win her love. You will recover 
 Fonteneilles." 
 
 Michel's broad shoulders shook with indigna- 
 tion. His voice rose and trembled. 
 
 "No! I beg of you! Not another word! That 
 is not my way. Ah ! What a memory I am car- 
 rying away! What a last disappointment! To 
 think me capable!" 
 
 "But of what, Michel? Of what? What have 
 I said wrong?" 
 
 "To offer my ruin as a dot to that child whose 
 father has just bought my Fonteneilles! Yester- 
 day I could have loved her. To-day, what kind 
 of a man should I be!" 
 
 The door opened. Monsieur de Meximieu en- 
 tered in full uniform. He came from without, 
 his face whipped and roughened by the wind; 
 he had just assisted, as a witness, at the marriage 
 of one of his officers. He saw his son first, who 
 came toward him. 
 
 "You are leaving?" 
 
 "This instant." 
 
 The expression of Michel's face, the knowledge 
 that the blow had been delivered, the sobs of 
 Madame de Meximieu, who had hidden her head 
 in her furs, changed the General's tone immedi- 
 ately. The father was hurt by his son's grief; he 
 said quietly: 
 
 "I warned you, my boy, that it was impossi- 
 ble. Fifty years of Paris, you can understand 
 what a chain it is ! For myself, perhaps, I would 
 have been able to accept ; I come of a country
 
 154 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 race; but she cannot, you can see it. I never 
 thought it possible." 
 
 "But I I hoped. I have no longer the least 
 illusion, believe me. But before leaving you, I 
 would like to know if the means which has just 
 been proposed to me of keeping Fonteneilles, was 
 approved by you." 
 
 "What means?" 
 
 "Philippe, it is I who proposed it, I who 
 thought of it. I assure you, Michel, that your 
 father knew nothing about it." 
 
 "Well, father, I make you judge. My mother 
 has thought if I could win the love of Made- 
 moiselle Antoinette Jacquemin, if I should marry 
 her, the Meximieu would so be able, by marriage, 
 to recover Fonteneilles and I I have refused." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because. Do you ask me why? Because that 
 way of regaining property which one is unable to 
 keep is horrible to me! I would never marry 
 Mademoiselle Jacquemin, owner of Fonteneilles, 
 and taking me back there." 
 
 The Marquis de Meximieu listened, gravely, 
 bending a little to hear better, as at an inspection 
 when he was asked for an explanation. He 
 straightened up and quickly held out his hand. 
 
 "Quite right, Michel, quite right." 
 
 And as Michel looked at him, straight in the 
 eye, astonished at the force of his grasp, he 
 said: 
 
 "Michel, you are truly one of us! You will 
 be at Fonteneilles to-night?" 
 
 "Very late."
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 155 
 
 "And you will remain there?" 
 
 "Until December 31st." 
 
 There was silence. 
 
 "God grant that you may be there longer!" 
 
 A sort of sorrowful smile passed over the face 
 of the young man. 
 
 "He can, indeed, and I hope that he will. 
 Adieu, my father." 
 
 "And I?" demanded Madame de Meximieu, 
 rising, "and I, Michel, your mother, you are not 
 going to kiss me?" 
 
 She came forward with her arms outstretched, 
 her head a little bowed, her eyes heavy with 
 regret for what she had thoughtlessly said, inca- 
 pable of defending herself, weeping daintily but 
 really weeping. 
 
 "Forgive me; you men, you reason too much. 
 I assure you that I love you dearly; I am sorry 
 that I have not the power. I can really do no 
 more!" 
 
 She clasped Michel in her arms and he kissed 
 her on the forehead without answering. He 
 turned away. He saw his father standing in the 
 middle of the drawing-room nodding approval to 
 his son, but incapable of helping him, of com- 
 manding in his own house, he who made himself 
 obeyed everywhere else; he saw his mother retir- 
 ing, overcome and choking, her dress rumpled and 
 wet with tears, her veil lifted awry, her eyes 
 swollen and grown aged. He longed to cry out : 
 
 "You are sacrificing my youth to the few years 
 which remain to you! And you are my father 
 and my mother!"
 
 156 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 But his voice failed him; perhaps his courage 
 also. 
 
 Michel made a gesture of adieu and of despair, 
 and went out.
 
 VI. 
 
 THE GLOOMY SUNDAY. 
 
 EASTER was late that year. It was the 22d of 
 April, and the bells were ringing for the high mass 
 of Quasimodo Sunday. For Lent had been over 
 eight days. Who had observed it? The sacris- 
 tan, Padovan, formerly the lock-keeper of the 
 Nivernais canal, infirm and fat, pulled the rope 
 in the left transept, gazing at the six porcelain 
 vases which he had just placed on the altar, and 
 from which arose six gold palms with roses of gold. 
 He noticed that he had turned one of the palms 
 wrong side forward, and he shrugged his shoul- 
 ders higher than was necessary, letting the cord 
 of the bell slip as he abused himself. " Idiot, the 
 one time that you take them from the cupboard, 
 not to place them facing right! Are any of the 
 parishioners of Monsieur le Cure coming to-day? 
 At Easter I counted ninety-two. Yes, and some 
 famous unbelievers among them! They come at 
 Easter, All-Saints', and to funerals. But for 
 Quasimodo Sunday! Ah! Monsieur le Cure may 
 as well delay his mass and let me ring. I see 
 him making signs to me! Courage, Padovan! 
 What good does it do? There are seven in the 
 church. Poor cure of Fonteneilles ! " 
 The chorister buttoned his short red cassock 
 
 157
 
 158 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 slowly in the sacristy; Abbe Roubiaux put on 
 his vestments; the flame of the wax tapers 
 ascended in the daylight, and they would have 
 been hardly visible if the wind, slipping through 
 the crannies of the windows, through the doors, 
 through the holes of the vaulted roof, had not 
 blown down their tongues of yellow light, and made 
 a little whirlwind of smoke at their ends which 
 showed the presence and the life of fire. "Good 
 people," sang the bells, " Christ has risen! He has 
 suffered, He has returned to life! Do like Him; 
 come, ye despised, ye humble, ye unhappy, which 
 means all the world, and take the new life over 
 which death shall not prevail! Come! I called 
 your fathers and they came. I now call you." 
 In the tower with its flattened vaults, a mere 
 block of masonry lighted by the three east win- 
 dows of the choir; in this fragment left from a 
 larger church of which the nave had been taken 
 away, the sound of the bells clashed in confused 
 echoes, like spirals of smoke which mount and 
 mingle. They spread their appeal abroad, 
 and there, without struggle, in the great open 
 heavens, the glorious waves of music soared ; they 
 unfolded in sonorous wreaths, above the houses 
 and the grass and the half-clothed woods, and 
 the waters which heard their clear call and shivered 
 to their depths. But the men did not come. 
 
 When the cure" came out of the sacristy and 
 took his place at the altar he had, for his whole 
 congregation, four women and one child, the little 
 Elie Gombaud, son of the socialist lock-keeper, 
 Pere Dixneuf, retired sergeant of Zouaves, Mi-
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 159 
 
 chel de Meximieu, his valet, and the sacristan 
 Padovan, who chanted: "Quasi modo geniti in- 
 fantes, alleluia, rationabile, sine dolo lac concupis- 
 cite, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia." 
 
 Where were those who did not sing the halle- 
 lujah? Some were working, as if their fatigue of 
 six days did not need the divine rest of the sev- 
 enth; they were breaking the clods in a field or 
 working at a carpenter's bench or heating red hot 
 the iron hoop of a cart wheel. Still others, the 
 greater number, had already gone to the taverns, 
 either those of the village or of the neighbour- 
 ing towns, and they were drinking bad alcohol 
 which burned into their veins, and were exchang- 
 ing remarks that had no joy or healthy pleasure 
 in them; only complaints, threats, gossip, jokes 
 which reeked with hatred, vulgarity or wanton- 
 ness. Others, unoccupied, seated in their houses, 
 before the fire, were waiting until the hour of eat- 
 ing should come or until the father or the master 
 should come in and they could go out like him 
 and drink. Young girls were dressing for the 
 ball, braiding or curling their hair, and thinking 
 of the gayeties of past Sundays, enjoying the ex- 
 citement which the memory awoke in them. 
 The school-teacher, Secretary of the Mayor's 
 office, was trying to estimate, for the official sta- 
 tistics, the number of geese, hens, ducks, swine, 
 and turkeys of the country, and he varied the 
 figures pleasantly by consulting the columns of 
 preceding years, diminishing or increasing, with 
 an amused smile, the animal wealth of the dis- 
 trict. A farm hand, a former miner who came from
 
 160 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 Calvados, where he quarrelled with his father who 
 had reproached him for extravagance, was saying, 
 at that very hour, to his master, the farmer of 
 Semelin: "Give me twenty-five francs. I need 
 to go and buy some boots at Saint-Saulge." And 
 he set out, resolved not to buy the boots but to 
 spend the twenty-five francs. It was the fourth 
 pair of boots which he had bought in that way 
 since the beginning of the year. Four young men, 
 carrying a fishing net and lines, were starting off 
 to poach in the pond; a lock-keeper, exhausted 
 from having opened the lock five times in the 
 night, between Saturday and Sunday, for the 
 boats from Berri which came up the Nivernais 
 canal, was snoring on the sheets of his unmade 
 bed, while his wife, worn by fever, bloodless, 
 exhausted by the weariness of a life without rest 
 or hope, was dressing, washing, and scolding the 
 five children who were crying in the foul air of the 
 room. Others were going off on their bicycles to 
 see some women. The entire population, unem- 
 ployed for a day, was seeking to escape from their 
 ordinary condition, and, but little able to succeed, 
 envied all wealth as the sovereign power, the 
 wealth of the woods, of the chateau, and that 
 which is described in the continued story or 
 told about in books. The comparison grew 
 sharper in solitude or in talk with others. The 
 inmost nature of the human beast, vain and vio- 
 lent, betrayed itself in words, gestures, and 
 glances. They hated everything, more or less. 
 An unknown passer-by who might have crossed 
 the market town at that moment would have
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 161 
 
 been hated; legendary names were pronounced 
 and saluted with curses and contempt; the no- 
 bles, Louis XIV., Rothschild, likewise the Gov- 
 ernment which pays poorly and which they were 
 beginning to want to replace by another govern- 
 ment which would pay better for less work, and, 
 if it were possible, which would pay all their ex- 
 penses, comforts, pleasures, in the town, in the 
 province, and everywhere, without any one being 
 forced to work at all. Ugly girls thought that with 
 a thirty-franc hat they would have been pretty. 
 This gross and impossible dream brutalized the 
 souls of many who would have been proud and 
 strong if they had been taught. 
 
 Such was the rural Sunday, a masterpiece of 
 ennui when worship has gone out of it. 
 
 The cure said mass and he suffered unspeak- 
 ably, feeling the solitude behind him, around him, 
 everywhere! The solitude of the church, empty 
 of the faithful; the solitude of souls, empty of the 
 grace of God. And this was a corner of France! 
 
 When mass was finished, Abbe* Roubiaux was 
 so pale that old Perrine, the last spinner of the 
 town, seeing him reenter the sacristy, tottering, 
 his eyes downcast, said half aloud : 
 
 "They have sent us a cure* who is like my 
 wool; he cannot stand. I thought these Mor- 
 vandians had more backbone!" 
 
 He could barely return thanks. His head in his 
 hands and alone beneath the vault of the tower, 
 where the bells rested motionless, he heard neither 
 the cries of the street boys playing on the square, 
 nor the feet of the pigeons scratching the tiles of the
 
 162 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 roof in passing ; he only heard his own soul which 
 tossed itself from one end of the horizon to the 
 other and from the past to the future, like mut- 
 tering thunder, and which cried: "What have 
 they done, those who had the charge of preaching 
 the gospel here? Is it possible that six priests 
 have been here during a century and have not 
 stirred these ashes? Have they accepted it? 
 Have they also been seized with this sleep of 
 death? Or have they indeed lived five years, ten 
 years, twenty years in the sorrow that I am feel- 
 ing? My God! How horrible is this desert of 
 souls! What would I not give to return to 
 Morvan! To be carried on wings to Vendee, Au- 
 vergne, Brittany, to the plains of the North, no 
 matter where, provided it was where there were 
 living souls, around a living God! The hallelujah 
 has fallen into space. Sins hold the country and 
 keep it from singing. my predecessors, I ad- 
 mire you, after all, for having been able to live 
 where I stifle. You, at least, began your work 
 and attempted something. And I, who blame 
 you, what have I done? I have waited in the 
 presbytery, watching the hours which have struck 
 in solitude. What a mistake! During the six 
 months that I have been cure of Fonteneilles I 
 have felt, in secret, between You and me, my 
 God, much love for them, but I have not told it 
 enough! It is not possible that there is nothing 
 living! I must have the power to resuscitate it 
 since my Master has. I will go. God shall go out 
 of His temple. I will speak to the first of my 
 parishioners whom I meet. I would like so much
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 163 
 
 to know them! But we have no tie in common 
 except the church where they no longer come. 
 Nothing in common! Neither the wine shop, nor 
 the woods, nor the farm. If some one would help 
 me ! This young Monsieur de Meximieu? I have 
 made him only one call. I have kept away from 
 the chateaux because the cottages are jealous. 
 No, I must go alone. I am alone ; I will bring them 
 my sacred merchandise, which is peace. Will 
 they listen to me? It is not insult which I ought 
 to fear so much as this silence around me. Have 
 mercy, Lord!" 
 
 His face wet with tears, he rose, wiped his eyes 
 with the towel hung in the sacristy by the side of 
 the holy-water font of green faience, and he 
 opened the door of the tower. Between the first 
 step and the wall a bit of wall-flower had pushed 
 through. It bowed its head to the wind, under 
 the feet of the abbe, who understood the caress 
 of the flower and said : 
 
 "I thank you for greeting me; men have not 
 done as much." 
 
 He crossed the square; it was empty. Behind 
 the windows of the inns some tipplers were watch- 
 ing him and were talking about him as they would 
 have done about any other object that was still 
 new to them. 
 
 The cure" did not even see them. The parsonage 
 was there close by, in front of the church, on the 
 other side of the road. Abbe" Roubiaux opened 
 the latticed gate, once white, now grimy with the 
 touch of many hands, took a few steps in the 
 alley which, perpendicular to the road, ran along
 
 164 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 the side of the house and, as he passed before the 
 kitchen door, was almost run into by a boy who 
 came out running with his head down and an 
 empty basket on his arm. 
 
 Upon seeing the abbe the child stopped short, 
 lifting up his freckled, lively, open countenance 
 which, like a round apple, reflected all the light 
 falling upon it. 
 
 The cure" gazed for a moment at the boy as if 
 he were looking at a cherry tree in bloom, a pict- 
 ure by Raphael, a new church, a glacier, or the 
 sea which he loved without having seen it. He 
 rested his sick soul upon this little curly-headed 
 urchin who had neither the wickedness of grown- 
 up persons nor their hardness of heart. At least 
 he thought so. He did not ask him from whom 
 he came, nor for what he had come, nor what his 
 name was. But, while the child waited, quite 
 ready to reply correctly to these expected ques- 
 tions, he placed his hand on his forehead and 
 with the thumb slowly and reverently traced the 
 sign of the cross. 
 
 The little ,one understood that that meant: 
 "Go, blessed little one!" and he ran off saying: 
 
 " Good-day, Monsieur le Cure"." 
 
 The gate banged behind him. 
 
 "A sacre gamin whom his mother sent to collect 
 Easter eggs," said the servant appearing on the 
 threshold of the kitchen; "she asked for eggs, the 
 wretched beggar, because her oldest son in time 
 past was a chorister. Ah! I settled him, the 
 young rogue!" 
 
 "You were wrong, Philomene."
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 165 
 
 "Yes, I know it, they might eat your bread 
 from your plate, and you would say nothing; one 
 sees plainly that you do not belong here. Ah! 
 You will not change them! Will you have your 
 dinner? It is ready." 
 
 "Not yet, Philomene. I am going to my room. 
 I will let you know when I am hungry." 
 
 He went upstairs, crushed again by the heavy 
 trouble which the sight of the child had lifted for 
 a moment, and, once in his room, he seated him- 
 self before a table of pine wood on which there 
 was only a writing pad, a bottle of ink, and a 
 breviary, and he hid his head on the table be- 
 tween his folded arms. He neither slept nor wept. 
 Soon he sat up. His thin face, with its Creole 
 eyes, dark complexion, wide ears frosted by the 
 north wind, and the heavy jaw of the eater of 
 hard bread, had regained its daily expression; 
 serious, naive, and eager. He gazed before him at 
 a photograph fastened upon the white wall, of 
 a little old woman, all hooded in black, whose 
 wrinkled face still kept the eyes of a child. 
 "Good-day, mother!" he said, "I am going to 
 write to you!" 
 
 He tore from the pad a sheet of white paper 
 lined with pale blue and let his pen run on: 
 
 April 22, 1906, Quasimodo Sunday. 
 
 "MOTHER: I am sad, I would like to leave here 
 and to see you and get a breath of air from the 
 snow of our mountains. I can see you. At the 
 hour at which I am writing, the bells are ringing, 
 as here, for the end of mass, but they have an
 
 166 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 answer in the clatter of wooden shoes upon the 
 frozen earth. You are going also, little mother; 
 you have pulled your black hood down over your 
 forehead; you are coming out of the church, the 
 last one as usual; you are thinking of your son, 
 the abbe, of the little Henri, whom you used to 
 lead by the hand, and who has gone down, all 
 alone, far from the village of Glux-en-Glaine, to 
 try to convert the people of the plain of Nievre. 
 You are crossing the square; all our friends are 
 there, that is to say, all the parish; men, women, 
 children, not one would be willing to miss the 
 mass; it is very cold; the wind from Preneley 
 whistles, and in the forest, as in the bourg, on ac- 
 count of the snow, the path is only wide enough 
 for one person. Everybody walks in single file. 
 You, mother, enter your house, the smallest, but 
 which has been the happiest one of Glux-en- 
 Glaine in the days when we were there together. 
 I feel sad, mother! I have left you for these 
 people of Fonteneilles who do not dislike me, but 
 who live only for the world. I have gained no 
 hold over them during seven months that I have 
 been their cure. My courage fails me on account 
 of the isolation in which I live. And I have re- 
 ceived the holy unction and I am responsible for 
 all the faults, all the failures, all the despairing 
 deaths, which I should have been able to prevent 
 or to console ! There were seven at high mass this 
 morning! Everything lowers them; their nature, 
 their ignorance and their reading which fosters it; 
 the air is full of falsehood, even to the easy sale of 
 their cattle. You can understand what I suffer,
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 167 
 
 mother. There are many mothers like you, who 
 have the soul of a priest and who have bestowed 
 it on their children. So when you receive my 
 letter you will begin to pray for me. I know what 
 you will do. I believe you are powerful with God 
 and with the world because you represent the 
 good poverty. Give me your help! I am trying 
 to find out where to begin. Wait; I remember 
 how, in my childhood, on wash days, you would 
 stand there before the bundle of linen brought 
 back from the river, which had to be " spread 
 out" to the sun; you were discouraged by the 
 labour before you; so many trips to make, so 
 many times to stoop over, to pick yourself up and 
 to lift your arms, and you would say: 'Henri, 
 I do not know where to begin my work; I have 
 too much to do!' Poor mother! Your little boy 
 was not much help to you. When I had driven 
 two stakes in the grass behind the house, I felt 
 myself full of glory and laid down on the grass. 
 Mother, I have not even that much help. No one 
 has driven a single stake for me. Send me a 
 letter and put in it a little of your courage. I am 
 better already. I feel myself stronger, just from 
 having written to you. I love you with all my 
 heart, mother. And do not think me discour- 
 aged. I only needed to weep near you." 
 
 "HENRI ROUBIAUX." 
 
 The abbe" slipped the letter in an envelope, 
 sought for a stamp among some pictures in a 
 pasteboard box, and descended the stairway 
 which groaned always just as we do under even
 
 168 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 the smallest burden. As he passed by the kitchen 
 he said : 
 
 "Philomene, you can reheat the soup now. 
 I am going to mail a letter." 
 
 "Your soup will be fine, indeed; it is like 
 pudding!" 
 
 The abbe, bareheaded, crossed the garden and 
 then obliquely the little square, to the box be- 
 neath the window of the tobacco shop. As he 
 was returning he saw on the left, going past the 
 corner of the wall, a man of tall stature and a 
 blond beard, who lifted his hat and put it back 
 with an indifferent gesture. 
 
 He went toward him. 
 
 "How do you do, Gilbert Cloquet?" 
 
 "Not entirely well, but better, thank you, 
 Monsieur le Cure; you are very kind." 
 
 "I passed by Pas-du-Loup a month ago, and I 
 asked to see you, but Mere Justamond told me 
 you were sleeping." 
 
 "That would have been worth waking me up 
 for, Monsieur le Cure; but the good woman is like 
 a dog when she is watching any one; no one must 
 come near." 
 
 Abbe Roubiaux hesitated a moment, instinc- 
 tively seeking for a word which would not be a too 
 definite and too frank expression of his sorrow 
 and of his reproach. But his heart overflowed. 
 He said, clasping his hands under his cassock: 
 
 "If I am not mistaken, Gilbert Cloquet, you 
 were not at mass Easter Sunday! And certainly 
 you were not there this morning." 
 
 "That is so."
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 169 
 
 "Nevertheless, you belong to my parish." 
 
 "But what do you expect! It is a long time 
 since I have been there! It is no longer our cus- 
 tom here." 
 
 The abbe* let his hands fall, opened them and 
 held them out as if imploring the wood-cutter: 
 
 "Ah, my friend! What martyrdom it is to 
 be the representative here of God, whom every 
 one forgets, whom no one loves any more!" 
 
 The workman was stirred by this grief; he gave 
 a little start, shook his head, and said simply: 
 
 "Come, now, Monsieur le Cure, you must not 
 worry yourself over so small a matter; we do not 
 go to mass any more, but all the same we are not 
 wicked people. Come, compose yourself; the old 
 cure became used to us; you will do the same." 
 
 He felt himself looked at by eyes like those of 
 the Christ nailed to the cross. Never had any one 
 looked at him like that before. Something inti- 
 mate and vague was touched in him and leaped 
 like the child of a woman, and he understood that 
 it was his life itself, the very depths of his soul 
 which never saw the light, which had been 
 reached by this glance. He was embarrassed. 
 He reached his hand out to his cure to take leave. 
 
 "Do not trouble yourself so about us," he said; 
 "I understand you just the same; it is the way I 
 feel when the work does not go right; there is 
 trouble for everybody in this world, one can't 
 help thinking. Good-night, Monsiror le Cure. 
 Good-by." 
 
 And he went on again up the uope while the 
 cure" reentered the parsonage. F >r the first hun-
 
 170 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 dred yards he thought only of this meeting with 
 the cure of Fonteneilles. Once, even, he turned 
 around toward the parsonage, of which he could 
 only see a dormer window and the roof, tapering 
 into the garden, and the boundary wall covered 
 with the pale wistaria. 
 
 "He is a good man, this Morvandian," he mur- 
 mured, "he has a heart as tender as a woman. 
 If my dead mother had been there, she would 
 have spoken to me just as he did." 
 
 He went on up between the houses of the vil- 
 lage. A comrade spoke to him, then another, and 
 another, and new ideas drove away for a time 
 the memory of his words with Abbe Roubiaux. 
 
 Quite at the end of the village Gilbert entered 
 a very poor house, a hovel crushed under a 
 thatched roof which, from one rafter to the other, 
 sank down and formed a gutter. A young man 
 who had just finished eating was seated before a 
 table of old cherry wood, notched by knives and 
 worn by the hands, elbows, dishes and dish-towels 
 of two or three generations. A woman, a fresh- 
 looking brunette whose cheeks were red as if she 
 had just been angry or weeping, was drying the 
 table with a circular movement, resting her two 
 hands upon the rolled dish-towel. Her husband 
 bent his head and finished eating a mouthful of 
 bread; by his side there was still a bottle half 
 full, and a plate on which round bits of potato 
 were swimming in vinegar and oil. 
 
 "Good-day, Durge! You seem to have no 
 more ragout to eat than I do!" 
 
 The young man raised his small head, covered
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 171 
 
 to the ears with a great soft felt hat. Durge, 
 very young, very hopeful, with shoulders which 
 fell back squarely and easily when he stood up, 
 had a sandy, curly beard under his chin, a short, 
 young moustache, very red lips, a nose too short 
 and a low forehead ; he could not be called hand- 
 some, but his straightforward glance, clear as a 
 current of water without pebbles or mud, told of 
 strength and simplicity. He was a primitive man. 
 One could read, in his eyes full of energy in repose, 
 that the man had only one word, one sentiment, 
 one idea at a time, and that he would be a power, 
 absolutely devoted to those who should win his 
 affection and dominate his mind. He answered the 
 mocking greeting of Cloquet, saying: 
 
 "The Spring is not good. If the work in the 
 woods does not come in May, I don't think that 
 we shall have anything to raise the family which 
 is coming." 
 
 He smiled in a way which lighted up his rustic 
 face, and, with a movement of his eyes, he indi- 
 cated his young wife whose figure was heavy. 
 
 "It is evident," replied Gilbert Cloquet, laugh- 
 ing also. ' ' But I tell you, Durge", the misfortune of 
 misfortunes is that there is no longer hay to cut." 
 
 "No! Machines everywhere!" 
 
 "Except with Monsieur Michel. Why, I have 
 cut his hay since I left La Vigie, for more than 
 twenty years. What would you say if I got you 
 engaged there?" 
 
 "I should say thanks! But you are mistaken, 
 my friend! They are all alike; he is going to buy 
 a mower."
 
 172 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "Tonnere!" cried Gilbert, approaching as if he 
 were going to throw himself upon Durge. " What 
 did you say?" 
 
 "What I know." 
 
 "He has never had one." 
 
 "He is going to have one." 
 
 "No. He would not want to take my work 
 from me. Twelve days of good pay! It is not 
 possible, Durge." 
 
 "It is," said the young man, bending to tell 
 the story, and making the gesture of the story- 
 teller, his elbows resting upon his knees, his hands 
 free, his head stretching forward. "At the March 
 fair, he met the mowing-machine merchant, and 
 some one heard him asking the price : ' How much 
 for the large model? How much for the American 
 make? For yours?' Is that a proof, Cloquet, or 
 do you want me to tell you something more?" 
 
 "I want you to come with me! We will go to 
 find Monsieur Michel, he will listen to us; I know 
 him. No, I answer for it that it is a false- 
 hood." 
 
 Durge*, without rising, looked at his young wife 
 who had grown grave as she listened to the talk 
 of the men. She said, very low, squeezing the 
 linen between her hands as if it were the gain of 
 the twelve days which they wished to take from 
 her: 
 
 "You must go, but you must not give way 
 about the price!" 
 
 "Don't fear!" said her husband, whose eyes 
 suddenly grew fiery. "You know me!" 
 
 In a moment the two men were together on the
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 173 
 
 threshold; together they touched the brims of 
 their hats out of respect to the woman who, from 
 inside the house, followed them with her glance, 
 thinking of the things of the coming summer ; then 
 they disappeared in a path which led around the 
 village and which rejoined the road a little lower 
 down. They were of the same height, but the 
 elder man was straighter and slenderer; he had 
 a natural grace in his bearing, such as you see 
 sometimes among the trees in the forest. 
 
 "If you are willing," he said, "we will take 
 Dixneuf with us; he is one of the older ones who 
 counts, like myself, on the hay of the chateau. 
 He also has mowed there for twenty-two years." 
 
 The young man replied with a nod of assent. 
 Before them, at the foot of the slope, there were 
 only meadows where the grass was already grow- 
 ing thick and glossy; each particle of earth, like 
 a vase too narrow, held its flower or its green 
 sheaf; beneath, the water flowed invisible, and 
 above, the brilliant rays of the sun and the breath 
 of the wind passed over them, unfolding leaves, 
 petals, and stalks, all full of sap. The men cal- 
 culated the ground which the grass covered and 
 the depth of the spaces that ran back into the 
 forest. The memory of the last hay-making came 
 to their minds, then they considered vaguely the 
 tops of the trees, still red with the resin of the 
 buds, but pale in spots, where the poorer soil had 
 kept back the oaks of the forest. The hamlet of 
 Pas-du-Loup was hidden some hundred yards 
 from the skirts of the forest. Gilbert and Durge 
 went around the chateau and roused Dixneuf,
 
 174 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 whom they found at home sleeping in the corner 
 of the chimney place. The old mason, notwith- 
 standing his apprenticeship, had never been en- 
 gaged in building the houses or in repairing the 
 bridges of the countryside. He was only em- 
 ployed by the master-masons in times of great 
 urgency, when they entrusted him with the care of 
 tempering the mortar. The man was over sixty. 
 He was a patriot, a quarrelsome fellow, a little 
 deaf, capable of resistance in words, but sluggish in 
 action when the head of the wood yard or the work 
 did not suit him. He was poor likewise. And 
 Gilbert Cloquet thought that Dixneuf, like an- 
 other older self, deserved to be pitied, helped, and 
 hired for the hay-making. 
 
 The men, side by side, walked up toward the 
 chateau of Fonteneilles, crossing the lawn which 
 separated it from the forest. Renard, lounging 
 about and full of importance at the top of the 
 terrace, which the sun had left since noon to 
 lighten the other front and the court of the 
 house, perceived the group directing their steps 
 toward the stone stairway. 
 
 " Hello, you fellows! What are you coming 
 for now?" 
 
 "We want to speak with Monsieur Michel," said 
 Gilbert, without slackening his steps. 
 
 "He is ill; he will not be able to see you. I do 
 not know how many tramps and day-labourers 
 have already been to see him; one would think 
 that the master's time belonged to everybody!" 
 
 "What are you grumbling about, Renard; 
 they have not come to see you."
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 175 
 
 Michel, hearing the noise of voices, had ap- 
 peared at the corner of the chateau, at the right, 
 and understood at once the cause of the discus- 
 sion. He was pale and out of breath from having 
 taken even those few steps. 
 
 He motioned to Gilbert and to the two other 
 men saying: "Come!" and turned back into the 
 courtyard, warmer and more furnished than the 
 terrace. There was a long rectangle there before 
 the door, paved with tiles, covered by an iron 
 roof supported by three white columns. This 
 peristyle, raised about half a foot above the 
 ground, had been built by Michel's grandmother, 
 an old lady who used to enjoy the warm shelter 
 and the wide-spreading fan of the fields, which 
 slanted up toward the village, divided in half by 
 the avenue of beech trees. Wicker arm-chairs 
 and garden-chairs were ranged along the wall. Mi- 
 chel waited, standing, for the three Fonteneilles 
 workmen to join him. Two of them, at least, 
 knew the way well. They trod it with a kind of 
 security and pride, as if they thought: "Renard 
 had the worst of it. We are more important 
 than he is; besides, this is not the first time that 
 we have been rightly treated here." 
 
 All three saluted together, with hat and head, 
 and Gilbert, who took precedence over the others 
 by virtue of being well known and also a ready 
 speaker, asked: 
 
 "They say you are ill, Monsieur Michel. You 
 must not receive us if it disturbs you." 
 
 The young man shook the three hands which 
 were held out to him.
 
 176 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "Come just the same. As long as I am on my 
 feet I shall be at your service. What can I do 
 for you?" 
 
 Neither of the three men replied to this ques- 
 tion which was too abrupt. They had first to sit 
 down and talk of unimportant things. They took 
 the chairs which Michel pointed out to them, 
 seated themselves, uttered a few profound re- 
 marks about the weather and then Gilbert, pulling 
 his tawny beard and looking at the master, said : 
 
 "Monsieur Michel, is it true that you have 
 thought of mowing with a machine?" 
 
 "I have thought of it, that is true, Gilbert, but 
 I have decided nothing." 
 
 "You are thinking of it: that is bad." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because it will do us harm, Monsieur Michel. 
 Have I worked badly?" 
 
 "And I," said Dixneuf, louder. "Haven't you 
 been satisfied with me all these years? Since I 
 began long ago to work in your meadows?" 
 
 "The workman must live," added Durge, 
 thrusting forward his young head as if to charge 
 an enemy. "The machines steal the work from 
 the workman!" 
 
 "You will not do that, Monsieur Michel? That 
 would not be fair!" 
 
 "Nor for your own interest, either!" 
 
 "Nor for peace!" 
 
 The three voices became excited and the men 
 drew their chairs nearer to Michel's, who waited 
 and watched each speaker in silence. 
 
 "There are enough people who have given up
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 177 
 
 reaping by hand. You are the only one left. Your 
 father and your grandmother gave us work!" 
 
 "Do not buy machines, Monsieur! It is for 
 your own interest, I warn you." 
 
 "No, Durge," interrupted Gilbert; "you ought 
 to say it is for us, from friendship for us, to give 
 us work, that we ask you not to buy a machine." 
 
 "Twelve days at least; perhaps fifteen or 
 twenty lost days, if you should do it!" 
 
 "He is right, Monsieur; down with the ma- 
 chines ! Give work ! ' ' 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur, give it to us!" 
 
 Eager, and divided between anger and the fear 
 of displeasing and the thought of the days of en- 
 forced idleness, the three reapers questioned the 
 owner of the harvest, and, if the eyes of the two 
 older men did not threaten, there was revolt and 
 defiance in the face of the youngest, the red- 
 headed Durge. 
 
 They had finished speaking but their mouths 
 remained half open, ready to protest or to com- 
 plain. The three men were in the same positions, 
 only their expressions were different. They were 
 bending forward as if to receive their bread. 
 
 "Listen, Gilbert, and you, Dixneuf, and re- 
 member what I am going to say to you. For your 
 sake, who are old friends of our house, I will give 
 up buying a machine this year, but on one express 
 condition: the price of the day's work shall not 
 exceed three francs." 
 
 "That is perfectly fair," said Gilbert. 
 
 "The union is satisfied with that for the Spring 
 work," said Dixneuf. "We can agree on that."
 
 178 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 " Three francs fifty," said Durge eagerly. 
 "For hard work, like the meadows, we must 
 demand that much." 
 
 "I will pay three francs, no more than that. 
 You can calculate that ten reapers, at three francs 
 each, during fifteen or eighteen days, is the price 
 of the machine itself that I am giving you. I only 
 give up my idea for your sake and in your inter- 
 est. For myself, I am not doing a very reasonablj 
 thing. But I am willing to do it because it is to 
 your advantage. Is that understood?" 
 
 "Three francs fifty," said Durg; "I won't 
 work for less." 
 
 "Very well, I engage only Gilbert and Dixneuf," 
 said Michel, rising. "I am sorry to lose you, 
 Durge", for you are a good workman. Au revoir." 
 
 The two older men were satisfied but they did 
 not dare show it too plainly. Durge", obstinately 
 silent, with a hard and insolent air, scarcely nodded 
 his head in taking leave of Michel de Meximieu. 
 The three companions went up the avenue to- 
 gether. They did not begin to talk among them- 
 selves until they were far from the chateau. 
 Michel, who watched them go, saddened by the 
 constantly recurring discord which kept men's 
 spirits at variance much more than mere money 
 questions, saw that the men were arguing, and 
 that Durge", who had been constrained and dumb 
 before, was now gesticulating violently between 
 the two elder men, who were silent. "Feeble and 
 rebellious souls! What can be done? And it is 
 the whole world, all the country, and all the 
 town! Did Gilbert understand my intention,
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 179 
 
 what was really my generosity? Perhaps. 
 Dixneuf certainly did not take it in at all. Durge* 
 carries away only another argument against the 
 rich. He believes that I wanted to exploit him 
 and is proud of not having yielded. What words 
 can touch these hearts which actions have no ef- 
 fect upon? What is the right way? Oh, how 
 willingly would I follow it! One would think 
 that we belonged to another race than theirs. 
 There is something between us, and I do not 
 know what to call it, nor how to break through 
 it. I hoped, by yielding, to make a sacrifice 
 worthy of acknowledgment." 
 
 He glanced down the deserted avenue. 
 
 "What does it matter to me, after all? My 
 duty will not last. Others will accomplish the 
 hard task which I have scarcely begun, and 
 Others!" 
 
 A vision rose in his mind, that of a girl with 
 hair of two shades of gold. He saw her there, 
 close to him, in the gravel court of the chateau, 
 and he had such power of imagination, so perfect 
 a memory of objects and colours and motions 
 that it was really Antoinette Jacquemin who 
 passed by without looking at him on her way 
 toward the servants' quarters and the farm, and 
 was greeted from a distance by the men who 
 were ploughing the field in front of the chateau, 
 as the one on whom all the future of the estate 
 depended. 
 
 "Others will take my place, and they will re- 
 member me but rarely!" 
 
 He began to weep, buried in the rough arm-
 
 180 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 chair, his eyes closed, certain that no one would 
 be a witness of his weakness. 
 
 Michel de Meximieu knew that he was very ill. 
 Since his boyhood he had had trouble with his 
 heart, unsuspected or not admitted by the physi- 
 cians, and which the violent emotions of the last 
 months had aggravated. On his return from 
 Paris, troubled by attacks of suffocation and the 
 extreme feverish weakness which they left behind 
 and which his will was no longer able to control 
 as before, he had consulted doctors at Corbigny 
 and at Nevers. The first had said: "It is noth- 
 ing; but not too much anxiety, not too much 
 imagination!" A second, when Michel insisted 
 that he wished to know, had been less discreet, 
 and the conversation had ended with these 
 words : 
 
 "I must know whether I shall live. I am one of 
 those who prefer to know the enemy, and I hope 
 to face it squarely. Tell me the truth." 
 
 "Well, then, Monsieur, with your trouble, 
 a happy man like you may live a long time." 
 
 "And if I were not happy?" 
 
 The physician was silent. 
 
 "Then I am lost." 
 
 He had pronounced his own sentence. But 
 the next day, even that very evening, and every 
 day since then he had refused to believe it. It 
 rose before him and he chased it away. It re- 
 turned, and then to convict it of falsehood, he 
 called for help to his youth which wished to live; 
 his noble ambition which should give him the 
 right of life; this effort to lift and help all the
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 181 
 
 degraded country people. A fierce struggle, 
 without witnesses, without a friend, without a 
 comfort of any kind, which he had to leave at any 
 moment, to give an order, or to receive a farmer, 
 an overseer or a visit. It was often renewed. 
 A thousand reasons incessantly renewed, cried 
 out around him: "You are going to die without 
 being of any use, Michel de Meximieu, and noth- 
 ing will be accomplished of all that you have 
 dreamed." These crises were brought on by physi- 
 cal suffering ; by the memory of conversations that 
 he had had in the smoking-room, or at Paris, with 
 his father; by the bitter thought of Vaucreuse 
 and of Antoinette Jacquemin; by the sight of the 
 fields and the forests which were soon to pass into 
 other hands, or as just now, by an ungrateful 
 reply from the men, or a refusal to compromise, 
 which showed how sick with hatred were their 
 hearts. 
 
 Sunday had scattered the labourers. The heat 
 kept them away. Michel was suffering. The 
 hours passed. 
 
 But he had reached that point when pain, for 
 a long time cursed, is at last accepted and begins 
 at once to lose its power. This long Spring after- 
 noon, the solitude, the stillness, these tears which 
 were drying on a countenance whose energy they 
 had not effaced, and which began to recover a 
 calm smile, were all the visible signs of a great 
 victory: a man who had accepted death! He 
 found himself again in the spirit of his fathers, 
 soldiers and men of deep faith. He was more 
 courageous than all the others. He no longer
 
 182 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 trembled for himself, and he had the whole earth 
 beneath his feet. He said: " Enough tears! I 
 will shed no more. This is the tenth time that 
 I have wept for myself. It is nine too many. 
 Happily I have realized to-day that there is in 
 my suffering a regret that I did not sacrifice my- 
 self that grief I shall take with me. These poor 
 souls so rarely have any one who will give him- 
 self entirely for them. What an admirable feu- 
 dality the world might be. A sovereign soul, that 
 is to say, a saint in every quarter to defend the 
 timid! A warrior! A citadel! They will have 
 the abbe" at Fonteneilles. Yes, I have faith. And 
 then, who knows from what thicket the lily of the 
 valley springs, a single stalk of which fills the whole 
 woods around with perfume ? No one knows. It 
 springs up from the dead mould. From among 
 themselves a redeemer may rise up. There will 
 be need of one, a man of the poor, to lift up the 
 poor. And it is for that, perhaps, that I am pre- 
 paring the way. Who knows?" 
 
 The sun penetrated beneath the iron roof and 
 illumined Michel, who began again to watch the 
 daylight fade away. When the valet came about 
 six o'clock, to ask for orders, he could not help 
 saying: 
 
 " Monsieur le Comte is better; he looks like 
 himself again." 
 
 Sunday ended peacefully. Some shouts still 
 came down from the village from the half-drunken 
 men trying to sing as they left the inns. There 
 was no wind. The poachers knew that there 
 would be no moon. When night had swept into her
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 183 
 
 folds the remains of the gold which trails over the 
 fields toward evening, there was an hour of 
 freshness, when the grass began to drink up 
 the dew. The noise of steps was deadened, and 
 the sweetness of the air, penetrating through the 
 open doors, brought women and children to the 
 threshold. They looked out, moved by the un- 
 known charm, and said: "It is mild." Abbe 
 Roubiaux, who was walking in his path of box- 
 wood, inhaling the perfume which came from 
 the woods, closed his breviary under his thumb, 
 lifted his eyes, and murmured: "After all, halle- 
 lujah!" Upon the heights of La Vigie, old For- 
 tier, who every evening watched the stars and the 
 clouds glide above the woods, noticed that the 
 sky was saturated with water as if all the stars 
 were weeping, and he said: "I shall have sixty 
 loads of hay again this year." 
 
 On the edge of the pond of Vaux, in the ravine 
 which sinks down, quite sharply, to the north- 
 west, a man was stretching hoop-nets. Shod with 
 sandals, his trousers rolled up above his knees, he 
 took one of the long willow traps hidden in a 
 thicket of brush, listened, looked over at the op- 
 posite bank, then, almost certain of not being 
 watched for the forest was dark and the trees 
 dipped their budding branches into the water 
 he went down the miry bank, staggering on the 
 slimy sods, bent over, and placed the snare among 
 the reeds. Supiat Gueule de Renard was just 
 taking from the hiding-place where he had put 
 them to dry, his sixth eel net, when he heard a
 
 184 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 noise of moving branches, to his left, rather near. 
 With a supple movement he knelt at once upon 
 the ground, lowering the net cautiously, and laid 
 down beside it. The croaking of frogs; the shrill 
 chirping of crickets at the entrance of their caves ; 
 the diving of a fish, leaping for a star, filled the 
 silence of the night. Then the song of the golden 
 oriole, very softly modulated from the same part 
 of the woods where the branches had moved, 
 made the poacher get up. He called cautiously: 
 
 "Is it you, Durge? You startled me." 
 
 Without precaution and pushing back the 
 underbrush from his waist and shoulders, the 
 young labourer came straight to Supiat who saw, 
 in the shadow, the glistening white teeth and the 
 eyes of Durge", who was laughing. 
 
 "When I did not find you at the house I guessed 
 that you were fishing for eels, Gueule de Renard, 
 and I came here. I have seen the Count." 
 
 "Is he as ill as they say?" 
 
 "Yes, and it seemed to me that he breathed 
 badly." 
 
 "I should not weep for him! He is a bourgeois 
 who will have influence here. He has the knack 
 of making men believe that he is interested in 
 them. If he has his hay cut by hand, that will 
 make ten men more who will think themselves 
 under obligations to him. How much did he 
 offer you?" 
 
 "Three francs. The two old men have accepted . 
 But I refused; they were furious!" 
 
 "Good!" 
 
 Supiat began to laugh and lifted his face in the
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 185 
 
 pale light of the night like a beast scenting the 
 wind. 
 
 "Well, Durge", then everything is settled?" 
 
 "Parbleu! That is what I came to tell you. 
 
 "I will warn that imbecile Ravoux, whom I 
 can stir up by talking about justice arid the ex- 
 ploitation by the proprietors; he will forbid Clo- 
 quet and Dixneuf, in the name of the union, to 
 accept three francs; he will go himself to the 
 master, who will lose his temper and talk of 
 promises and agreements. 
 
 "I will answer for that: he has said that he 
 would not give in." 
 
 "And the master buys his machine, and 
 Meximieu is a little more hated. Come, old fel- 
 low, that is all right. I am going to throw my 
 last net." 
 
 He took the willow trap from the grass all 
 covered with dry mud, raised it, and went for- 
 ward a little toward the left to the place where 
 the bank, overhanging by a foot the water of the 
 pond, allowed him easily to throw the net be- 
 tween the reeds. 
 
 He came back rubbing the calves of his legs 
 stained with the mud, picked up his sabots which 
 he had left at the foot of a tree, and tapping 
 Durg6 on the shoulder, said: 
 
 " There is also a comrade who must be thrown 
 down, Durge. You know very well who. I have 
 had members of the union, even the young ones, 
 reproaching me for the beating which I gave him. 
 He could easily form a party, that old man; he is 
 cunning."
 
 186 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "You have not heard 'the latest news,' as the 
 papers say?" 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "His daughter is completely ruined. She 
 owes money to more than twenty people of the 
 village and the town. Before a month is up the 
 bailiff Will be in the house." 
 
 "That may be, but that won't finish the old 
 man. His daughter that's like a squirrel's nest 
 in the trunk of a tree; that will not kill him." 
 
 Durge tossed his head, pricked up his ears, 
 and listened a moment before beginning to walk 
 on again. 
 
 "All the same, there will be debts that will 
 trouble him," he said. 
 
 The two men, single file, plunged into the 
 woods. The corner of the pond of Vaux, where 
 the ripples which the casting of the hoop-net had 
 made were already widened and spread out upon 
 the banks in little waves, continued to reflect the 
 twinkling of the stars. Everything slept on the 
 farms. Some ducks, turned out on the lake, called 
 to the flocks of wild ducks which were passing in- 
 visible. Gilbert Cloquet had gone to bed ; Michel 
 de Meximieu was reading in his room with the 
 window half open. Their two names continued 
 to be pronounced quite low, associated together 
 by the cunning hatred of the worst blackguard 
 of Fonteneilles.
 
 vn. 
 
 THE HAY. 
 
 GILBERT was to lose the work of cutting the hay. 
 The mowing machine had been bought. Tow- 
 ard the end of May they had seen it, with its 
 wheels and seat painted bright vermilion, its 
 sharp saw teeth, its shaft bearing the trade mark 
 of the factory, carried upon a dray, like a statue in 
 a procession, through the country where every- 
 thing is noticed but little is said. 
 
 Then the day-labourer, the man whom the ruin 
 of Marie Lureux kept awake every night, had 
 asked for work with the women weeders from 
 Fonteneilles who went into the half-grown grain. 
 They went through it, each taking one of the 
 narrow little paths which the furrows make be- 
 tween the planted rows; they went slowly, care- 
 ful not to bruise the ears of wheat, bending over, 
 one hand behind the back holding a handful of 
 weeds, feeling with the other, here and there, 
 among the young grain, wherever a thistle or a 
 poppy or a corn flower or a spear of vetch from an 
 old sowing, or a sharp-pointed bud of fennel 
 pushed up. He earned little. Most of the women 
 made fun of him and they were jealous of this 
 man who was taking the bread from the women. 
 He felt this passing loss of prestige so he did not 
 
 187
 
 188 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 stop working with them when, at the end of the 
 furrows, they straightened themselves up, drew 
 a long breath and gossiped a little, trying to guess 
 the time of day; but he hurried back into the 
 thicket of grain, eager to escape and to hide his 
 beard between the green walls which grew higher 
 each day. He thought most of all of his daugh- 
 ter and of the shame which had come to him. But 
 he did not know the whole of his misfortune. 
 The women knew it; and yet not one of them had 
 dared to say: "Gilbert Cloquet, you have watched - 
 poorly over your children at the farm of Epine. 
 For the bailiff, the last day of May, went through 
 the stables with his paper; and he went into the 
 stalls, but a part of the animals had been taken 
 away before he came, and he made no note of 
 them. You have not met them, Cloquet, but 
 everybody knew that they were in the woods; 
 the best mare, the black one, three cows, and 
 four sheep, watched by a good-for-nothing boy 
 picked up on the road. They swore, your son-in- 
 law and your daughter, yes, swore that they con- 
 cealed nothing, so they are liars and when the 
 sale comes off they will be thieves." 
 r He did not know it. He had not gone to 
 Epine since his daughter had driven him away. 
 She had come to ask his pardon and to ask for 
 money. As he had only his pardon to give, she 
 had never returned. It was June. The summer 
 time before the harvest, when the earth is all 
 clothed. Around Fonteneilles, and on the brow 
 of the hills, and upon the double slope of the 
 meadows which descend to the lake with a blue
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 189 
 
 stream in the middle, barely opened like a for- 
 gotten book, the grass was beginning to swell. 
 It was ripe. One evening Michel de Meximieu 
 summoned his overseer and, pointing out the 
 long strip of meadow land which rose to the 
 South, between the edge of the wood, and the 
 hedge of a field of oats, he said : 
 
 "We will cut that to-morrow. Send two men 
 to make the path and to cut the brambles, before 
 five o'clock." 
 
 The last day dawned for the grass. The morn- 
 ing was clear. The long meadow began thirty 
 yards from the chateau, rose gently, followed the 
 curve of the forest, descended the slope on the 
 other side of the hill, beyond a nettle tree which 
 stood out against the open sky. No ray of sun 
 had yet touched the nettle tree, nor the oats 
 which watched at the outskirts of the wood. But 
 the grass felt the coming of the day; a vigorous 
 and silent life stirred it; the buttercups, grouped 
 in large spots, unfolded their petals which the 
 night had curled up; the dandelions spread their 
 bundles of yellow swords; the daisies, which the 
 darkness does not close, turned their full face 
 toward the coming sun; a warm breath intensi- 
 fied in the countless seeds, in the ears, in the 
 clusters and the tendrils, in the umbels and the 
 pods, the perfumed oil which surrounds the germ. 
 The soft wind, passing in puffs as over a calm sea, 
 powdered itself with pollen, and grew heavy with 
 the taste of the honey. The long sheet undulated; 
 not a stalk was bruised, not a single one was 
 dead, but the colour of the waves proclaimed that
 
 190 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 the harvest was ripe. The fields were brown and 
 gray and shone like silver, and they had here and 
 there blood-red shadows like rust on things which 
 have lasted a long time. When the two servants 
 entered the lower end of the field, through the 
 white gate, a partridge, which had its nest in the 
 grass, flew away; an oriole rose from a border 
 oak and let itself be carried away by the wind, 
 the ardent wing of the sun; a corn-flake slipped 
 through between the tufts and flew up into the 
 thicket uttering its harsh crex crex like a toad, 
 and there followed then a silence of terror in the 
 world of the animals who had been in the grain 
 and had grown up with it, and believed in it. 
 The very crickets were silent for a moment. The 
 scythe traced a path, and the pruning knife broke 
 down the brambles on the edge of the large 
 meadow. 
 
 At nine o'clock it was hot. The gate again 
 opened and two black horses came through, har- 
 nessed to the mowing machine. Where were the 
 people of Fonteneilles, those who had cried out 
 against the machine and those who had craftily 
 broken the agreement made with Gilbert Clo- 
 quet, and had caused the purchase of the starver, 
 the enemy, which rolled in resplendent in its bright- 
 red paint, upon its new wheels, behind the pa- 
 tient horses? There was no one to be seen in the 
 oat field, the leaves of the forest drooped limp 
 with the heat ; since daybreak only one man had 
 passed, a shepherd going up the hill toward the 
 pasture where Monsieur Fortier was fattening his 
 white cattle. Who was going to drive the ma-
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 191 
 
 chine? Ah! If they had known! The whole 
 hamlet would have been there ! It was Michel de 
 Meximieu who came cut of the chateau, in a suit 
 of white linen with a straw hat on his head, and 
 took his place upon the iron seat, above the cut- 
 ting bar. Renard, whc- was holding the horses, 
 said for the last time : 
 
 " Monsieur le Comte can see that there are no 
 bad fellows about. Tired as he is, he should not 
 to do the work of a labourer. If Monsieur le 
 Comte would let me, I would be able." 
 
 "Thanks, Renard. I do believe that all the 
 tales which have been told me are nothing but 
 pure inventions; but it is enough that they have 
 threatened; I am not one to expose others." 
 
 He took the reins and he chirruped; the 
 scorching rays of the sun flashed from the reins of 
 the horses as they started. The teeth of the saw 
 took hold of the grass, and the cut grass fell, 
 slipped upon the floor of the machine, then fell 
 again, all shining, upon the ground, moist still 
 along the stalk and pink near the root. Behind 
 the machine, which went on without a pause, 
 with a regular click, click, it formed a wake, a 
 long mirror of shining grain which the light finally 
 reached and dried. Michel enjoyed the perfection 
 of the machine's work and especially the feeling of 
 being the master who worked and was closer to his 
 harvest than any man of his race had been before. 
 He drove rapidly and rejoined the servants who 
 were a little distance from the top of the hill. 
 
 "Let me pass!" he cried. "I will go straight 
 into the hay without a path!"
 
 192 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 He sacrificed a few tufts of grass. What did 
 that matter to him? This year would end it all 
 for him. The horses were steaming with sweat. 
 Suddenly one of them staggered, fell down al- 
 most, and then reared up with an effort; the 
 machine lifted to one side, fell back, turned as 
 upon a pivot, and the driver was pitched to the 
 ground, three feet away, in the grass. The 
 mower was broken. Michel picked himself up 
 and ran to the horses and stopped them. At the 
 same instant two men showed themselves stand- 
 ing at the edge of the forest, while on the other 
 side, in the field of oats, which was separated from 
 the meadow only by a hedge, another man ap- 
 peared and cried: "Bravo, down with the bour- 
 geois!" Michel turned in that direction, but he 
 saw nothing. He walked toward the place where 
 the machine had struck against an obstacle. The 
 two servants ran and searched in the grass. 
 
 "Here it is Monsieur Michel" said one of 
 them. "Look!" 
 
 He held up in his hand the twisted end of an 
 iron wire which, during the night, some one must 
 have stretched between two stakes, hidden in the 
 tall grass. 
 
 "That is Supiat's work again; I'm sure of it," 
 he cried. 
 
 "Yes it was he who was hidden in the oats! 
 I recognized him! I will run after him. To break 
 the machine ! Ah ! He'll find out ! " said the other. 
 
 "Take back the horses," said Michel, stopping 
 the man who had already started to run. " Leave 
 Supiat and the others, if there are any. In two
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 193 
 
 days I shall have a new reaper and I will drive it 
 myself as I have this one. I order you to tell that 
 through the country." 
 
 "You are not hurt, Monsieur Michel?" 
 
 "No, very little." 
 
 "But you are so pale. You look " 
 
 "Do not worry. Go on back to the farm." 
 
 At that moment a voice called out : 
 
 "Monsieur de Meximieu?" 
 
 Before turning, Michel knew who called him. 
 Antoinette Jacquemin was standing at the foot 
 of the nettle tree, her slim figure outlined at the 
 top of the great bend of the meadow, and she 
 made a signal : ' ' Come ! Come ! ' ' 
 
 Michel w r ent straight toward her through the 
 tall grass. The servants went down toward the 
 chateau, leading the horses and the broken ma- 
 chine. She had chosen her hour well, the little 
 girl of Vaucreuse! Must he really obey her? He 
 still had time to stop, to find an excuse for re- 
 turning to the chateau. "Why not avoid her? 
 What am I doing? What can she do for me? And 
 what can I say to her? Am I going to complain 
 about the ruin of my father, and because Fonte- 
 neilles does not belong to me any more? She 
 knows nothing of it. Am I going to let her see 
 that I might have loved her, that I love her 
 already? I can no longer do so. And she is too 
 young for me to tell her the other grief, the third, 
 which will deliver me from the other two. Her 
 eighteen years should be happy. Take care! No 
 tears! No weakness! And I feel weaker than 
 ever! Why am I going to her, then?" He was
 
 194 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 going because she was sympathy, and because 
 no one comforted him. He was going with his 
 secret which he would not tell, but which perhaps 
 she would divine. 
 
 He had changed greatly since the visit to Vau- 
 creuse. His face had grown thin; the severe ex- 
 pression of his eyes was softened by suffering; 
 they had had visions which had left them more 
 anxious, more tender, and veiled with mist. 
 Antoinette Jacquemin watched him as he came 
 up. At first she had asked herself : "Poor neigh- 
 bour, ought I to joke with him about his fall? 
 He does not limp. His hat is a little battered and 
 he has some grass stains on his sleeve." She had 
 been thrown from her horse more than once. 
 Her gayety was more ready even than her sym- 
 pathy. But it was sympathy which spoke as soon 
 as Michel was near enough for a look to make itself 
 felt, at the distance where souls begin to touch 
 each other by their antennae which hesitate and 
 draw back. 
 
 "I hope you are not hurt, Monsieur?" 
 
 "No, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "What has happened? Why did the mowing 
 machine upset? Was it a stone?" 
 
 "A trap for the bourgeois, Mademoiselle, a steel 
 wire stretched last night to trip my horses and to 
 break my machine." 
 
 "How dreadful! But how pale you are, Mon- 
 sieur! What an infamous thing to do, and what 
 a cowardly one! I came to Fonteneilles this 
 morning with the cart which was going for sup- 
 plies. I am inquisitive. I wished to see this
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 195 
 
 mowing machine, about which the country has 
 talked more than it deserved, begin its career. 
 And also, to see you again. You remember my 
 promise. Sit down, Monsieur, there, at the foot 
 of my tree. No? I assure you that you need to 
 rest yourself." 
 
 "No, I need to clasp a friendly hand." 
 
 "Then take mine." 
 
 Michel found again the same motherly child, 
 used to consoling griefs which she did not under- 
 stand, that he had seen at Vaucreuse. She 
 looked at him with an anxious tenderness, her 
 great eyes open, her face all golden from the 
 shadow of her hair and her straw hat and the 
 morning light which was reflected from the grass. 
 She said nothing, but with so little encouragement 
 she would have said: "I love you," that Michel 
 was afraid of this silence in which the avowal 
 grew too quickly. He broke the charm, turning 
 aside a step. Their hands which were united un- 
 clasped. And it was a farewell which only one of 
 the two understood. 
 
 "Then, I was right to come? The idea was not 
 too 'childish/ as you say?" 
 
 "No, it was a kind thought, true and timely, 
 for which I thank you. I cannot tell you how 
 much I am moved to see you on this land of 
 Fonteneilles." 
 
 "I came to the boundary of the chateau once 
 before, eight days ago. I saw you in the dis- 
 tance. But I was with Miss Margaret Brown, my 
 governess, and I could not have stopped for a 
 friendly talk. What is the good of a common-
 
 196 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 place good-morning, the pretence of surprise, and 
 the regret of having passed by without being a 
 soul which thinks and listens? What good would 
 that be?" 
 
 He received the words, one after the other, as 
 arrows which pierce the same wound. But he did 
 not appear to have heard, and went on with his 
 thought : 
 
 "Yes, you were right to come so that I can 
 show you myself a little of this estate of which I 
 love even the least hillock! Look at that long 
 meadow leading toward the house. It is almost 
 a valley, is it not? How nobly the slope is mod- 
 elled!" 
 
 "And all in bloom. To-morrow it will be less 
 beautiful; when the hay falls, something sympa- 
 thetic goes. For my part, I close my eyes when 
 they mow the hay at Vaucreuse. With us it is 
 the season which changes the landscape. We 
 have not that great line of lofty forest trees. " 
 
 "You will have it some day." 
 
 "One like it? That is impossible." 
 
 "Who knows?" 
 
 "Oh, I know. It takes centuries, one at least. 
 How old are your oaks? That one there? And 
 the other, which has some dead branches for the 
 ring-doves? " 
 
 "One hundred and sixty and two hundred 
 years. My grandfather planted them." 
 
 "We have been at Vaucreuse a much shorter 
 time. Here time has done its work. Your cha- 
 teau is half surrounded by the woods, and it 
 seems to me "
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 197 
 
 She pointed with a gesture to the old tiles of 
 the roof, lower than the tree tops. 
 
 "It seems to me that in the autumn, when it is 
 all covered with dead leaves, it must be a part of 
 the forest! It is like one more old oak." 
 
 "I beg of you to love it." 
 
 "But I do love it like all the country." 
 
 "Be the one who does not leave her lands for 
 Paris?" 
 
 "Must I swear it? I am quite ready." 
 
 "Do not laugh! Do not take my words in jest. 
 I am speaking to you more seriously than you 
 think. I beg of you, Mademoiselle Antoinette, as 
 if I were an older brother, to stay in this country 
 where your name is respected, where, personally, 
 you are loved; do not speak evil of it because it is 
 more suffering than many other parts of France, 
 but do for it what our parents have not known 
 how to do: live in it. Merely by living in it you 
 will be a real grande dame, a being of graciousness 
 and of compassion." 
 
 "I assure you, Monsieur, that that would be 
 my ambition, and surely the ambition of any other 
 woman in my place. But you speak so strangely." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "As of something that you wish, but that you 
 will not see." 
 
 "It is true. I shall not see it." 
 
 Mademoiselle Jacquemin bent forward, aston- 
 ished. 
 
 "You will no longer be here? Where will you 
 be, then?" 
 
 Michel felt Antoinette's eyes fixed upon him
 
 198 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 and saw her smile vanish, and her anxiety increase 
 as the silence was prolonged. He made an effort 
 to control his voice which refused to speak. His 
 face remained turned toward Fonteneilles in the 
 distance. 
 
 "Promise me to keep my secret." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I am betrothed." 
 
 She drew back, in her turn, as if death had 
 passed between them. And she drew herself up. 
 
 Another Antoinette was there, no longer a child, 
 a woman, wounded, irritated, as strong as he in 
 the pain of love. No, she would not weep! He 
 should not be allowed to measure the pain which 
 he had just inflicted. Very pale, with her fine, 
 haughty head thrown back, and her eyelids half 
 lowered with scorn, she found words to reply, 
 she threw them from the end of her blanched lips. 
 
 "I congratulate you. But I do not see why 
 I am the first to be told. In truth, it is too much 
 honour. She is young?" 
 
 Michel shook his head. 
 
 "She is rich, assuredly. A Meximieu can only 
 make a rich marriage." 
 
 "Yes. She has all the millions that she wishes. 
 She has only to stoop and take them." 
 
 "How strangely you say that. And she takes 
 you far away, since you are leaving Fonteneilles?" 
 
 "Very far." 
 
 "It will be soon?" 
 
 Michel closed his eyes. 
 
 "I do not know." 
 
 "You are more and more strange. Excuse
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 199 
 
 me! I must rejoin my carriage, which waits for 
 me at the hamlet. And of what I have said to 
 to you, remember only one thing, the only one 
 which may be true " 
 
 She gave a little nervous laugh which died in 
 the loneliness. 
 
 "I had come only to repeat to you my remark; 
 you must remember it, that you knew how to 
 make yourself loved. I was right, you see!" 
 
 The tip of her yellow boot struck a tuft of grass 
 and crushed it. Michel, for the first time, had the 
 courage to look at the new Antoinette Jacque- 
 min. He saw her draw back again. He said to 
 her slowly, for he was prolonging at the same time 
 his agony and his last vision of love: 
 
 "Do not speak in that way. You will regret 
 what one day you will call your injustice. But 
 I beg you in advance, do not accuse yourself, 
 when you shall comprehend and when you shall 
 know all. I should have too much sorrow know- 
 ing you were sad. You have done me no wrong, 
 not a single one. I assure you do not answer, 
 I beg you as I have done none to you. You 
 have been the first delicious apparition in my life, 
 and all that you have said to me, even your re- 
 proaches, all has shown me the chosen being near 
 whom I would have passed I wish that you may 
 be infinitely happy, adieu. Thanks." 
 
 " Adieu, Monsieur." 
 
 She remained standing erect, silent and haughty, 
 until he had regained the green path which the 
 machine and the scythe had cut. Then, seeing 
 that he was far, and that he did not turn round,
 
 200 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 she approached the nettle tree, leaned her hand 
 upon the trunk, and, her head on her hand, she 
 watched disappear along the hedge, he whom she 
 had waited for with joy. When he was close to 
 the barrier of the meadow, she hoped that he 
 would look back, at least once. But the gate was 
 open. He passed in. Antoinette noticed that 
 the trees of Fonteneilles trembled before her. She 
 was weeping. 
 
 Michel was stirred to the depths of his soul. 
 Like many men of very strong spiritual life and 
 much alone, he was accustomed, when he had 
 acted, to examine his act and to judge himself. 
 In the smoking-room, in which he had shut him- 
 self, he paced up and down, his eyes fastened upon 
 the floor, where his shadow preceded him from 
 one window to the other. "It was necessary that 
 I should be abandoned. I think that is accom- 
 plished. I have been able to tell her, without her 
 comprehending why, my last wish. That this 
 land should not suffer because all the Meximieus 
 have deserted it. Now I have hope. She will 
 understand. The words which she said to me 
 were inspired by her anger, her wounded pride, 
 her poor tenderness which she thought misunder- 
 stood. But all that will pass. How strong she 
 was ! What a soul of a woman and of a heroine is 
 already in her! What dignity in this first grief, 
 which I have brought her. I I Ah ! How un- 
 happy I am! How I long to weep! But I must 
 not! I have promised!" 
 
 To keep himself from breaking down, he gave 
 himself witnesses. He rang for his valet; then,
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 201 
 
 having changed his dress, he went to the stables 
 and inquired about the horses. The farm hands 
 of Fonteneilles and the servants said: "He is 
 beginning again to take an interest in the land." 
 
 As soon as he had finished lunch, he went out, 
 as he used to do, and entered the wide avenue. 
 A strong force, either of his will or of his grief, 
 hurried him along and supported him. He 
 walked briskly. Without getting out of breath, 
 he went up, under the burning sun, the path which 
 leads to the hamlet. 
 
 It was the hour when all the country sleeps save 
 for the singing of the gnats. When Michel pushed 
 open the lattice gate of the rectory and asked, 
 standing upon the threshold of the kitchen: "Is 
 Monsieur le Cure* at home? " no one answered. He 
 repeated the question, stepping back a couple of 
 steps to the middle of the boxwood path. Then 
 a window on the first story began a struggle 
 with a hand which tried to open it, and yielded, 
 not without grumbling. The cure leaned out in 
 the sunlight above the walk. 
 
 ' ' Who is there? Ah ! it is you, Monsieur Michel? 
 Philomene must be taking her mid-day nap. I 
 will come down." 
 
 "No, Monsieur le Cure, I will come up. I can 
 come up to-day." 
 
 At the top of the wooden stairway, he found 
 Abbe Roubiaux, who ushered him into a room 
 furnished only by four chairs, a table, and the 
 photograph of his old mother. Upon the table 
 a register was open, and a note book lay by its 
 side, between whose pages the abbe, before open-
 
 202 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 ing the window, had slipped a sheet of blotting 
 paper. 
 
 "I heard what happened this morning," said 
 the priest. "It must have been very painful to 
 you." 
 
 "Yes. Five years of good will, rewarded in 
 that way." 
 
 "Oh, do not think your good will lost, Monsieur 
 Michel. I am sure that it has touched some one 
 of these silent ones who surround you. Come, 
 I am sure, that you have already forgiven it as 
 as a gentleman." 
 
 "You are mistaken." 
 
 "Really? Are you still angry with them? " 
 
 "No, you mistake the term. Monsieur le 
 Cur4, let me tell you that we do not know each 
 other well and that I regret it. You have been 
 afraid, I am sure, that people would say here, 
 that the cure was too friendly with the chateau. 
 But, when the chateau means a man of your own 
 age, or almost so, one who is not of the world, 
 and whose youth is not gay, I assure you, why 
 avoid him? Come, if we had talked heart to 
 heart, two or three times only, just now you 
 would have said to me "forgive it as a Christian." 
 That is the right word. For me, Christ is the 
 type of gentleman." 
 
 The abbe rose hastily, his worn face transfig- 
 ured with joy. He held out his hand. 
 
 "What you say is very fine!" 
 
 "No, it is only the truth, what you believe, 
 and what I believe. My dream, like yours, has 
 been to raise them gradually to that height, and
 
 to go leaving a work greater than myself, to be 
 the workman who has helped to build the spire 
 of a cathedral. But that needs more time than 
 I shall have. One can barely see the foundations 
 in the mud." 
 
 Abbe" Roubiaux had drawn his chair closer to 
 that of Michel. Now he was no longer afraid. He 
 dared to speak, he dared to be himself. He let 
 his priest's heart speak, that heart still enthusi- 
 astic and na'ive, the spirit of a seminarist, aspiring 
 to the conquest of the world, but saddened by the 
 memory of the first disappointments of his work. 
 He clasped his hands beneath his cassock. He 
 spoke of his former plans, when he was vicar in 
 Morvan, and how he had found them unpracti- 
 cable since he came to Fonteneilles; he told of his 
 misunderstood appeals; his vain waitings at the 
 confessional, in the parsonage or on the high- 
 ways, when he had so ardently wished that the 
 people would come to him, and they had passed 
 by; he humiliated himself for not having yet 
 succeeded; he let it be seen that his sympathy 
 for "his flock" had remained unchanged, and 
 that his disappointed hope always revived again, 
 reached its own level, like water which has come 
 from far. It was truly the son of Mere Rou- 
 biaux who spoke; a child of the people ordained 
 for the salvation of others, puny in aspect, but 
 conscious of the grandeur of his mission and am- 
 bitious as an emperor, one of those weak ones 
 whom the breath from on high transfigures, and 
 who show it unexpectedly by their closeness to 
 the divine. He was emboldened even to call
 
 204 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 Michel "my friend." Michel listened, sure now 
 that he had found a strong soul among the 
 obscure elite of the world, one in whom he could 
 confide. 
 
 "Would you believe," said Abb6 Roubiaux, 
 "that I have a great sacrifice to make, and that 
 I have hesitated? Yet nothing flourishes with- 
 out sacrifice. It is the fertilizer of the eternal 
 fields. Our joys, our tastes, our repose, are beau- 
 tiful stalks cut, chopped, trodden under foot, and 
 which fill us with pity, but which spring forth 
 again in wonders. I have been cowardly. Would 
 you believe that my bishop has asked me " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "To take up a collection from house to house 
 for the church! In Fonteneilles ! " 
 
 "Poor Monsieur!' Abbe!" 
 
 "He has asked me twice. And I have refused. 
 I have written: 'I will make the announcement 
 at high mass; I will receive the offerings that any 
 of my parishioners shall be willing to bring to 
 make good the allowances of the concordat which 
 have been suppressed. But it is useless to solicit 
 from house to house. They would welcome me 
 nearly everywhere, that I am sure of, but they 
 would give scarcely anywhere." 
 
 "What did the bishop reply?" 
 
 "He replied: 'Make the collection, were it only 
 to know your parish/ I set out, I went in person 
 to see my bishop ; I entreated him ; I said to him : 
 ' But I know this parish ! What is the use of ask- 
 ing from these men and women who do not even 
 come to mass, who work on Sunday, who swear
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 205 
 
 like devils and amuse themselves in the same way. 
 To preach to them? I am glad to do that. To 
 serve them? Oh! With all'my unemployed heart! 
 To be their misunderstood friend, scoffed at, 
 struck perhaps; again, yes. But to provoke a 
 reply of indifference or of hatred, and to count 
 each time: "Another one who denies his God! 
 Another and another!" That is an agony beyond 
 my strength, Monseigneur.' ' 
 
 "Was he weak enough to listen to you?" 
 
 "No, he repeated to me: 'I give you the com- 
 mand, for the third time, to go everywhere. The 
 time has come when payment must be demanded 
 from France for her baptism. Go, my friend, and 
 be not afraid.' '' 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "You see, I have decided; I am preparing my 
 list." 
 
 There was silence. 
 
 "Monsieur PAbbe," said Michel, "I have a 
 story to tell you very like your own. I also, I 
 shrank from the sacrifice that is demanded from 
 me!" 
 
 "Is it as hard as mine? Ah, then, I pity you!" 
 
 "Harder, perhaps. But I believe that now, 
 since this morning especially, it is accepted. I am 
 going to tell you about it to be still more certain 
 that I have made it. Monsieur 1'Abbe, I am 
 very ill." 
 
 "My friend, you are perhaps not well, you 
 must- 
 
 "It is hopeless, that is the truth; my physician 
 has let me understand it. I have read it in medi-
 
 206 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 cal books, and besides, I feel it only too well. 
 Do not try to deny it; it is no use. You know 
 better what I am since this last half hour. I would 
 have liked to help you to restore this parish; I 
 would have liked to redeem all the faults that the 
 Meximieus have committed against it; all their 
 negligences, their absences. I could have been 
 just and fraternal without effort, I think. That 
 would have been the best way, without doubt. 
 I shall not have the time. Monsieur 1'Abbe, tell 
 me, in all truth, if you believe that my acceptance 
 of the death, which is coming, may be powerful 
 before God?" 
 
 " Infinitely so," said the abbe, "as powerful as 
 the most difficult obedience and the most sub- 
 lime prayer." 
 
 "Then, since I have not been able to give my 
 example and my heart, I give my life that Fonte- 
 neilles may live again. I accept my death. It is all 
 which remains to me, Monsieur 1'Abbe. Adieu." 
 
 He tried to smile, and he succeeded. His lips, 
 which had just named death, remained bravely 
 parted; his eyes looked on it and did not waver. 
 He had the air of a page before the enemy, ironical, 
 amiable, careless, the air which each Meximieu 
 had had in his first battle, when he sprang on his 
 horse, the trumpets sounding, and drew his sword 
 in the service of the king. Poor youth. He had 
 their age; he had their manner and he also 
 smiled in the face of danger, but he had no wit- 
 ness but a" village priest ; he did not expect glory, 
 and the king for whom he accepted death would 
 never know of it.
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 207 
 
 It was a fine expression of youth, which lasted 
 only the time of a salute. Then his lips relaxed. 
 No more words were said. The two men had 
 risen. 
 
 Their looks still spoke to each other as those 
 who find words too feeble to express the inmost 
 feelings of their souls. There was no emotion, no 
 vain consolation. The abbe accompanied Michel 
 as far as the garden gate. The one as pale as the 
 other, but the least troubled of the two appeared 
 to be Michel de Meximieu. 
 
 "I shall come to see you," said Abbe Roubiaux. 
 "Ah! Monsieur Michel, if there was only a man 
 in each chateau, a man in each parish!" 
 
 Michel was already at the corner of the house, 
 on the square. He went down the road. A 
 woman here and there raised the window curtain 
 with the finger holding the needle and said: 
 
 "He has just been to call on the cure". The 
 rich, they have always time to spare." 
 
 The heat passed over the country in stifling 
 puffs which smelt of hay. The dust upon the 
 road rose in whirlwinds. A storm cloud, all white 
 with reflections like copper, came on, piling up its 
 successive peaks above the woods. Michel reached 
 his chateau overwhelmed by fatigue. But, for the 
 first time in years, he had peace within.
 
 VIII. 
 
 ABBE ROUBIAUX'S COLLECTION. 
 
 THE people of Fonteneilles talked together of the 
 sale to be held at Epine on Sunday, July the 
 twenty-second. A notice, posted on the walls of the 
 Mayor's office, announced this ' ' voluntary " sale and 
 enumerated the objects to be sold at the auction. 
 
 Since it had been there, Gilbert kept away. 
 He did not show himself any more in the hamlet 
 on account of this sheet of red paper; he was 
 working at the harvest on a distant farm, and re- 
 turned only on Saturday to his house at Pas-du- 
 Loup, avoiding meeting his former friends and 
 taking by-paths in place of the roads, ashamed 
 and irritated at having his children bankrupts. 
 
 Abbe Roubiaux, called away by his sick mother, 
 had left his parish before beginning the collection 
 which he had promised to make, and, on his return 
 to Fonteneilles, he put off from day to day his un- 
 pleasant task. 
 
 When the sun rose, on the nineteenth of July, 
 the atmosphere was hot and still filled with the 
 dust of yesterday. During six weeks the earth 
 had suffered from drought. The leaves hung limp 
 along the branches; the grass had lost its bril- 
 liancy, grain fell from the ears, and men suffocated 
 as they bent over the wheat. 
 
 208
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 209 
 
 The labour of the harvest was, therefore, 
 harder than usual for the reapers cutting the oats 
 and wheat, and promised but small profit. 
 
 This was what Abbe Roubiaux was thinking 
 as he went at noonday from Fonteneilles down to 
 Pas-du-Loup. He was walking slowly upon the 
 road, which rang like a hollow rock, his head 
 bowed down, contrary to his custom. He lifted it 
 up in passing before the avenue of the chateau, 
 and saw Michel de Meximieu leaning on the 
 white gate. The young man beckoned : "Come in 
 and see me." He looked very calm. Nothing 
 showed that he had just gone through a crisis, 
 unless it were the pallor of his nostrils which 
 were still dilated and the trembling of his fingers 
 upon the wood he was grasping. All the energy 
 of his race had revived in him, transformed, 
 silent, and master in the domain of suffering. 
 
 To Abbe Roubiaux who asked: "How do you 
 do?" he replied: 
 
 "Poorly." 
 
 But it was said with a tone of supreme indiffer- 
 ence. And he added : 
 
 "I am waiting for the coming of the cattle 
 driver, to speak to him about sending off some 
 cattle. Farmer to the last, as you see. And you? 
 I know what you are going to do." 
 
 "Alas!" 
 
 "Where do you begin?" 
 
 "With the hamlet of Pas-du-Loup! Five 
 houses and not one Christian! I am hurrying, be- 
 cause it is the rest hour and the workmen are at 
 home, or may be there."
 
 210 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 Michel bowed to him with a smile. 
 
 ' ' Good luck to the missionary ! Monsieur P Abbe, 
 come and tell me, this evening, the result of your 
 first day's begging. For my part I feel confident." 
 
 "Truly?" 
 
 "You see, Monsieur 1'Abbe", we have in our 
 bodies eight quarts of blood. Well, in the poor- 
 est blood of France, there is always one drop 
 which believes." 
 
 They pressed each other's hand, and Abbe* 
 Roubiaux went hurrying down to take the little 
 path near by, which led between the meadows. 
 
 The first house which he entered was that of 
 Gilbert Cloquet. The workman, while mowing 
 the day before, had been overcome by the heat. 
 He had returned to the hamlet and was still lying 
 weak upon his unmade bed. At the noise of the 
 opening door, at the sudden entrance of the light 
 and air, he sat up ashamed, and jumped out of 
 bed upon the earth floor, buttoning in haste the 
 collar of his shirt and slipping his feet into the 
 sabots standing beside the bed. 
 
 "Why, it is the cure!" said he. "Excuse me! I 
 did not expect your visit. I was net thinking of 
 you." 
 
 "I am very sorry to disturb you, Gilbert. But 
 I have a reason for coming." 
 
 "That must be, Monsieur le Cure". I never saw 
 your predecessor in my house until the day when 
 he came to take away the body of my poor wife, 
 to bury her. Will you sit down?" 
 
 "Thanks." 
 
 "Will you have a glass of wine? You are thirsty,
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 211 
 
 perhaps? I shall be glad to give it; but for me, 
 I am unable to drink to-day." 
 
 "No. I have come about a very serious mat- 
 ter. I am going to see every one in the parish, 
 and I have begun with Pas-du-Loup. Gilbert 
 Cloquet, you know that the State does not pay 
 us any more?" 
 
 "Yes, I know it, I have read that in the 
 papers." 
 
 "Well, I have come to ask you, you and all the 
 men of the parish: Will you give something to 
 support the priests, myself and the others, or do 
 you wish to give up religion? You are free, Gil- 
 bert. Answer me according to your conscience." 
 
 The abbe", standing, agitated and trembling in 
 spite of himself, had recited the speech which he 
 had prepared and which he was going to repeat 
 the same way to the head of each family. It 
 seemed to him that he had the whole country be- 
 fore him, considering and firm. What was it go- 
 ing to answer? He prayed. The village, prostrated 
 by the heat, was silent. A tree-toad sang, hidden 
 under the cask of wine. Gilbert, in shirt and pan- 
 taloons, his head bowed, considered the words 
 which had just been spoken to him, as if it were 
 a question of a bundle of bark whose weight he 
 wished to judge of. He had the manner he bore 
 on the great days of debate, the face of a judge, 
 his jaw drooping, his eyelids half closed and his 
 eyebrows knit together. What memories passed 
 through his mind? What reasons influenced him? 
 All remained mysterious. He told only one thing, 
 the least important, doubtless, of those that he
 
 212 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 had weighed in his mind; he held up his head, his 
 blue eyes were serene. 
 
 " Monsieur le Cure, I make little use of re- 
 ligion; but it does not suit me to have none at 
 all. I want to be buried in holy ground, like my 
 dead." 
 
 The abbe, who meant to say thank you, was so 
 troubled that he did not realize that he only con- 
 tinued aloud the prayer begun in his mind: 
 "Sancta Maria, mater Dei " Neither did the 
 workman notice it. He had turned away and was 
 fumbling under his bolster and he drew from be- 
 neath it an old purse with copper mountings; 
 then, placing his offering in the hand of Abbe" 
 Roubiaux, he said: 
 
 "I am no longer rich, I cannot give much. You 
 must not hold it against me. My poor Marie is 
 going to be sold out on Sunday." 
 
 The abbe, very pale, took in his fingers the two- 
 franc piece, and, lifting it up he traced in the air 
 the sign of the cross : 
 
 " Benedicat vos!" said he. "Thanks, Gilbert. 
 God will not abandon you." 
 
 "I have need of Him," answered the man. 
 
 Perhaps he would have said more. But the 
 abbe" withdrew, and, crossing the forest road, en- 
 tered the house of Ravoux, where, in the lower 
 room five children with the father and mother 
 had just eaten dinner. The salad bowl, full of 
 the remains of curdled milk and bread, still stood 
 between them on the table. Ravoux rose up, 
 frowned, and, like Gilbert, looked straight at the 
 priest. But between them rose up all the reading
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 213 
 
 which the workman had done. The abbe* timidly 
 began to repeat his request. 
 
 "No, Monsieur," interrupted Ravoux; "it is use- 
 less. You know very well that I do not belong 
 to your party." 
 
 "But I am not of any party, no more than 
 God," said the abbe". 
 
 "Enough. I mean what I say. I do not give 
 for the mitre." 
 
 Abbe Roubiaux raised his hand above the 
 astonished children for the second time. 
 
 " Benedicat vos!" 
 
 He went out, bowing. Ravoux followed him. 
 He was moved, even touched. His black and 
 curly beard twitched. 
 
 "When you have no more bread at home," said 
 the workman to the retreating priest, "I will not 
 refuse it to you. What I refuse is the cause, it is 
 not you." 
 
 The abbe" made a motion with his head, with- 
 out turning, while Ravoux drove back into the 
 room the children and their mother, whose heads, 
 one above the other, filled the doorway. 
 
 "A queer fellow, our cure!" said he, laughing. 
 "He believes in his religion!" 
 
 The abbe* continued his collection. He went 
 into the house of the neighbour of Cloquet and 
 the fat Mere Justamond asked him: 
 
 "Can I give you something without telling my 
 husband? He is not home." 
 
 "No, on the contrary, you must ask him, that 
 he may have his share of the credit." 
 
 "Then I can't do it."
 
 214 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 " Adieu, Mere Justamond!" 
 
 Abbe Roubiaux turned on his heels, but he had 
 not taken four steps toward the house of Pere 
 Dixneuf, before the good woman ran breathlessly 
 after him: 
 
 "Here, Monsieur le Cure, take this just the 
 same." And she gave him ten sous. She had six 
 children. 
 
 Pere Dixneuf, the old Zouave, attacked with 
 hemiplegy, with his right hand contracted, his 
 neck twisted and his eyes dull and moist, was 
 seated in a straw arm-chair before his window. 
 
 "It would be more to the point for me to beg 
 from you! After all, I never go to the church!" 
 
 Then, lifting himself up on the pillow which 
 supported his head: 
 
 "Take, however, all the same, the sous which 
 are on the chimney piece, it is all that I have. 
 And then leave me alone. Good-by!" 
 
 The abbe" took two of them, and left the rest. 
 
 The wife of Juste Lappe, quite on the edge of 
 the woods, a little woman, very faithful, deter- 
 mined, active, and almost pretty still, who went 
 out for a day's work as often as her husband, 
 having seen the whole hamlet in a flutter of ex- 
 citement, already knew the reason for the cure's 
 visit. She did not wait for his request, but taking 
 the abbe aside, to the shelter of the corner of the 
 house, she said: 
 
 "Tell me, Monsieur le Cure*, did Ravoux give 
 you anything?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Or Gilbert?"
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 215 
 
 "I began with him, and he gave something." 
 
 "Very well, then I will give, too; Lappe is 
 always on Cloquet's side in arguments." 
 
 As he left the forest, the abbe talked aloud to 
 himself: "It is not so bad; I would hardly have 
 believed; can Pas-du-Loup be the best hamlet of 
 the parish? How can that be? Anyway, I have 
 made a beginning. Now, to the open fields, 
 Roubiaux!" 
 
 He hurried out of the road, across a meadow, 
 to the farm of Epine, where Cloquet's daughter 
 disdainfully refused to give, and crossing the 
 road of Fonteneilles, he entered the wheat field of 
 one of the large farms of the parish. On account 
 of the slopes in the shape of shelving ridges, which 
 formed the field, it was difficult to reap with the 
 machine. They were harvesting with the scythe. 
 The ears pressed one against the other, forming at 
 three feet above the ground a covering, thicker, 
 more sensitive and changeable than the fur of an 
 animal, a cover of moving grain, from which 
 there already came the odor of bread; by the 
 blades, all along the stalks, the heat had collected, 
 scorching the straw and drying the flour. And 
 the men had now entered in this furnace to reap. 
 The abbe sought his flock. Three of them were 
 there, bent over; the napes of their necks burn- 
 ing; their arms, with the scythes which they held, 
 describing a semicircle ; their bodies following the 
 movement with less freedom, their feet stepping 
 forward after every two strokes of the scythe 
 and swayings of the body. One saw these har- 
 vesters from the rear. The one who began first
 
 216 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 was already half-way up the hill; in the second 
 rank, fifty yards behind, his brother followed 
 him, and nearly at the bottom of the field, quite 
 near to the abbe, the servant, a bad youngster of 
 sixteen years, was nicking the blade of his scythe 
 on the stones. On seeing the abbe get over the 
 tree branches the boy laughed, shrugged his 
 shoulders and began again to mow. He had often 
 heard about cures, and never anything good. 
 His cheeks were red, but what a wretched phy- 
 sique, and what morbid inheritance showed in 
 the pallid tint of his neck, in the already flaccid 
 and dented gums of his half-open mouth, in that 
 glimmer of bestial passion in his eyes. What 
 death, poorly disguised as youth, showed itself 
 under this mask ! 
 
 "My boy," said the abbe, "I meet you for the 
 first time. Where are you from?" 
 
 "From Allier." 
 
 "Have you made your first communion?" 
 
 "Not much." 
 
 The contraction of death was around his poor 
 mouth, blue with fatigue and helpless exhaustion. 
 The boy had placed his scythe upright in the 
 stubble. He seemed dwarfed by its side. 
 
 "Have you ever been baptized?" 
 
 "I believe so, because I was there at the bap- 
 tism of my sisters." 
 
 The abbe repeated his speech, to explain his 
 visit. And the laugh died away. 
 
 "If I ask money from you, it is not for the 
 money, my boy, it is most of all for your little 
 unknown soul. I was born like you on a farm.
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 217 
 
 I have worked, too, as you are doing. But I have 
 left what I loved, my mother, my relatives, and 
 my neighbours, in order to love you all better. 
 Tell me, even if you know nothing about the 
 good God, you do not want to be one of his ene- 
 mies?" 
 
 The sun, which had long before drunk up the 
 reserves of water from the earth, was drinking 
 now the sap of the grass and of the woods, and it 
 was that which made the white clouds large as a 
 hand, which floated very high, like birds which 
 have their nest in the grass and which hover 
 over it. The cassock of the abbe was wet with 
 perspiration and clung to his body. The men who 
 were in advance, in the first open cuttings, turned 
 their heads while still mowing to see what the 
 servant was doing. The child raised his eyes to 
 those of the abbe", and some tenderness fell on his 
 waste soul. He passed his elbow over his damp 
 forehead, tapped upon the pocket of his panta- 
 loons, and said making sport of himself, but 
 with true youth hi his glance and feeling in his 
 voice : 
 
 "I have nothing there, but I would like to do it 
 to give you pleasure. If you like, I will come on 
 Sunday to bring you my sous." 
 
 Over the swaths of cut wheat, through the paths 
 between them, the abbe made his way up toward 
 the second man, and behind him, he heard the 
 grating noise of the scythe of the boy who had 
 begun work again. When he had approached 
 near to the reaper of wheat, the abbe saluted 
 with his hand, and was going to speak, when the
 
 218 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 man said gravely, having guessed or heard the 
 dialogue from below: 
 
 "Yes, put down my name. I am a Catholic, 
 as you know well ; I have a mass said every year, 
 on the day on which my father died." 
 
 "And your brother?" 
 
 "I do not know. Go and ask him." 
 
 The abbe went up a little farther toward the 
 left, to the edge of the hedge. He looked at the 
 churlish man, who was the elder and the real head 
 of the farm, a colossus, who cut with one stroke of 
 the blade a swath as wide as a great cart wheel. 
 He spoke to him when still a little behind him and 
 the man without rising, without turning around, 
 said dryly: 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "You are not willing?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 The abbe* waited behind, his hat in his hand, 
 slowly following the man who was swinging the 
 scythe. 
 
 "In the name of those who have mowed here 
 before you," said he, "and who are dead!" 
 
 The two men were walking upon the same 
 stubble, they heard each other's tread. 
 
 "In the name of your children who, without 
 God, will not have the full joy of their life!" 
 
 Both were brushing with their breasts the 
 same ears of grain about to fall. 
 
 "In the name of your uncared-for soul, which I 
 want to save!" 
 
 The peasant made no answer. There was anger 
 in the noise of his scythe cutting the ears of grain.
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 219 
 
 Besides, they were close by the ridge of the field, 
 the top of the red wave, and the man was going to 
 go down the other slope of the wheat field. When 
 the abbe" saw that, he left the reaper, and he 
 turned his steps toward other fields and other 
 hearts. 
 
 At eight o'clock in the evening he had not ap- 
 peared at the chateau of Fonteneilles. Neither 
 did he come on Friday. It was not until Saturday 
 evening he came down through the avenue of 
 beech trees, an Abbe Roubiaux who did not at all 
 resemble the former one. He seemed to have 
 grown thin, his cassock was white with dust; he 
 limped as he walked and he leaned heavily upon 
 his staff; but the little dark countenance, un- 
 mindful of the road, beaming with joy and dream- 
 ing, was surely listening to the canticle of the new 
 life. The priest came through the summer twi- 
 light, which is as clear as the day, and softer. 
 
 "Well! And the collection?" cried Michel, 
 crossing the court. "Is it finished?" 
 
 They met each other under the last beech of the 
 great avenue. 
 
 "I am worn out," said the abbe", "but I have 
 hope ! You were right ! Do you know how many 
 families have refused me, Monsieur Michel? Six! 
 All the others have given!" 
 
 "It is a marvel, indeed!" 
 
 "And yet another is that I have made myself 
 known to them. I am more truly their priest. 
 We are less afraid of each other, they and I. Ah! 
 Monsieur Michel, if you could have heard what 
 different forms of faith! What simplicity! Often
 
 220 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 what poorness of spirit ! But what mysteries of 
 the heart showed in it all!" 
 
 He brought the proofs. They were the replies 
 gathered in the fields and in the farms. He lived 
 in them still. He was agitated, troubled, sad- 
 dened, amused by them. He told them with all 
 the gestures and the accents. He told those of 
 the inhabitants of Pas-du-Loup, and those of the 
 reapers, with their fears, and their putting off for 
 a week hence, and the secret meetings, and their 
 words so full of ignorance: ''Monsieur le Cure", 
 I am for religion, because it helps trade! What 
 would become of the market towns if there were 
 no Sunday? For myself, I am not afraid; I am a 
 Catholic and when I can go to mass, I go. Write 
 down the name of my father, if it is possible, he 
 would have been glad to have his name there. 
 I will give for him." 
 
 "And those who have refused me," continued 
 the abbe, "have nearly all of them wished to ex- 
 plain the reason; they have made excuses for 
 themselves; one of them had a brother who was 
 a lock-keeper, and if he should give for the 
 church, he would be afraid of what would happen 
 to his brother; another said to me: 'I am an 
 official.' And his duties consisted in taking care 
 of a child for the State Charity. I have scarcely 
 met anything of what I dreaded so much. Ah! 
 Monsieur Michel, there are their replies. They 
 are poor like themselves ! They do not know, they 
 fear, they tremble ; but all these indifferent ones, 
 having been put in a position where they could 
 deny their faith, have refused to. How much
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 221 
 
 better I am going to love them hereafter. Until 
 now, what have they lived on? What supply of 
 grace? On their baptism and on the Ave Maria 
 of their ancestors. But see! They have now done 
 an act of personal faith. And I, I am going to 
 devote myself, to think and to pray so much that 
 they will return altogether. Vive Fonteneilles, 
 Monsieur Michel!" 
 
 11 Vive Fonteneilles! I am as happy as you, 
 Monsieur le Cure, and with a joy which exceeds 
 both of our hopes." 
 
 "I have not dined, I have not appeared at the 
 church since this morning. Adieu!" 
 
 "Thanks!" 
 
 Abbe Roubiaux went on, up toward the ham- 
 let. The shadows began to fall. He felt the puffs 
 of hot wind pass around him which the night was 
 carrying over the country, each breath having its 
 music, its perfume, and its language; wind of the 
 withered alfalfa, breath of the stubble, breath of 
 the meadows,, of the forests and of the ponds of 
 Vaux. The abbe" murmured : " I shall be a spirit 
 like you enveloping them, calming them, penetrat- 
 ing them with the invisible life. I will go to all 
 of them. I will be their priest, always ready, at 
 all times, Hallelujah!" 
 
 Upon the road a shadow saluted him. 
 
 "Good-evening, Grollier! Where are you going?" 
 
 "To seek my night's rest." 
 
 "Do you wish to sleep at my house?" 
 
 The wanderer, whose full game bag, covered by 
 his mantle, rounded out below like a tent, lifted 
 up his bushy beard and his sneering eyes.
 
 222 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "Ah, ah! What would Philomene say? Grol- 
 lier at the cure's, in a bed? The whole parish 
 would laugh at it, to-morrow. Thanks, Monsieur 
 le Cure", I have an errand to do, I too." 
 
 He continued on his way. The darkness soon 
 swallowed him up, together with the hedges, the 
 borders of grass, and even the earthy embank- 
 ment of the road. By the forest path he went 
 down toward Pas-du-Loup; the forest received 
 him, concealed him and gave to him another sem- 
 blance, as it does to the wild beasts who are at 
 home under its branches. Jogging along, un- 
 seen, he glided to the door of Gilbert Cloquet. 
 The door was barred on the inside. The hamlet 
 slept ; the only sound was the cry of a child whose 
 mother was quieting it, humming a lullaby. 
 Grollier made the tour of the house, and pushed 
 open the hurdle of the garden in the rear. There 
 he made out, seated upon the trunk of a tree 
 which was rotting along the side of the wall, 
 the figure of a man, who was either thinking 
 or sleeping, with his head in his hands. He 
 whistled like a waking bird. The shadow started 
 up. 
 
 "Are you looking for a blow from a pitchfork, 
 you tramp?" 
 
 The deep voice of Gilbert rang out in the gar- 
 den, but did not stop Grollier who, with a move- 
 ment of his shoulder, freed himself from his 
 cloak and then lifted up the plump game bag 
 which he carried from his shoulder belt. 
 
 "Don't be frightened, old fellow; it is I, Grol- 
 lier, who have come to make you a visit. "
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 223 
 
 "I would rather see you another time, Grollier; 
 to-night I am in trouble." 
 
 "Precisely; I have something to say to you 
 about your trouble." 
 
 Grollier, while Gilbert was seating himself again 
 upon the trunk of the tree, remained standing, 
 leaning upon his stick. 
 
 " Your daughter, at whose house to-morrow the 
 notary will make the sale." 
 
 "I shall not be there! Do not speak to me of 
 her, and if she has given you a message for me, do 
 not give it! Leave me; I have trouble enough! 
 My daughter, my friends, my work, my wife who 
 is dead, everything." 
 
 "Yes, such is life, is it not; it is like the sea 
 which I saw when I was little ; they say that the 
 deeper one goes into it, the saltier it is. I cannot 
 cure you, Cloquet, but I know you to be an hon- 
 est man." 
 
 "Well, and what good does that do me?" 
 
 "It keeps you from letting those who depend 
 on you take what belongs to other people." 
 
 Gilbert sprang up and seized the tramp's arm. 
 
 "Do not dare to say that! I lose all of my 
 money, in the sale of my daughter. I lose my 
 pension and my rest. What more do you want 
 me to give?" 
 
 ' 'Let go of me, and listen ! When the bailiff came 
 to Epine, the last of May, you think, perhaps, that 
 he noted down all the cattle of Lureux?" 
 
 "Certainly he did." 
 
 "You are mistaken." 
 
 "How?"
 
 224 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "He could not put down on his paper what 
 was in the forest!" 
 
 "Hidden?" 
 
 "Parbleu, everybody in Fonteneilles knew it 
 except you!" 
 
 "Thieves! My children, thieves! You are jok- 
 ing, Grollier! But I'll stop your wanting to do 
 that." 
 
 "I am joking so little^that you have only to go 
 to-night to the farm of Epine and open the stable 
 door: and you will see that there are three cows 
 less; in the sheep-fold, four sheep less, in the 
 stall, a mare the less and the best one." 
 
 "And where are these animals?" 
 
 Grollier wagged his head to the right and to the 
 left, to signify that they were here and there in 
 the country. 
 
 "They are hidden away until the sale is over. 
 Then they will sell them to their friends. But the 
 creditors will know nothing about it, nor the no- 
 tary, nor the bailiff. And your son-in-law will still 
 have some money with which to amuse himself, 
 Gilbert!" 
 
 The workman shook the arm of the tramp 
 roughly. 
 
 "Do not fool me, Grollier, or I will hunt you 
 out in the woods and settle your account. My 
 daughter a thief! Cattle hidden away! Tell me 
 the names of the accomplices who have hidden 
 the beasts! Tell me, Grollier, and I will go!" 
 
 Grollier coolly, softly, for the night was mild and 
 he must not be overheard by the neighbours, re- 
 peated the names of the farms or of the persons.
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 225 
 
 Then he threw his coat over his back and hung 
 the game bag on his shoulder. 
 
 "I have my holes in the forest; adieu, Gilbert. 
 I have done you this service because you are an 
 honest man. When I shall need bread, will you 
 give me some?" 
 
 Gilbert had already gone into the house. Grop- 
 ing about, he took a cudgel of sorb wood, and 
 locked the closet where he kept his money. When 
 he came out the garden was deserted. A warm 
 haze lay over the vegetables, the pear trees, bee 
 hives, and the forest around. The moon would 
 soon rise, for the baying of a stray dog could be 
 heard, very far off. Like a man who has lost his 
 reason, he began to run, jumping over the fences 
 made of dead branches, walking in the soft places 
 of the meadows, and twirling his stick of dry sorb 
 wood. He ran in the direction of Epine. 
 
 Soon the house loomed up, half-way up the hill, 
 in the fog already whitened by the invisible 
 moon, the house where the sale would take place 
 on the morrow. Gilbert listened. The man and 
 his wife must be sleeping. He drew nearer, and 
 placed his ear against the lower shutters. Then, 
 walking with precaution, he opened the door of the 
 stable, that of the barn, that of the sheep-fold and 
 that of the pig-sty. " 
 
 Then, sure of the truth, he cried out in the 
 night, with all his might, turned toward the house : 
 
 "Thieves! Thieves!" 
 
 And he set off on a run climbing the shelving 
 ridges of land above Epine.
 
 IX. 
 
 THE SALE AT LUREUX'S. 
 
 THE day after the bailiff had attached his be- 
 longings at the farm of fipine, Lureux had gone 
 to the notary. The latter was used to stormy vis- 
 its from pursued debtors. He listened with resig- 
 nation to their protestations and with a practised 
 hand he seized the first chance to interrupt and 
 to end the affair. 
 
 "You are right not to wish to remain under 
 the stigma of an execution. It is not pleasant to 
 see one's name in notices and in the papers, and 
 always coupled with that word. Take my ad- 
 vice, change the execution into a voluntary sale; 
 have the look, at least, of only being a farmer 
 in difficulties who is disposing voluntarily of his 
 property." 
 
 "But I should ask for nothing better. How 
 can it be done?" 
 
 "Why, it is very simple. You give power to 
 your landlord to sell all your furniture and cattle; 
 I will draw up the little document, and a few 
 days later, at a date which we will fix by common 
 consent, I will proceed to the sale, myself. Do 
 you agree to that?" 
 
 This advice was good for everybody and was 
 always followed. 
 
 226
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 227 
 
 On Sunday, July 22d, about one o'clock, the 
 notary, who was getting on in years, but who was 
 brisk and ruddy still, arrived in the court of the 
 farm in his cart, with his clerk carrying his mo- 
 rocco portfolio. The auctioneer had preceded 
 them, an old man, thin and pale, broad-chested, 
 dressed in black in deference to the law of which 
 he was so often the neighbour, and who enjoyed 
 throughout the country of Corbigny a sound 
 reputation on account of his facetious humour, 
 his skill in making the bidding go up, and espe- 
 cially for his voice, which was nasal and dominat- 
 ing, like an oboe. These three personages, as 
 soon as the cart was unharnessed, arranged the 
 stage for the act which they had so many times 
 played together. 
 
 Already the ploughs, harrows, drills, the two 
 muck carts, the jaunting cart, the mill for win- 
 nowing grain, laid out in a line from the wells 
 and parallel to the house, formed a barrier pro- 
 longed on the other side of the well by an iron bed 
 and a wooden one placed on the ground of the 
 court. In front, and along the walls of the farm, 
 stood an old white mare, fastened to an iron 
 buckle, with her head in the shadow and her body 
 in the sun, who dozed on three feet, only moving 
 her tail to keep the flies away from her shining 
 crupper. Farther on was the long table behind 
 which the auctioneer would stand, the table which 
 had stood in the big room of the farm house, but 
 was now encumbered with the things to be sold 
 first: a gilt clock, andirons, kitchen utensils, 
 sheets, towels, shirts, handkerchiefs, piles of plates
 
 228 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 and covered metal dishes. Still farther on, by the 
 steps in front of the entrance to Epine, they had 
 placed a chair for the clerk and a toilet table 
 that of Marie Lureux with inkstand, pen, mem- 
 orandum book and the book of stamped paper, 
 open at the first page. 
 
 "At half-past one we shall begin the sale!" 
 said the notary, who was walking up and down 
 ,in the court, talking with some clients. 
 
 The crowd was not yet large, but it increased 
 gradually. Through the meadows below, through 
 the gaps of the fields above, by the little semi- 
 circular road which went down toward Lache 
 and began at the north of the court, men walk- 
 ing slowly, kept coming discreetly, to look on, 
 with the idea of buying anything that should go 
 cheaply. They came more readily after the re- 
 port had been spread abroad that the two Lureux's 
 themselves would keep in the back room of the 
 farm house, and that there would be no re- 
 proaches to be feared from them. A few women 
 had slipped in among the crowd, and, forming a 
 semicircle among the men who were standing up, 
 sat down upon the handles of the ploughs and on 
 the well curb. 
 
 As soon as the town clock struck the half hour, 
 the notary threw away the cigarette which he 
 was smoking, approached the sorry-looking clerk 
 who was seated and who arose out of deference, 
 and, making a signal to the assembled men to be 
 silent, he said with a loud voice, his eyes looking 
 down on the book of stamped paper: 
 
 "The year 1906, Sunday, July 22, at one
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 229 
 
 o'clock in the afternoon, at the request of Mon- 
 sieur Etienne Lureux, farmer at the place called 
 Epine, situated in the commune of Fonteneilles, 
 there is about to take place the sale of the furni- 
 ture, movable property, and cattle belonging to 
 said Lureux and his wife." 
 
 After the reading of this preamble, he inter- 
 rupted himself, and changing his tone and look- 
 ing at his audience, said: 
 
 "The usual conditions are understood: ten per 
 cent, in addition to the price of the sale; three 
 months' credit for solvent people; everybody, 
 however, may pay cash." 
 
 Then, seeing that they found that amusing, he 
 added : 
 
 "Auctioneer, to your guns!" 
 
 A few laughs broke out in the burning air. 
 The men were red with heat. The women sought 
 the short shade of the well. The auctioneer took 
 up in both hands the clock, ornamented with two 
 doves in gilded brass. 
 
 "Fifteen francs for the clock, ladies!" 
 
 It was the clock which Gilbert Cloquet had 
 bought for his daughter, a fortnight before the 
 wedding, and which he had carried home himself 
 from Corbigny, holding it on his knees, protecting 
 it with his arms, like a reliquary, while his future 
 son-in-law drove the cart at a great pace. 
 
 "Fifteen francs fifty, sixteen, sixteen fifty " 
 
 Marie Lureux's black braids appeared behind 
 the curtains of the window, quite near. Scarcely 
 any one noticed her. The notary called out: 
 "Gone!" and the clock was carried off.
 
 230 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 One after the other the things piled up on the 
 long table were sold and then others which re- 
 placed them were sold in their turn. In spite of 
 the auctioneer's efforts the bids were slow. 
 
 The bidding became a little more animated 
 toward three o'clock, when the notary announced 
 that they would proceed to the sale of the horses, 
 cattle, and sheep. Then a young village lad, 
 amused by his part of the work, went to the 
 white mare, unfastened her halter, and made the 
 animal turn around so as to show her off to the 
 public. Two hundred men and women of Fonte- 
 neilles and of the neighbouring village were pres- 
 ent by this time. The farming implements had 
 been carried off and laid here and there along the 
 hedges. The people had crowded around the 
 table. Murmurs rose and laughter. 
 
 "Let us look at her teeth," demanded a 
 farmer. 
 
 ''She is old enough," said another. 
 
 "That is why she is white," said a third. 
 "When Lureux used to drive her, it seems to me 
 that she had a coat of another colour." 
 
 "One hundred and fifty francs," interrupted 
 the auctioneer. 
 
 He was leaning forward, his hands resting on 
 the top of the table, his eyes screwed up, already 
 seeking the silent bids in the eyes of his nearest 
 neighbours, when a mocking voice from the rear 
 of the court, at the entrance of the road toward 
 Ladie" cried out: 
 
 "Lureux! Show yourself, man, now is the 
 time!"
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 231 
 
 "That's Grollier's voice," said the notary. 
 
 All the people had turned around. 
 
 "Lureux!" called Grollier again. "Is not that 
 your black mare coming back? Look!" 
 
 And, in fact, a fine animal, with a coat of glossy 
 black, had just appeared at the bottom of the 
 slope, at the hollow place where the road turns. 
 She came slowly up, apparently all alone, between 
 the two thin hedges, going toward the familiar 
 stable. 
 
 "Lureux! There come three cows now." 
 
 Three white cows followed the mare, browsing 
 on the bramble shoots. 
 
 "Here are your sheep! They are all coming 
 back. They are all coming home to Epine." 
 
 A clamour rose from the crowd and rolled toward 
 the forest. The women's voices dominated. 
 
 "Cloquet! Gilbert Cloquet! It is he who is 
 driving them." 
 
 The tumult increased. Men who were seated 
 arose: those who were chatting at the extremi- 
 ties of the court hurried toward the opening of the 
 road. The whole mass of humanity, swift or 
 slow, urged on by curiosity, flowed toward the 
 same side and formed two groups, prolonging to 
 the middle of the court the two hedges of the 
 road. And down this path with its living, mov- 
 ing borders, bristling with arms and uplifted canes 
 and hats waved in salute, passed the black mare, 
 her head high, frightened, then the white cows 
 and then the sheep, and then Cloquet, towering 
 above the curious crowd, pale with fatigue and 
 emotion, leaning as he walked, upon his wooden
 
 232 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 staff. He was looking straight toward the house, 
 and answered no one. Lureux appeared on the 
 threshold of the farm house. He had on his best 
 clothes, the ones which he did not want to have 
 taken from him. Behind him, haggard and 
 trembling, his wife was speaking to him and try- 
 ing to hold him back. But he would not listen. 
 He had a fine bearing, this tiller of the soil, 
 trained by strikes to the attitudes and words of 
 tragedy. With his soft felt hat lifted up, his 
 young, energetic face in the full light, his mous- 
 tache curled upward, his expression disdainful and 
 his body erect, he cried out: 
 
 "Drive the animals back, comrades. Help me 
 to chase them from the court! They are not a 
 part of the sale!" 
 
 With a twist of his body he escaped from 
 Marie and threw himself in the midst of the mov- 
 ing groups. His friends did not respond, because 
 only the interest of one person was at stake. 
 Several even tried to stop Lureux. "He wants to 
 fight Cloquet! Stop him!" He slipped through 
 their outstretched hands and ran after the black 
 mare to drive her back to the road. But the 
 frightened animals ran in all directions, each one 
 opening a path through the court which was like 
 a noisy fair ground. Women got out of the way, 
 shrieking. In the midst of the hubbub and of 
 the surging mass of humanity, a single man re- 
 mained motionless and silent. The storm raged 
 around him. It was Cloquet, his two hands clasped 
 on his stick. Lureux giving up the pursuit of 
 his cows and his black mare, turned short, and
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 233 
 
 flung himself upon him. He shook his fists in 
 his face. 
 
 ' ' Canaille ! You have betrayed your daughter ! ' ' 
 
 "Down with your fists!" cried Gilbert, whose 
 arm cut the air like a sabre and made Lureux 
 recoil. 
 
 "Don't hit so hard!" 
 
 "Then speak more civilly; I am betraying no 
 one ; I am bringing back the animals because they 
 belong to the sale; I have chased all night after 
 them; I have them all; they return to pay your 
 debts." 
 
 He looked at the men, collected in an instant 
 about him, eager, curious, scoffing or anxious, 
 according to their humour. Gilbert, so big and 
 calm, kept them silent. 
 
 "There is not one of you here who blames me. 
 If there be one. let him say so!" 
 
 A half second of silence and Lureux understood 
 that he was not supported. He let fall his fists, 
 which he was holding up, ready to strike. He 
 shrugged his shoulders and made a pretence of 
 laughing. 
 
 "This is only my business, I suppose?" 
 
 "Not at all; it is also mine; I will not have it 
 said that my daughter is a thief." 
 
 "You fool! It was she who led the heifer to 
 the Maison Grise." 
 
 1 ( You lie, Lureux ! " 
 
 "She who begged the miller of little Mare* to 
 take care of the black mare. We did everything 
 together. Are you angry because we have saved 
 a little of our property?"
 
 234 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "Yes, Lureux, I am angry because it is not 
 just." 
 
 "So much the worse for justice. The cattle 
 will not be sold; no one has any right to sell 
 them. Where is the notary?" 
 
 In turning round, Lureux saw the notary push- 
 ing his way with difficulty through the crowd of 
 men. 
 
 "What does this mean, Lureux? Is it true 
 that these animals belong to you?" 
 
 "They belong to me or to somebody else; that 
 makes no difference; they shall not be sold. I 
 won't allow it." 
 
 "You are not the first who has played me this 
 trick, Lureux. You hid them; you put them in 
 other farms." 
 
 "Pardon, Monsieur le Notaire, the whole ques- 
 tion depends on whether the bailiff marked them 
 down in the seizure. You can read the inven- 
 tory; they are not there. I will not allow the 
 sale!" 
 
 He had recovered his confidence. He eyed the 
 notary from head to foot. He listened with grow- 
 ing pleasure to the murmurs around him. "He is 
 right if the bailiff has not made a list of them. 
 That is the law. One must do as the law says. 
 So much the worse for those who trusted in him." 
 But his pleasure was brief. The notary, rising on 
 tiptoe, counted the animals tied here and there 
 around the court. 
 
 "Take the black mare to the stable! Lead the 
 three cows and the sheep to the barn! And 
 quickly," he cried. "You have forgotten only
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 235 
 
 one thing, Lureux. Have you, yes or no, signed 
 the deed of acceptance of the seizure? " 
 
 "Certainly, I have signed it." 
 
 "Very well, then! In it you give me the power 
 to sell all of your furniture and live stock, all. 
 Do your hear? Gentlemen, I resume the sale. 
 Follow me!" 
 
 He looked for Gilbert Cloquet and could not 
 find him. 
 
 Gilbert, having said what had to be said, had 
 withdrawn from the excited throng. He had 
 gone to the deserted end of the court, and as he 
 reached the corner of the house where the path 
 goes down toward the forest, he stood, his whole 
 heart turned to the threshold of the house where 
 Marie was crying, her forehead bowed against the 
 lintel of the door and hidden in her arm. She had 
 seen her father and had not run to him. He called 
 to her in a low tone, not too loud, so that no one 
 would hear him. 
 
 "Marie! Marie! I have given you everything, 
 and you, you steal from those who trust you! 
 Marie, I am penniless and you rob me besides of 
 half my honour! Marie, I am speaking to you! 
 I am telling you these things, and you do not 
 answer me!" 
 
 She kept on sobbing. The laughing, chat- 
 ting crowd came, following the notary. Friends 
 drew near and enemies were coming. 
 
 Gilbert heard a voice which was not that of 
 Marie calling him. He went away, walking 
 backward down the slope of the court to the 
 place where the path goes through the hedge.
 
 236 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 He saw the auctioneer and the clerk take their 
 places again behind the table. Then he saw the 
 people stand aside and Lureux run through the 
 midst of them, enter the house, and come out 
 again holding in one hand a little linen portman- 
 teau, and with the other dragging Marie, who was 
 trying to hide herself behind him. "Adieu! Let 
 me pass!" cried Lureux. " You have all betrayed 
 me! I am going away never to return!" And the 
 black felt hat of Etienne and the gay-flowered 
 bonnet which Marie wore passed a little above the 
 crowd in the direction of Lache, disappeared and 
 were lost to sight. 
 
 Behind the hedge Gilbert held up his arms. 
 
 "Marie!" he cried. "My poor Marie, you, too, 
 have not enough to live on ! And yet it is I who 
 brought you up!" 
 
 Then correcting himself, he added: 
 
 "A little as I was able to." 
 
 And he fled toward Pas-du-Loup, pursued by 
 the voice of the auctioneer, growing fainter, who 
 was saying: 
 
 "A fine white heifer for sale. The fine, white 
 heifer brought back by an honest man!" 
 
 The forest swallowed him up. 
 
 Two days later, as he was returning from work 
 on a farm of Crux-la- Ville, in the twilight, in the 
 path in the woods which the Vorroux crosses and 
 which turns toward Fonteneilles he saw Michel 
 de Meximieu. The young man was walking 
 slowly and in the same direction. He stopped 
 sometimes to listen or to breathe better. Gilbert 
 could have avoided him, as he had avoided so
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 237 
 
 many people of Fonteneilles, since the day when 
 the bailiff had come to Epine. Shame made him 
 uncivil. But this time he quickened his steps, and, 
 before overtaking him, he coughed to announce 
 his presence. Michel did not turn round, and 
 walked on, but he reached out his arm at the 
 moment when the workman passed by him, and 
 he put his hand affectionately upon Gilbert's 
 shoulder, so that the latter did not have to find 
 a pretext for stopping or for beginning to talk. 
 He had been recognized without being seen; he 
 was pitied. 
 
 "It was well done what you did on Sunday, 
 Gilbert!" 
 
 "It was sad, also, Monsieur Michel." 
 
 They continued walking near each other in the 
 path where there was still a gleam of light which 
 shone on their faces, and on the bushes and the 
 grass. Michel had not withdrawn his hand from 
 the workman's shoulder. The growing darkness 
 toned and blended their figures together in the 
 same way that it confused in brotherhood stones, 
 trees, hills, and the houses of men. 
 
 "Do you know what I often say to myself when 
 I think of you, Gilbert, and of a few others in the 
 country, the best men, those who are like you?" 
 
 "Why, no. I did not even know that you 
 thought of me." 
 
 "I say to myself that you have a spirit above 
 your trade." 
 
 "Sometimes, yes, that might be so." 
 
 "That you put something higher than your 
 own interest. That is what is good, and what
 
 238 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 touches me, and draws me so close to you, it is 
 clear, too, that you do not see how they have 
 stolen the truth from you, from you and from 
 millions of others; but you would love it if you 
 could see it, I am sure of that." 
 
 "What truth, Monsieur Michel?" 
 
 "That which makes you my equal, and gives 
 you the power to be more." 
 
 They were silent, one because he felt that it 
 would be useless to say more, the other because 
 subjects of this kind were not familiar to him, 
 and because he did not find the words to reply. 
 But Gilbert understood that this rich man had a 
 fraternal soul, a kind of devoted and peculiar ten- 
 derness, which was not based upon any apparent 
 solidarity, but upon the mysterious things which 
 each one guards for himself, "in his holy of holies." 
 
 The first star had risen above a poplar tree 
 which seemed to touch it with its slim, straight 
 point. The two men gazed at it, and somewhere 
 in space their souls must have greeted each other. 
 They walked slowly, a dreamy softness floated in 
 the descending night. 
 
 "You have always been very fair with me, 
 Monsieur Michel. I would like to speak to you 
 I want one thing. " 
 
 "What, my friend?" 
 
 "To go away. After what has happened, I can- 
 not live here any more. I no longer dare look 
 people in the face. I imagine that they are all 
 thinking of Marie and Lureux when they meet 
 me. You are the only one left who thinks of me. 
 I want to go away."
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 239 
 
 "What will you do away from here?" 
 
 "What I do here." 
 
 "And where do you want to go?" 
 
 "To take your cattle, if you sell any, in Sep- 
 tember. I will stay wherever they go." 
 
 Michel replied after a moment's thought: 
 
 "That might be done, Gilbert; I have six large 
 old oxen, which would do well for the sugar refin- 
 ers. If I decide to sell them at the September 
 fair, I will send you word." 
 
 He held out his hand to the workman, and they 
 said nothing more. But they thought of each 
 other when each had taken his own path through 
 the woods which had become quite black, and over 
 which a long band of red sky weighed like an iron 
 bar left by the men at the end of the day's work, 
 to cool and to turn brown upon the anvil. 
 
 They saw each other again several times during 
 the month of August. Chance threw them to- 
 gether at the corner of a thicket or on the road 
 of Fonteneilles, or in the fields near the chateau. 
 But where before they had simply greeted each 
 other and passed on, now they took pleasure in 
 talking together. And it was only Gilbert who 
 was surprised by it. When he had talked for a 
 quarter of an hour with Michel de Meximieu, he 
 thought all the rest of the day, and often for sev- 
 eral days, of what they had talked about, and 
 he was like a man who comes back from a voyage. 
 
 About the middle of the month, as they were 
 talking at the corner of the oat stubble and the 
 meadow of Fonteneilles and some partridges were 
 drumming, Michel said:
 
 240 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "The fashion is now to flatter the workman 
 and to rail at the noble. The truth, Cloquet, is 
 that we both of us have greatly deteriorated. 
 We are sick with the same diseases; indolence 
 and pride. All hatred springs from them. Yet 
 when he has not been spoiled either by autos or 
 by hunting, there is no proprietor so well fitted as 
 a noble to act in concert with a labourer. We be- 
 long to the old stock, you and I. And that is one 
 of the reasons of our friendship." 
 
 Gilbert did not venture to reply, because he 
 had little experience outside of Fonteneilles; but 
 in the depth of his heart he recognized that it was 
 true for Michel and for himself. And he loved 
 this man who spoke freely of all things. 
 
 Another time, at the beginning of September, 
 he even dared to ask : 
 
 "In spite of all this you are against the unions, 
 Monsieur Michel? I understand that; they do 
 not belong to your world, but they belong to 
 mine. Upon that point we shall never agree." 
 
 "You are mistaken!" 
 
 Michel laughed. He felt better that day. The 
 air had found the woods full of life and was 
 spreading it abroad. The thin lips of the invalid 
 drank it in, and his eyes were lighted by the re- 
 flection of the warm earth, brown eyes filled with 
 the gold light of youth. He never lied, nor did he 
 calculate; he let his ardent soul be seen. 
 
 "You are mistaken, Gilbert. What makes me 
 angry, what fills me with sorrow and pity, is the 
 ideal of impossible iniquity which they thrust on 
 you, and so paltry an idea that not one of the
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 241 
 
 wood-cutters of France in the past, would have 
 been satisfied with it; your wings are clipped by 
 your chiefs like those of barn-yard fowls; they 
 give you appetites in place of justice, hatred in 
 place of love. But, listen to me! All could be 
 changed. If some day the work is baptized, if 
 there is a benediction on this rising sea, Gilbert, 
 living or dead, I shall be with you, I shall ap- 
 plaud, I shall believe in a better earth, that is, a 
 nobler one, in a new chivalry, and hi the return 
 of the saints to a happy people. As truly as to- 
 day is bright, that is what I hope for. Adieu, 
 my old Cloquet. I would like to have said many 
 other things to you. I shall miss not being able 
 to talk to you." 
 
 ''I also, Monsieur Michel." 
 
 Gilbert watched the young man go away, fol- 
 lowing him with his eyes as long as he could. His 
 heart was full of those regrets which do not wait 
 for the good-by in order to make us suffer. He 
 thought: "I have a friend, but as well say I had 
 one, since I am going to leave him." 
 
 Gilbert Cloquet was not surprised, therefore, 
 when he saw the guard of Fonteneilles coming to 
 his house, the evening before the fair of Corbigny, 
 which takes place on the second Tuesday of the 
 month. 
 
 "Cloquet," said Renard, " Monsieur le Comte 
 sends me to say to you that to-morrow he will sell 
 his six great oxen. If you wish to take them to 
 the fair, you must start to-night." 
 
 The workman was cutting vetch in a field quite 
 near the hamlet. He shook his sabots, which
 
 242 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 were covered with mud, for it had rained all the 
 morning, then he passed his hand through his 
 beard to give himself time to reflect, and he said: 
 
 "I am ready." 
 
 "Monsieur le Comte bade me to say to you 
 besides, that merchants from the coast of Bel- 
 gium, from the North, from Pas-de-Calais " 
 
 "Call them the Picards, then, it is their name!" 
 
 "Well, then! Picards will be numerous at Cor- 
 bigny. There are chances that our cattle may 
 be bought for the beets of Picardy." 
 
 "And then I shall make the journey with them, 
 shall I not?" 
 
 "You are not obliged to." 
 
 "No, if any one forced me to, I would not go. 
 Tell me, Renard; this is not to say anything 
 against you, but why did not Monsieur Michel come 
 to speak with me himself? We are friends. " 
 
 "He is ill, and in bed. Things are not going 
 well. Au revoir, Gilbert. Good luck with the 
 Picards!" 
 
 Gilbert grew very sad. He said good-by to the 
 guard who went back to the chateau. Then he 
 took a handful of grass, wiped the blade of his 
 scythe carefully, and, having looked at the sun, 
 which marked five o'clock in the evening upon 
 the dial of the Summer sky, he left the field to go 
 and close his house. 
 
 Of all the neighbours of Pas-du-Loup, he noti- 
 fied only Mere Justamond. When he had put 
 everything in order and as he wished it to be 
 during his absence, he dressed himself in clean 
 clothes, clipped the end of his blond beard, made
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 243 
 
 a bundle of clothes to carry with him, and then 
 stretched himself out on his bed and slept a little. 
 Before daybreak he rapped on the window pane 
 of the Justamonds' house. It was all arranged. 
 The good woman half opened the window and 
 drew back at the same time, on account of the 
 cold air from the forest, which came in. 
 
 "Mere Justamond, here is the key of my house; 
 keep it until I come back." 
 
 "Will that be soon?" 
 
 "I hope not; I am sick at heart." 
 
 "Cure it, my poor Cloquet. But that is not 
 easy when the sickness comes from children. I 
 will bear everything in mind, to open the room 
 when it is fine, to watch the bees, to dig the po- 
 tatoes, of which I will give you an account. " 
 
 "There is still one thing," said Gilbert. 
 
 "What, then? How chilly it is for you to 
 start!" 
 
 "I will let you know my address; you will 
 write me the news of Fonteneilles and especially 
 the news of Monsieur Michel." 
 
 The good woman leaned her big jovial face out 
 of the window and Gilbert saw, in the gray light 
 of dawn, that her eyes were full of pity. 
 
 "For me, I am not learned enough," said she, 
 "but my son Etienne and my daughter know how 
 to write well. If there is any news from Fonte- 
 neilles, they will write it to you. It makes me 
 feel badly to see you go, Gilbert, by being neigh- 
 bours so long we have become like relatives. 
 Adieu." 
 
 "Adieu."
 
 244 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 Half an hour later the six finest oxen from the 
 stable of the chateau, six great, white, sharp-horned 
 oxen, yoked two by two, were walking with their 
 work-day pace along the road of Corbigny. And 
 upon the left at the head of the first pair, Gilbert 
 Cloquet carried the goad stick.
 
 X. 
 
 THE FARM OF PAIN-FENDU. 
 
 "ALL right, Cloquet! you will have your board 
 and you will have fifty francs a month, like the 
 others. Your oxen are not shod? " 
 
 "No, Monsieur; with us oxen are not shod any 
 more than sheep." 
 
 "Take them to-morrow morning, then, to the 
 blacksmith's shop. That is all." 
 
 The man who thus finished his first conversation 
 with Gilbert Cloquet in a small office, papered 
 with green and black paper, had the stubborn 
 expression, the abrupt speech, the square-cut 
 beard and the permanent glasses of those who 
 have devoted themselves to the study of mathe- 
 matics. He was Monsieur Walmery, the young 
 owner of the large farm of Pain-Fendu, a gradu- 
 ate of the school of agriculture, son of a former 
 magistrate from the North, who had kept him 
 from following a liberal profession. Monsieur 
 Walmery accompanied the new drover to the end 
 of the corridor which separated the office from 
 the servants' dining-room which opened on the 
 court. There he called out: 
 
 "Jude, these are the oxen from Nievre; have 
 them tethered in the third cow-shed." 
 
 He reentered the house and went to the end of 
 
 245
 
 246 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 the hall where the pale light cut in slanting lines 
 the faded wall paper, and for some moments 
 after, one could see his yellow leggings as he 
 talked with a maid-servant. Gilbert Cloquet had 
 rejoined in the court his six Nivernais oxen, still 
 yoked two by two. He had picked up his goad, 
 cut from a piece of holly wood at Fonteneilles, 
 and, with his arm resting over the neck of Mon- 
 tagne and Rossigneau, he waited, his hat on the 
 back of his head, his tawny beard blown by the 
 wind, for the foreman of the farm, Jude Heilman, 
 who was washing his hands in a trough at the 
 rear of the big court below. The foreman, who 
 was doubled over, straightened himself up, shook 
 his naked arms and came forward pulling down 
 the wristbands of his shirt. His height, his easy 
 swinging walk, his youth, the steadfast gaze of 
 his gray eyes which were the colour of the North 
 Sea, and which began from afar off to examine 
 the new drover, impressed Gilbert. This giant in 
 trousers and shirt had a small, highly coloured 
 face, and the thin curled-up, straw-coloured mous- 
 tache of a non-commissioned officer. 
 
 "You are Gilbert?" said he. "A little too old 
 to travel!" 
 
 "I might answer that you are a little too young 
 to command, and I should probably be no nearer 
 right than you are. You will judge me by my 
 work." 
 
 "That's all right. Don't talk. Go and unyoke 
 your beasts. What kind of an ornament is that 
 behind the yoke? That's a queer fashion!" 
 
 He pointed to the vermilion handle which the
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 247 
 
 fanners of Nievre add to the yoke of their oxen 
 as an ornament. 
 
 "That is the way our people mark fine pairs of 
 oxen. We are rather vain at Fonteneilles. And 
 we have reason to be!" 
 
 With a light touch of his goad on the muzzle 
 of Rossigneau, he turned the first pair of oxen 
 around in their place. 
 
 "Who ever saw the like!" he grumbled, "not 
 a compliment for animals like mine! Do they 
 even have oxen, these Picards?" 
 
 The six oxen began walking, with the air of a 
 procession, and he added: 
 
 "Fine oxen t ] iey are here, in Picardy! The best 
 of them would only do for the creche de Noel!" 
 
 These two opinions were called forth by the 
 comparison, which every one in the court at that 
 moment could make between the Nivernais oxen 
 driven by their driver and the oxen turned out to 
 fatten, penned up on the piles of manure. There 
 was a fine rural charm about the scene. The six 
 huge white oxen paced slowly around a veritable 
 field of heaped-up, trampled manure, rising up to 
 a height of more than eighty inches above the soil 
 of the court, and held up by an enclosure of iron 
 bars between solid posts, as is done on estates 
 where they like durable buildings. On this plateau 
 of manure, containing more than six hundred 
 cart loads that they would cart away later and 
 spread on the fallow lands, and which made them 
 conspicuous in the middle of the court walked, 
 turned, or dozed, forty oxen with red or fawn- 
 coloured or white-spotted coats. They were light-
 
 248 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 ly built beasts bought in the neighbourhood, who 
 were to pass there, upon that warm, decomposing 
 litter smoking under their bellies, the days and 
 nights of winter and autumn, and then be sent 
 down to the meadows in the spring to put on fat, 
 before starting for the slaughter house. Troughs 
 full of water were placed at certain distances, and 
 others full of beet pulp from the refineries mixed 
 with chopped straw. The cattle were eating, 
 drinking, or walking in circles or standing in quiet 
 contemplation as suited their fancy. The enclos- 
 ure had but one opening, at the farther end, the 
 part the most distant from the house. But a dog 
 chained there, and with his eyes watching his pris- 
 oners, guarded this single door. Pigeons, hens, 
 and ducks lived with the cattle upon the same 
 manure pile, and warmed themselves by the same 
 hidden fire. A large passageway led all around 
 the field of manure, a paved road where men, ani- 
 mals, and loaded wagons could pass; outside the 
 buildings formed a long rectangle, the house of 
 the foreman, the stables, a cow-shed, an old 
 sheep-fold, another cow-shed, workshops, barns, 
 storehouses, pig-pens, all with walls of red brick 
 and roofs of red tiles. All this enormous appara- 
 tus of the farm was commanded by a monumental 
 gate hung between two high columns of brick and 
 crowned by a pediment also in brick, but grown 
 green with rain and blackened by dust and smoke. 
 Only through this gate could you see from the 
 court the country itself and a few green fields. 
 Nevertheless, facing it, toward the West, you 
 realized that the enclosure of the walls must be
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 249 
 
 prolonged beyond the last cow-shed, and that there 
 must be behind it a kitchen-garden, and, enclosed 
 in the rural fortress, some trees, whose branches, 
 already stained by mildew, could be seen hanging 
 over a depressed roof. 
 
 The stately procession of the huge white oxen 
 of Nievre made a striking spectacle in this frame- 
 work of red stone, on its way around the manure 
 pile gilded by the light, and one judged as it passed 
 by the workmen in the cow-sheds, by the oxen of 
 Hainaut who stopped eating pulp, and the 
 pigeons frightened by such great horns and 
 such giant backbones. All the farm, excepting 
 the foreman, who apparently paid no attention 
 to them, seemed to be saying: "Are they not 
 handsome! Are they not well guided! What a 
 beautiful handle of red wood behind the yoke!" 
 Gilbert felt himself watched. He went straight 
 on, followed by his six oxen in the bright sun- 
 shine, to the cow-shed where he found twenty 
 other white oxen from Nievre, all young ones, 
 three and four years old, that had been trained 
 to pull by the collar. While unyoking his oxen 
 he laughed, thinking of those collars, those har- 
 nesses which look like rags, and which take away 
 from the teams the sculptural bar of the yoke, 
 their unison of movement, and that fine twisting 
 of the twin heads, which bend together to the 
 effort and lift themselves up when all goes well. 
 
 The afternoon was employed by Gilbert in 
 taking care of his animals and in visiting the 
 rural town of Pain-Fendu. The Nivernais drover 
 had seen fine farms, certainly, and more elaborate
 
 250 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 methods of culture, perhaps, but nowhere had he 
 met under a single farmer so extended an estate, 
 such vast cow-sheds, such abundance of material, 
 nor that industrious air of a factory, which he 
 saw here in this frontier corner, nor had he ever 
 seen so rugged and suffering an expression on the 
 earth itself. Already in coming from the railway 
 station, about a mile away, he had felt that he was 
 a stranger in this flat country without hedges, 
 with a narrow horizon on account of the milky 
 light, which absorbed the distances and out of 
 which arose only the undefined silhouettes of vil- 
 lages, bristling with factory chimneys, and frag- 
 ments of suburbs melting into the country. He 
 did not know their names; he only knew that the 
 great collection of houses, almost a town, which 
 he had passed through, was called Onnaing. 
 
 The sun and the flies made the cattle bellow and 
 kick about, penned up in the large court; and 
 the odour of manure rose between the walls. The 
 four-wheeled wagons which had carried the 
 sheaves of the last gleanings, came in with a halo 
 of white dust. Oaths could be heard and the 
 noise of trailing chains, the tread of horses and of 
 oxen trampling the door sill as they passed over 
 it. Then the drovers who lodged at Onnaing or 
 at Quarouble left the farm. Gilbert Cloquet went 
 with those who lived at Pain-Fendu, into the 
 dining-room on the basement floor, ornamented 
 with crude blue paper, checked with white, where 
 the servants took their meals. They sat down at 
 a long table of waxed oak, jugs of beer, white 
 plates and napkins which they had not had at
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 251 
 
 La Vigie. There were the two drovers, three ser- 
 vants employed about the horses and the wagon 
 office, two women of the farm, charged with the 
 dairy work and who smelt of curdled milk, and at 
 the upper end of the table the tall Jude Heilman, 
 with his fat face, high-coloured and brutal. Near 
 him sat his young wife, and when Gilbert Cloquet 
 saw her, in the light of the lamp mingled with that 
 of the day, he hesitated to seat himself, intimi- 
 dated, as if he had been in the presence of some 
 great lady in the land of Nievre. But Perrine Heil- 
 man was not a great lady. She was dressed in a 
 black gown, protected by a lavender linen apron 
 with shoulder-straps; she was active, simple and 
 gay, she had an eye for everything from the kitchen 
 and the poultry yard to the dairy and the cow- 
 sheds themselves, and those who knew the farm of 
 Pain-Fendu were wont to say that the foreman 
 was the foreman's wife, and that the one did all 
 the talking and the other all the work. But Gil- 
 bert saw only the fair brown hair, in glossy braids, 
 twisted around her head, the slim and blue- 
 veined neck, the rosy face, a little round, not of 
 as delicate features as that of Madame de Mexi- 
 mieu, less spirituelle than that of Mademoiselle 
 Antoinette Jacquemin, but gentle with a just will 
 and a ready and discreet kindness, and eyes touched 
 with red brown, like sprigs of mignonette, which 
 were looking at him, the newcomer. He bowed 
 awkwardly as he had done in his youth before a 
 statue of the Madonna, fastened to the trunk of 
 an oak tree, and took his seat at the table. Ma- 
 dame Heilman, to the great astonishment of Gil-
 
 252 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 bert, crossed herself on taking her place at the 
 table, then she served the soup and portioned out 
 the boiled beef. The men ate ravenously, talking 
 and shouting at each other. Madame Heilman 
 laughed sometimes at something which they said, 
 but they scarcely addressed a word to her, being 
 embarrassed by her lack of vulgarity, more than 
 by her authority. Her husband, erect, towering 
 by a head over all the others at the table and 
 there were some tall men among them swal- 
 lowed regularly the soup, bread and meat and 
 drank large draughts of beer, looking at the wall 
 in front of him as if, behind it, he could see the 
 fields where the harvest was finished, where the 
 weary lands waited and demanded repose. And 
 he, in imagination, was tearing them up, turning 
 them over again, separating them, distributing 
 their crops, and forcing them to life. Vision and 
 calculation were rarely absent from these stead- 
 fast eyes, hard to the land, hard to men, hard to 
 animals. At table he was as if dumb. He gave his 
 orders in the morning, at half-past five, or at six 
 o'clock, according to the season, when all of the 
 employees of the great land factory were assem- 
 bled in the court. 
 
 The supper was nearly over when one of the 
 drovers took from his pocket a pipe and a package 
 of Belgian tobacco, crammed his bowl, then, 
 tipped back in his chair, lighted his pipe and his 
 face shone red and blue through the light of 
 the flame and smoke. He remained sitting, lean- 
 ing with his two elbows upon the table, while the 
 other servants left the dining-room to go and
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 253 
 
 smoke out doors, or to take the fresh air on the 
 road before the gate, and the maid-servants cleared 
 away the plates and jugs. Gilbert had not spoken 
 a word. He also wanted to smoke, but the act of 
 this Picard, lighting his pipe in the presence of the 
 wife of the master and so near her, had seemed to 
 him rude. That was not the way in Nievre, and, 
 a little to give a lesson, a little, also, from the desire 
 of appearing well, he moved his chair away from 
 the table, carried it to the stove, which was at the 
 end of the room, and raising his cap, said: 
 
 "With your permission, mistress?" 
 
 He showed his pipe outstretched. 
 
 " Certainly, Monsieur Cloquet, every one can 
 smoke here." 
 
 She had turned around to say that, then she 
 began again to listen to her husband who, tower- 
 ing two feet above her, his chin drawn in to his 
 neck, his upper lip advancing, was speaking with 
 contempt, guarding his voice, and probably 
 scolding Madame Heilman for some failure in the 
 unlimited and never-ending programme which she 
 had to fill. When he had left the dining-room 
 she assisted the maids in putting everything to 
 rights, and as she passed near Gilbert, she said : 
 
 "I saw a little while ago the finest Nievre oxen 
 which I have ever seen here. If they are as good 
 in harness, they are wonderful." 
 
 "You are very good to them," said Gilbert, 
 removing his cap from his head as if he promised 
 to repeat to the absent what had just been said 
 about them. 
 
 He rose when he had finished his pipe. The
 
 254 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 room was deserted. In the court, under the stars 
 without a moon, the animals were sleeping, lying 
 down or standing with their feet apart to keep 
 their equilibrium better. Gilbert wanted to know 
 his new country. The great door remained open 
 on the fields until ten o'clock; after that the cita- 
 del was closed and there remained only, on the 
 flat plain, a brick fortress against which the wind 
 broke in waves. Gilbert went out, his hands in his 
 pockets. The brick columns and the lintel cut out 
 an immense square, half sky and half plain. A 
 warm and tremulous wind passed through it. 
 Three men were seated upon a pile of stones to 
 the right of the entrance. Farther away, Gilbert 
 saw another who had his arm placed around the 
 waist of a woman, one of the servants, doubtless, 
 A sudden sadness made him turn away from this 
 corner where they were making love. The drover 
 leaned his head oiftside of the gate, to the left, 
 and beyond the abyss of shadow in which road, 
 earth, and telegraph poles were swallowed up, he 
 saw a flame which gave no light and was envel- 
 oped by a slender dancing halo. 
 
 "What is that?" he inquired. 
 
 A voice replied : 
 
 "The tall chimney of the furnace of QuieVrain, 
 Quievrain in Belgium. Don't you know any- 
 thing?" 
 
 He did not reply, but turned on his heel and 
 went back to the stable where he was to sleep. 
 
 His bed was no longer, as in the early years at 
 La Vigie, placed in a corner of the stable and pro- 
 tected against the horns of the cattle by a frame-
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 255 
 
 work of wood, but suspended five feet from the 
 ground, in the midst of the long row of animals, 
 lighted by a lantern hung at the end of an iron 
 rod. Gilbert mounted by the ladder, after having 
 inspected the mangers to see whether his cattle 
 wanted anything, and there, above some thirty 
 moving backs, lined to the right and the left, and 
 whose whiteness diminished gradually to the end 
 of the long building, he tried to sleep. In spite 
 of the fatigue of the journey he remained awake 
 for a long time. He was not thinking of Marie, 
 or of the hamlet of Pas-du-Loup, or of his com- 
 rades, or of anything which had happened so re- 
 cently. The shame, the fear of suffering, made him 
 drive away the memories of the day before and 
 go back to the period when he had slept in a 
 lair very like this, at Monsieur Fortier's. He 
 compared, with this past, what, he had just learned 
 of the country of the Picards, and concluded: 
 "Why have I come to Onnaing rather than to 
 Lyon, or to the environs of Paris, or upon the 
 table-lands of Champagne where there are also 
 sugar refineries?" And he did not find any rea- 
 son, and therefore he felt that he was a stranger, 
 that nothing welcomed him, that nothing held 
 him. He went over the smallest happenings of the 
 evening, the faces of the people. In spite of him- 
 self, the image of that woman clasped by a man 
 a little while ago, in the shadow of the portal, re- 
 turnd to him with persistence and troubled him. 
 At home he paid little attention to the youths 
 and maids whom he met thus courting, except 
 to think: "They will marry, and the sooner
 
 256 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 the better! " But why, in this corner of the Picard 
 country, should these visions be more tenacious? 
 Why did the blood of a drover, who had already 
 lived a long life, grow hot like that of a young 
 man? Gilbert understood that the change was 
 not only around him. He felt that he was weaker 
 than at Fonteneilles. The habitual witnesses of 
 his life were so far, so far away. 
 
 The stiff breeze of Picardy played against the 
 stable walls.
 
 XI. 
 
 THE TILLAGE OF PICARDY. 
 
 THE next day, having fed his animals, he care- 
 fully yoked his four best oxen with the yokes with 
 red handles, quite resolved to leave Pain-Fendu 
 if they obliged him to change his beautiful Niver- 
 nais fashion, and, having stopped his team before 
 the door of the foreman's house, he went, with the 
 other drivers and servants, to get slices of bread 
 and butter and a quart of beer which he put in an 
 old game bag loaned him by one of his comrades, 
 and then he set out for the plain. Heilman, fol- 
 lowing the orders of the farmer, had distributed 
 the work to the assembled men and animals. 
 
 It was hard ploughing, far off on the side of the 
 stream of Quarouble, which one could distinguish 
 by some dwarf willows and by the herbs, the only 
 green with that of the cabbages in the great space 
 which had a golden hue from the boundless stretch 
 of oat and wheat stubble. Vast plain which had 
 forgotten shadows! The earth, parched for 
 months, did not crumble under the ploughshare; 
 it turned in long furrows like rafters, it fell across 
 the plough, it creaked, dust and acrid smoke es- 
 caped, and the field mice and the insects, not having 
 been able to dig their lairs deep enough, ran with 
 the torn-up roots of grain over the sabots of the 
 
 257
 
 258 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 men. At a little distance from Gilbert, other 
 teams were ploughing. But they stopped oftener 
 to rest than his, and longer. It was not ten o'clock 
 in the morning and the space ploughed by Gilbert's 
 four oxen made, in the dull yellow of the stubble, 
 a spot a third larger than the others, and which 
 smoked like a miry channel stirred by the sun. 
 
 "Good work," said Heilman, who passed in his 
 high boots, a straw hat on his head; "but your 
 oxen will be foundered before the week's end." 
 
 "Neither they nor I," replied Gilbert. 
 
 "We shall see, when the digging of the beets 
 comes, fifty acres and fifteen hundred thousand 
 kilos to get in before the fifteenth of November." 
 
 The master continued his way, growing smaller 
 in the plain, but always taller than the drivers 
 with whom he stopped a moment to talk. 
 
 In the evening the sole topic of conversation at 
 Pain-Fendu was this Nivernais driver and his 
 oxen. Gilbert heard his name at table, murmured, 
 praised, or mocked at. He ate, more tired a 
 little than the evening before, and even more of 
 a stranger. After supper he began to smoke, in 
 the same place, near the stove. The wife of the 
 foreman had paid no attention to him, occupied 
 as she was in helping the men and in replying to 
 the gossip of the maids who were talking of their 
 plans for the next Sunday. But when the men 
 had gone out she approached Gilbert, as she had 
 done the evening before, and remaining standing 
 near him, who was still seated, she asked : 
 
 "And what will you do with your day to- 
 morrow?"
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 259 
 
 " Nothing, Madame Heilman." 
 
 "You do not go to mass?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 She placed her hand upon the shoulder of the 
 driver, with a compassionate gesture. 
 
 "You seem to be unhappy, Monsieur Cloquet. 
 A good worker like you! Are you homesick for 
 your country?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "If you are ill, we are not hard here; you will 
 be well cared for! You must tell us." 
 
 She felt that she was looked up at, as by a dog 
 that one caresses. In the gleam of this long look 
 she saw surprise, gratitude, emotion, and a desire 
 that it should not finish. She began to laugh. 
 
 "Come! When you have been here a week you 
 will be quite at home. You are no longer a young 
 man, and one would think you were a great child! 
 My poor Cloquet!" 
 
 She went away, carrying a chair which she 
 wished to put in its place, and already preoccu- 
 pied again by her work. Gilbert had risen. He 
 left the room without turning around; he went 
 down the steps; he made the circuit of the court 
 where the red cattle were tramping upon the pile 
 of manure, and he took refuge, quite at the end of 
 the enclosure of the farm, near the forge whose fire 
 was dead. And he seated himself, passing his two 
 hands over his forehead to chase away the too 
 gracious vision and the words which kept return- 
 ing: "My poor Cloquet." How she had said it! 
 Yes, as formerly Adele Mirette had said it, the 
 wife whom he had loved, she whom he would
 
 260 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 have loved especially in this hour of abandon- 
 ment! It was the same accent, and the same 
 gesture, and, in the glance, the same pure tender- 
 ness. "Look at yourself in my eyes, my Cloquet, 
 look at yourself; I suffer when you suffer!" Oh! 
 that old word, never heard again during such long 
 years, and which revived suddenly, in the mem- 
 ory of the past, and which overflowed his heart! 
 She was so pretty, this Madame Heilman! Gilbert 
 heard the horses fighting in the neighbouring 
 stable, and he ran there, swearing as he was not 
 accustomed to do, and, with a blow of the double 
 lash, he separated them so brutally that he said 
 to himself: 
 
 "What is the matter with me this evening, 
 that I hurt the animals?" 
 
 The next day, Sunday, he, generally so eco- 
 nomical, went out as soon as his animals were 
 cared for, breakfasted and dined at a restaurant 
 of Onnaing, and did not return to the farm until 
 night. All day long he had wandered alone, like 
 a soldier who arrives in a garrison, up and down 
 the road of Valenciennes, and in the dingy quar- 
 ters which are near the railway station. 
 
 Soon the rains began. The great ploughings 
 lasting for weeks occupied and wearied the men, 
 horses and oxen. The sun rose later and set more 
 quickly in the fogs which waited, all the afternoon, 
 rolled at a little distance above the fields where 
 they were working, and which settled down as 
 soon as the rays of the sun grew feebler. Then the 
 harvesting of the beets began. In the soaked 
 lands Gilbert and his comrades now drove the
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 261 
 
 four-wheeled wagons, loaded with beets, to the 
 sugar refinery of Onnaing. The six Nivernais 
 oxen were not too many to drag the wagon from 
 the ruts which the enormous weight hollowed 
 beneath the iron tires of the wheels. It was nec- 
 essary to stop to let the animals breathe. "What 
 do you look for in the horizon, Cloquet? Is it 
 trees? There are none with us. Is it your mis- 
 tress? The time has passed mon vieux! Is it a 
 glass of beer? You will find that nearer you!" 
 They joked him discreetly because of his forbid- 
 ding air. They tried to question him to see what 
 he knew of the world. But he did not lend him- 
 self to that either. After a few fruitless attempts 
 to draw him into conversation about the country 
 of Nievre or other topics, his comrades ceased to 
 interrupt his thoughtfulness or to explain it. 
 They considered him as one of those shepherds 
 who lose the habit of speech, little by little, and 
 who keep to themselves, knowing how to talk 
 only with their sheep and dogs. 
 
 What was the matter with him? A fixed and 
 bad idea possessed him. Gilbert would have done 
 better to have left the farm. He had spoken to 
 himself about it, two or three times. But the will 
 had failed him. He knew that he was weak, he 
 remained, and he hid himself to watch the wife of 
 Jude Heilman pass. The foreman's wife did not 
 appear to notice the strange bearing of this man 
 who watched her, evening and morning. He did 
 not approach her, he gazed at her crossing the 
 court, opening a window or accompanying a mer- 
 chant or a visitor. When he was near her, at
 
 262 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 meal times, he was embarrassed, and only raised 
 his eyes by stealth; then, as soon as the last 
 mouthful of bread was swallowed, he went out. 
 Since she had lived in the midst of this floating 
 world of servants and of day-labourers, she had 
 often been obliged to defend herself against the 
 one or the other. But this one was a new kind, 
 more sombre, more disquieting. What was to be 
 done? She had comprehended, from the second 
 day, that there was passion in the silence of Gil- 
 bert Cloquet, and she avoided giving food to this 
 bad dream ; but her manner had not changed and 
 Madame Heilman remained as gay, as lively and 
 natural in the presence of the drover as if she 
 understood nothing. "If I have him sent away," 
 she thought, " where will he go?" 
 
 One day, however, she called him. It was in 
 the third week of October. A butcher of Qui6- 
 vrain had come to Pain-Fendu. In the corridor 
 of the house he was talking noisily with the wife of 
 the foreman. He was a friend and frequenter 
 of the farm, and a buyer sometimes. He asked 
 about the price and condition of the cattle. His 
 name was Jean Hourmel; a stout man, young, 
 who enjoyed a great reputation for luck, loyalty, 
 and animation in business, and who had a kind of 
 jovial quality and ease, the result of this good 
 reputation, which he carried with him. Madame 
 Heilman was alone at home; her husband would 
 not be in before noon. She offered a glass of beer 
 to the Belgian butcher, who declined with a wave 
 of the hand and asked to visit the cow-sheds. 
 The young woman accompanied him to the en-
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 263 
 
 trance of the corridor, glanced around the court, 
 as if searching for some one, said a few words in 
 an undertone to Monsieur Hourmel, and called 
 with her slightly drawling voice : 
 
 " Monsieur Cloquet?" 
 
 The tawny beard and the clear eyes of the 
 Nivernais were framed in the opening of a dormer 
 window. 
 
 " Monsieur Cloquet, show Monsieur Hourmel 
 the stables." 
 
 The butcher, who wore upon his arm a skin of 
 gray kid, and who had no blouse over his jacket 
 such as most of his colleagues of Central France 
 or of Paris wear when they travel, stopped at first 
 facing Gilbert, and regarded the drover with 
 fixed attention, serious and silent. His jovial ex- 
 pression had disappeared. A slight grimace raised 
 up the smooth-cut moustache. He finished his 
 examination with a nod of the head of which he 
 kept the meaning to himself, and followed Gil- 
 bert, who knew the farm perfectly, and could 
 explain everything. After the first moment of 
 constraint the conversation grew animated be- 
 tween the two men whom theii calling brought 
 together. They chatted of France and of Bel- 
 gium, of pasturage and of trade, and Gilbert was 
 led on to talk about his youth and the formation 
 of the union of the wood-cutters of Nievre. The 
 other was approving: "I know about that! It is 
 the same way with us; only, you appear to me to 
 be without religion in your country? That 
 does not bother us? With us it helps." A 
 little later he said: "You must come to see me,
 
 264 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 Gilbert Cloquet!" He was a kindly man, this 
 butcher of Quievrain. He was fraternal with this 
 unknown drover met at the farm; he had the 
 strength which has no need of words to attract, 
 and the compassion which is understood, even 
 when it jokes. 
 
 "You need diversion; I can see that; well, 
 then, come to the grande ducasse!" 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "The fete of the patron saint of QuieVrain, the 
 consecration, the ducasse as they say with us, 
 which is celebrated the Sunday which follows the 
 eighteenth of October, that is next Sunday; my 
 wife will lay a plate for you." 
 
 "I will go," said Gilbert. 
 
 Sunday, the twenty-first of October, was a day 
 of respite for him and almost a joyous day. About 
 half-past ten, the drover took at Onnaing the 
 tram-way from Valenciennes, and in half an 
 hour he was in Belgium. The butcher's house was 
 easily found; you only had to follow the car line, 
 then go up one street and take a turn at right 
 angle, and it was there, on the right, at a short 
 distance. A door of varnished oak, by the side of 
 the butcher's stall, opened on a room which served 
 as sitting and dining-room, with a kitchen in the 
 rear, behind that was a court and the warehouses. 
 The house had a respectable air. The owners re- 
 ceived Gilbert as a friend, and Madame Hourmel, a 
 tall, slim woman, with flat cheeks, and soft eyes full 
 of the anxiety of the housekeeper, did the honours 
 as for a prince. "Sit down, won't you take a cup 
 of coffee? Would you rather have beer? Come,
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 265 
 
 Hourmel, put some coal on the fire! Monsieur 
 Cloquet must be cold?" 
 
 The poor man for a long time had not met with 
 this eagerness from people glad to see him, to care 
 for him and to cheer him up. In the living room 
 his shoes stretched out and smoking against 
 Madame Hourmel's nickelled stove, he admired 
 the gay-flowered paper which covered the walls, 
 the religious chromo-lithographs in their frames, 
 the wall pocket given as a souvenir by some shop, 
 the two chamois heads in terra-cotta, the chairs of 
 white waxed oak, a sideboard in two compart- 
 ments, whose glass case was full of multi-coloured 
 plates and objects, useless in so simple a house- 
 hold, such as sugar tongs, asparagus forks, fish 
 knives, spoons of every shape and of every size, 
 cups and baskets in glittering metal. He admired 
 it all. They told him stories of QuieVrain. He 
 forgot his own sad one. They remained a long 
 time at table in the warmth of the stove. The 
 butcher's wife understood that the Frenchman 
 had had great trouble and that he was with- 
 out moral support of any kind. She said, ser- 
 iously, for she had a kind of grave and impartial 
 goodness : 
 
 "I am going to go and wait upon the customers 
 while you will go and see the fete of ducasse, 
 Hourmel and you; but I beg you, hereafter, to 
 consider our house as that of one of your friends." 
 
 "Of my friend, then," replied Gilbert, "for I 
 do not know of any other, unless I may call 
 Monsieur Michel so." 
 
 1 ' You have no friend ? Neither man nor woman ?
 
 266 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 Ah, ha! You blush. Ah! You should not have 
 hidden that from us! A Frenchman never grows 
 old, we ought to remember that. Amuse your- 
 selves!" 
 
 The two men passed the afternoon like two 
 children, Gilbert catching a little of the gayety of 
 the jovial humour of the butcher Hourmel. 
 They shot rifles in the shooting gallery; they 
 joined at the play of the popinjay, in a meadow 
 on the bank of the Honelle, they watched the 
 workmen and women of Quievrain and Blanc- 
 Misseron dance; they visited friends who offered 
 them coffee, and when, late in the evening, they 
 separated at the street-car station, after having 
 supped together in the little room with the cham- 
 ois heads, they were in high good humour and 
 content to have made each other's acquaintance. 
 Hourmel asked: 
 
 "Au revoir, is it not? How much longer do 
 you stay at Pain-Fendu?" 
 
 " Perhaps a week, perhaps always. But, if I 
 stay there I will return here." 
 
 "In any case, come before the seventeenth of 
 November," said Hourmel, "for then I am going 
 off on a trip." 
 
 And the train disappeared in the night toward 
 Onnaing.
 
 XII. 
 
 THE SQUALL. 
 
 THE most dismal weeks of the year had come. 
 All day and all night clouds heavy with rain fol- 
 lowed each other almost without intermission 
 across the sky. The sea had put into them life 
 and nourishment for millions of ears of grain, for 
 flowers, trees, and men, for more plants and living 
 things than there were upon the earth. To the wind 
 it had ordered: " Spread abroad this vital force 
 and what is not needed will return to the deep to 
 come forth anew." And the wind drenched the 
 countries of the North. All through Belgium and 
 French Flanders and Holland and the lower 
 provinces of Germany they were gathering in 
 with difficulty the last harvests, carts were stuck 
 in the mire, the wagoners were swearing, and 
 there were days when the men of the country 
 were shut indoors, waiting for the clear weather 
 which did not come. 
 
 Melancholy hours, dangerous for those who 
 cherish in their heart an unhealthy dream. 
 Before the end of the first fortnight in November, 
 Monsieur Walmery had had dug up the enormous 
 quantity of sugar beets grown and ripened upon 
 fifty acres of ground. Huge wagons had carried 
 the whole harvest to the sugar works. The 
 
 267
 
 268 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 farmer then ordered Heilman to recommence the 
 ploughing, and, in spite of the bad weather, all the 
 teams of the farm spent ten hours outside, and 
 the soaked earth glistened behind them, smoothed 
 by the iron plough-shares. The men protected 
 their shoulders with old jackets, or flour sacks, or 
 carter's coats. The rain sent its black torrents 
 from east to west, from north to south, and the 
 animals themselves had red eyelids, on account of 
 the continuous lashing of the water. The wind 
 shook the rooks in flight. The grass whistled over 
 the smooth-shaven sods. Sometimes, the plough- 
 men returned, unable to hold out against the 
 downfall. And if it happened that there was but 
 one left in the .field, that one was always Gilbert 
 Cloquet, to whom had been entrusted a new plough 
 which the three pairs of oxen drew, with lowered 
 horns, panting in rhythm upon their straining 
 legs. 
 
 It happened that on Friday, the 16th of Novem- 
 ber, the men were forced, at ten o'clock in the 
 morning, to return in haste to Pain-Fendu. The 
 sky, covered with a single leaden cloud which 
 seemed motionless and without a rift, had poured 
 down a penetrating, close, continuous rain, which 
 beat the hair of the beasts and twisted it into 
 knots, between which, at the touch of the water 
 and the wind, the red skin of the flanks quivered. 
 
 "The animals pull no more!" said Heilman. 
 "It is enough to make them sick. Men, we must 
 turn in." 
 
 And seeing that Gilbert continued his plough- 
 ing, he cried:
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 269 
 
 "The order is for everybody, for the Nivernais 
 as well as for the lads of Flanders!" 
 
 Gilbert did not seem to hear him. 
 
 The six oxen, beneath the pouring rain, con- 
 tinued to pull ; they walked on, enveloped by the 
 mist of their breath and by the vapour which rose 
 from their backs. The drover behind seemed 
 taller than usual, in the blonde aureole of his 
 steaming team. 
 
 "Work yourself to death, then, if you want to, 
 Nivernais! But if one of your oxen is sick, you 
 will have to pay for it!" 
 
 All the ploughs but one took the road back to 
 the farm, following each other. Gilbert remained 
 alone in the immense field. The pale spot of the 
 six oxen travelled over the smooth soil, in the rain 
 under the low cloud. The children of the village 
 who looked from far away through the window 
 panes, said: "What is that white thing down 
 there, which moves?" 
 
 Gilbert had not obeyed because Heilman had 
 become hateful to him, because passion had taken 
 possession of the drover and made him crazy. 
 He no longer slept. He quarrelled with the ser- 
 vants for the most trifling reasons, especially with 
 those who seemed to him to be in favour with 
 Madame Heilman. He no longer greeted the fore- 
 man, he no longer answered him. The phlegmatic 
 Heilman bore with this humour and bothered 
 himself very little about it, knowing that author- 
 ity is difficult to exercise in farms where there are 
 always outsiders mixed with the workmen from 
 the neighbourhood. He even made excuses for
 
 270 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 Gilbert. "He is an old man," he said, " perhaps 
 he may have brought troubles from home that we 
 do not know about. And anyway, he is strong!" 
 Strength pleased him as the finest thing that he 
 knew. 
 
 No, it was not the sorrow brought from home 
 which had turned Gilbert's head, it was the near- 
 ness of this beautiful young woman met on the 
 farm, and the remoteness of familiar things which 
 would have held in check the tempted spirit 
 and the flesh which was weakening. How far 
 away they were, all the witnesses of his honest 
 life, all those who could have mocked or reproved 
 or advised! Nothing now recalled Mere Clo- 
 quet, nor his childhood wrapped in her glance 
 and protected by it, nor the years of love, nor 
 the long period when Gilbert had remained faith- 
 ful to the house, the garden, the bed of wood, 
 the pewter spoon, and the memory of the dead. 
 Etienne Justamond had not written. No news 
 had come about Michel. All his habits had been 
 broken up, the companionship of his friends, 
 their talks, the work in the woods, the forest scen- 
 ery and the pastures. And in the emptiness, this 
 evil desire had grown and now it was the master 
 of this man who was almost old. Not a word had 
 encouraged him, not a glance. Gilbert had seen, 
 indeed, that Madame Heilman kept on her guard 
 and avoided speaking to him or meeting him. 
 He wished evil to her husband, the obstacle, his 
 master. His insane jealousy made the orders, 
 the supervision, and even the presence of Heilman 
 odious to him. At times he hoped that a wagon
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 271 
 
 wheel would go over the body of that calm 
 young giant ; he longed to see the foreman kicked 
 by a horse, or crushed by a bag of grain falling 
 from the granary, or that a ladder should break 
 under his feet. If the husband should disappear, 
 the wife would become less distant, she would be 
 weaker and less well-guarded. Gilbert was con- 
 scious that ideas bordering on crime touched him. 
 Sometimes he felt a horror of himself; he saw his 
 folly; he realized that he had passed the age when 
 he could please a woman, and despair seized him. 
 "Why live? What reason is there for work, when 
 no one pays any attention to me? When no one 
 will ever care for me any more?" His comrades 
 said: "What is the matter with him now?" He 
 spoke to no one and he rose in the morning without 
 having slept, asking himself if he was not going 
 "to make away with himself." Then a woman 
 came down the stairway of the farm house; a 
 voice called the maid; a hand drew the curtain 
 of the great dining-hall; and ardent desire kindled 
 itself in the eyes of the drover and fever came in 
 his blood, and he had the wrinkled eyelids and 
 the furtive trembling of a cat which watches a 
 bird near by. 
 
 How he had changed in a short time! Where 
 was his idea of justice? To tell the truth, he had 
 never thought of extending it beyond the ques- 
 tions of his own interest. Besides, he did not rea- 
 son; he loved. The novelty of the temptation had 
 conquered at once this lonely being. 
 
 Gilbert, ploughing in the tempest of rain, imag- 
 ined, so supreme had his folly become, that he
 
 272 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 saw before him, upon the fallow land that his 
 oxen were going to break, the tall, fresh woman 
 with her hair dressed like that of a lady, and 
 those calm eyes which had had pity on him, in 
 those first days. He saw her and he spoke to her 
 aloud, so loud that the oxen no longer hearing their 
 own names were bewildered and lost their spirit. 
 
 After an hour, however, the drover unhar- 
 nessed his animals and went back himself. When 
 he had taken care of his oxen and had tethered 
 them before their full cribs, he thought of chang- 
 ing his clothes. As he had only two coats for his 
 whole wardrobe, he had to put on his jacket with 
 horn buttons, and his broad-brimmed felt hat, 
 and as his sabots were drenched, he put on the 
 boots which he only wore on Sundays. Then he 
 rejoined the other workmen. 
 
 The latter were at work in the covered barn 
 which was built directly opposite the house 
 buildings, on the other side of the court, and in 
 the warehouses which rose farther beyond, form- 
 ing a third line of constructions. Heilman had 
 given the order to clean and oil the farming uten- 
 sils and the wagons. The servants, dissatisfied, 
 murmured, saying that they were made to do the 
 cart-wright's work. They loitered about, asked 
 each other questions, and urged each other to stop 
 work, speaking loud enough to be heard by the 
 foreman who was inspecting the stables. As al- 
 most always happens when there are several who 
 are trying not to work, two of the men began to 
 quarrel in the barn where Gilbert had set himself to 
 moving and to piling up some thick oaken planks.
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 273 
 
 The quarrel was only half serious and both men 
 saw in it a means to drink a bottle of beer, to seal 
 their peace at Monsieur Walmery's expense. They 
 held each other clutched around the waist. Gil- 
 bert interfered. 
 
 "Enough," said he, "Gatien, you will hurt him. 
 You are the stronger; don't be a coward!" 
 
 "The stronger?" 
 
 Victor, the little Walloon, grown red as a tile, 
 pressed Gatien to the point of stifling him, and 
 threw him down in the dust of the barn, against 
 the wheel of a dismantled wagon. There was a 
 shout. Heilman came in by a side door, swore 
 from habit, and separated the combatants; but 
 as he secretly liked to watch wrestling and games 
 of strength, he said : 
 
 "Fine, all the same. Little devil of a Walloon! 
 He could whip two such at a time, on my word." 
 
 Victor, out of breath and covered with dust, 
 pulled up the leather belt which supported his 
 trousers. He slowly turned his square head with 
 its gleaming, narrow eyes, yellow and bloodshot 
 like those of a bull. He was standing on the open 
 ground, between the box of the dismantled wagon 
 and the high pile of thick oak planks upon which 
 Gilbert stood. Five or six men who had come from 
 the sta.bles, the forge, and the warehouses watched 
 him, laughing. Gatien shrugged his shoulders and 
 retied his red cravat. The downfall continued 
 outside. The rain fell on the gray walls along the 
 shed, which was open on its longest side, and 
 shut by a double brick partition on the side of the 
 court. It made a noise like a torrent. The fore-
 
 274 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 man felt a desire for some diversion. The pun- 
 gent odour of the flying dust excited his nerves. 
 
 "I bet on Victor!" he said. "Strong back, the 
 little Walloon great strength ' 
 
 "What do you bet?" called the blacksmith 
 from a corner. 
 
 A voice near him, that of a little shepherd who 
 was looking out the door, answered : 
 
 "Hallo! Here comes Madame Heilman! The 
 one who wins may kiss the foreman's wife." 
 
 "That's it!" cried loud, amused voices. "Who 
 will try for the wager?" 
 
 Heilman said nothing. He consented, indul- 
 gent, like all the countryside, to these familiar- 
 ities allowed in public. He, too, had seen his 
 wife approaching. She came, running, jumping 
 from one stone to another, wearing laced sabots, 
 with her head covered by a gray knit shawl, which 
 she wore on very cold mornings when she went to 
 superintend the dairy. As she came in under the 
 vast roof, two more men arrived from the stables 
 and the granaries, like pigeons who drop down 
 from the roof. Victor said to her: "Mistress, the 
 one who wins in the match is to kiss you!" She 
 shrugged her shoulders, as mothers do, who think 
 that there is a grain of foolishness in the demands 
 of their children and she said : 
 
 "I came to tell Heilman that the beer is 
 drawn." 
 
 She sat down upon an oak block which stood 
 against the brick wall and frowned slightly as 
 she saw Gilbert, who had jumped from the top 
 of the pile of planks to the ground, and who was
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 275 
 
 preparing to wrestle. With a twist of the hand 
 he had thrown his jacket upon the wagon pole 
 and he went up within two paces of Victor. 
 
 "I challenge you all!" he said. 
 
 "Bravo, le vieux!" cried a voice; "he is gal- 
 lant!" 
 
 "He's not strong! Give him a good lesson, 
 Victor! Down with the Nivernais! Vive the 
 Walloons!" 
 
 A confused racial rivalry stirred in them all. 
 They formed a half circle, stretching out their 
 necks and several showed their yellow teeth be- 
 tween their thick lips, chapped with the cold. 
 
 "Look out, Victor! He is bigger than you." 
 
 "Yes, but he is thirty years older. Don't take 
 your eyes off him, Victor!" 
 
 The two men were silent, like duellists, and 
 each sought, with his eyes the place on the 
 other's body where he was going to throw his 
 arm. But while the smaller man bent his legs and 
 kept close to the ground to jump, Gilbert stood 
 upright, with his feet a little apart, his hands 
 high, his chest and sides unguarded. Victor took 
 advantage of what he judged to be a bad position. 
 He threw himself, with lowered head, against the 
 Nivernais, clasped him at the level of the lowest 
 ribs, and, gathering all his strength, he tried to 
 upset him, to throw him to the left, or the right, 
 to stifle him or to force him to bend his legs. The 
 muscles of his neck knotted beneath the skin. 
 Gilbert scarcely moved; only his cheeks grew 
 flushed, and his mouth, with its yellow beard, half 
 opened at the call of his lungs for air. He let his
 
 276 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 adversary exhaust himself. Suddenly the arms 
 which he had kept raised, came down; he clasped 
 them around Victor's bent form, lifted him, and, 
 with a strain of his back, he straightened himself 
 up, and whirled around the man so that his legs 
 described a circle and came down on the shoulders 
 and the back of the old wood-cutter. A whirl- 
 wind of cries of pleasure and anger mixed, rose 
 around the wrestlers. "Enough! He is beaten! 
 No ! You will kill him ! Courage ! " Gilbert, while 
 they were still shouting, put his two hands under 
 the body of his rival, and seizing him by the back 
 and by the loins, burying his fingers in his gar- 
 ments, and even in the flesh and muscles, he lifted 
 him again, and held him out at arm's length. 
 Victor howled and struggled. All the men had 
 risen. Heilman, in the tumult of applause and 
 cries, made a sign: "Enough! Let him go!" Gil- 
 bert dropped his frightened opponent, who ran 
 off swearing. 
 
 "Well, Gilbert," said Heilman, laughing. 
 "You've won! You don't fight with a sluggish 
 hand! You've learned how?" 
 
 "In the forest one learns everything," replied 
 Gilbert, putting on his jacket again. 
 
 "Well, now!" cried a voice. "Isn't he going 
 to kiss the mistress?" 
 
 "That's his business.-" returned Heilman. 
 "Come, drink, all of you! The beer is drawn." 
 
 The men followed the foreman out into the 
 rain and left the barn in close ranks with clatter- 
 ing sabots. The two last cast a glance backward. 
 The mistress had remained seated upon the block
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 277 
 
 of oak, against the brick wall. She did not smile. 
 They disappeared. 
 
 Gilbert Cloquet remained alone with her. He 
 had grown very pale. He did not dare to ap- 
 proach her. As she said nothing and looked at 
 him with an air of reproach and of pity, he came 
 nevertheless, bashful as a child. The young 
 woman looked like a statue of a saint, as little 
 moved and as maternal. 
 
 "Kiss me, then," she said, "since you have 
 conquered. There is nothing wrong in that." 
 
 He stooped and kissed her on the cheek. She 
 did not repel him, but he drew away of himself. 
 
 "Monsieur Cloquet," she said, "what is wrong 
 is the thought which you have in your heart. Do 
 you think that I have not seen it?" 
 
 He did not reply, but he became pale as death. 
 She spoke slowly, her large eyes wide open and 
 full of divine justice. 
 
 "A man fifty years old! A man who has a 
 daughter my age, a daughter married like myself! 
 It is a shame to persecute me. I was too kind to 
 you in the beginning." 
 
 She heard a very low voice which said: 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The man moved still farther away. 
 
 "I do not wish to have you sent away; 
 you have to earn your bread; but this must 
 stop!" 
 
 The voice replied : 
 
 ' ' Yes. It is going to stop ! ' ' 
 
 "And immediately, and for always." 
 
 For the first time he looked her full in the face,
 
 278 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 and she saw that death had entered indeed into 
 the heart of the drover. 
 
 "Adieu! "he said. 
 
 " Where are you going? I am not asking you 
 to go away!" 
 
 He did not reply. He had turned away, and, 
 taking up his felt hat, he turned to the east where 
 the barn opened upon the court, and the court 
 upon the country. He was soon out in the rain. 
 A voice from the farm house cried: 
 
 "Here, Cloquet, this way! You are on the 
 wrong road!" 
 
 A nearer voice recalled him : 
 
 ' ' Stay, my poor Cloquet ! I am not sending you 
 away! I pity you. Only, I cannot " 
 
 Neither voice stopped the drover or made him 
 slacken his pace. His tall silhouette was denned 
 in the opening of the gateway of the farm. And 
 Gilbert turned to the left, walking rapidly in the 
 mud of the road without seeing anything, through 
 the rain which never ceased. 
 
 It was near noon. 
 
 When he was more than two hundred yards 
 from Pain-Fendu, he imagined he heard, borne on 
 the damp air, a woman's cry and the word : ' ' Re- 
 turn!" But death was in his heart. The poor 
 man hurried along the deserted road. He did not 
 feel the water which trickled on his neck, and on 
 his hands. "A man fifty years old! It is a shame 
 to persecute me! She is right! I am not fit to 
 live." He did not know where he was going; he 
 fled; the wind blew in squalls. "She has driven 
 me away! I have no longer any one upon the
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 279 
 
 earth. No one! What a life I have had! And 
 this is the end ! I have been like the others I am 
 a wretch Yet, you began better, my poor Clo- 
 quet ' Begone, begone ! You must not return ! 
 It is a shame to persecute me.' Cloquet, it is to 
 you that that has been said! Be at peace, Ma- 
 dame Heilman; I am going far away, I shall not 
 return." He made his way with difficulty against 
 the wind and the rain; the mud held his boots; 
 the cloud like a roller pressed upon the dead earth 
 and the closed houses. 
 
 Cloquet breathed with difficulty; he looked at 
 the soaked ground which fled under him. The 
 cold, the darkness, the weariness, the shame, the 
 sorrow of a whole life, all mingled together, caused 
 a mighty madness which developed under the 
 furious driving rain, in that mist which weakens 
 the blood. A flight of blackbirds, ravens, cur- 
 lews, and lapwings, flew close to the ground before 
 Cloquet, who stopped short: " Leave me alone, 
 all of you ! Touch me not ! I am already unhappy 
 enough!" The wings passed in the tempest. He 
 tried to see where he was. On leaving the farm, he 
 had taken the road which cuts across the fields 
 and passes by the village of Quarouble, then follows 
 along Quievrechain. All the blood of his body 
 had gone to his face, and sounded the charge 
 around his brain. Cloquet, with his haggard 
 eyes looked over the houses of Quarouble, unde- 
 fined in the rain on his left and he thought: "I 
 have but to find again the road of Valenciennes, 
 and I will throw myself under the train it passes 
 often enough. No one will even recognize me
 
 280 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 when I am dead." He hesitated. Shame pushed 
 him on. Blind instinct held him back. Were 
 those voices which came borne on the wind, from 
 the direction of Pain-Fendu? No. The vast 
 farm was effaced, drowned, obliterated by the 
 tempest of rain. The thread of twisted mud 
 across the fields had no other passer-by but the 
 drover. Cloquet saw far away, in front of him, 
 a little light ; doubtless the window, lighted by the 
 fire of some house on the edges of Quievrechain that 
 reminded him of Quievrain, which was quite near, 
 and of the butcher, his friend. His poor, tired, sick 
 brain made an effort to remember a date. What 
 had he said, Hourmel? What day had he spoken 
 of? Was it the 17th? A journey? His memory 
 did not respond. His ideas became confused. "I 
 do not know. He will no longer be there. If he 
 were, he would pity me/' And it was this vague 
 hope, this half-memory which prevented Gilbert 
 from turning off to the path which rejoined the 
 car track. He started on again, drenched to the 
 skin, exhausted, unable longer to think, drunk 
 with misery. And in the storm he reached Quie- 
 vrechain, crossed the hamlet, entered Blanc-Mis- 
 seron, and mounted the small ascent of Quievrain. 
 Then, suddenly, at the end of his strength, having 
 opened the door of his friend Hourmel, he fell at 
 full length into the warm room. 
 
 Two hours later he awoke in a bed near which 
 Hourmel was watching. The butcher took the 
 hand of the poor Nivernais and said : 
 
 "Well, well, old man, are you better? What
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 281 
 
 possessed you to come in such weather? I'll bet 
 you lost your way." 
 
 There was still a grain of delirium in Cloquet's 
 glance. 
 
 "I had thought that I was not like the others, 
 Hourmel; I am like them; I have nothing to live 
 upon." 
 
 "Don't be afraid!" replied the butcher, making 
 a sign to his friend to be silent; "don't be afraid! 
 As long as I have bread, you shall not want keep 
 quiet! You are already better." 
 
 His wife entered as he said this. She could not 
 explain to herself just what had happened. But, 
 far better than her husband, she felt that poverty 
 played but a small part here. She said in a cau- 
 tious voice. 
 
 "It's a pity you are leaving to-morrow, Hour- 
 mel. He needs to be consoled, that man there. 
 It is his soul which is sick. You should give up 
 going to Fayt." 
 
 "I will do better than that." 
 
 "What, then?" 
 
 "I will take him with me." 
 
 "He may not be willing to go." 
 
 "Wife, Gilbert Cloquet is our friend. If we 
 could put him on the path?" 
 
 "So be it," answered the wife. 
 
 The next morning, Saturday, Gilbert rose as 
 late as if he had been drinking too heavily the 
 evening before. He wished to take leave of 
 Hourmel. But the latter kept him. 
 
 "I am going on a journey this evening," he said
 
 282 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 to him. " It was planned a long time ago. Since 
 you say I am your friend, don't let's separate, 
 come with me?" 
 
 " Where?" 
 
 "To Fayt-Manage, which is not very far from 
 Quievrain." 
 
 "What are you going to do there?" 
 
 The butcher hesitated a moment before reply- 
 ing, began to laugh in spite of his embarrassment, 
 and said: 
 
 "My friend, there will be there a good many 
 Belgian comrades who will do the same thing. It 
 is a party which we go on every year, as many as 
 can. You do not know anything about that, you 
 people of Nievre. But that is exactly what you 
 lack. Besides, you will not be obliged to do as 
 we do. Come only out of friendship for me. 
 Promise it?" 
 
 And Gilbert said yes. He was tired of life; he 
 was afraid of being alone. And in the evening he 
 took, with Hourmel, a train which carried them 
 at first to Mons, then, about seven o'clock, to 
 La Louviere. 
 
 The weather had cleared up. They went on 
 foot from La Louviere to the hill of Fayt-Manage.
 
 XIII. 
 
 FAYT-MANAGE. 
 
 THE night was clear. They followed a long road, 
 which was neither country nor village nor town, 
 sometimes bordered by hedges of fields, some- 
 times by close rows of low houses, sometimes by 
 the walls of factories, or by iron railings behind 
 which one could imagine a thicket, a little wood, 
 and the broad open roof of a villa. 
 
 Other similar roads crossed this one and went 
 up or down. In the hollows, there were curves of 
 meadows which lost themselves in the dusk. 
 Then came workmen's houses, rows of gas lights 
 placed one above the other upon a slope and the 
 red light of a coffee house, where shadows moved, 
 succeeded to these short spaces of unoccupied 
 land. 
 
 Two hours before, as they entered the station 
 of Quievrain, to buy their tickets, Hourmel had 
 said to his companion: 
 
 "I do not wish to take you by surprise, my 
 poor Gilbert. You have followed me with confi- 
 dence, but I must tell you what I am going to do 
 at Fayt. Last May I promised to go there. 
 I, with many others, hundreds and thousands of 
 Belgian comrades, have the custom of going 
 there, from time to time, to pass three days in a 
 
 283
 
 284 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 house of retreat. It is beautiful, our house at 
 Fayt; we are well off there, we live together; we 
 hear talk about religion. We think of something 
 else besides our business. My heart is never so at 
 peace as it is during these days. But all the same, 
 if you are afraid, you must not come." 
 
 "We will see," answered Gilbert; "when I 
 have given my word, I do not take it back." 
 
 Hourmel added laughing: 
 
 "You will not be the first Frenchman whom I 
 have brought with me. They will receive you 
 well. It will cost you very little. And then, if 
 you want my opinion, since you are so sad, you 
 need to see something new." 
 
 There was even more reason than he knew. 
 What did it matter to Gilbert whether he went 
 here or there? His greatest fear was to find him- 
 self alone to be seized again with the terrible 
 thoughts of abandonment and death, which he felt 
 approach at the first moment of silence. That is 
 why, all through the journey, he had seemed 
 almost gay, questioning his companion unceas- 
 ingly. A feeling of gratitude besides attached him 
 to Hourmel. He liked him not only for taking 
 him in and caring for him, but for another reason 
 still, for not asking him: "What has happened at 
 Pain-Fendu? Have you been sent away? Did 
 you leave voluntarily, and why?" No, Hourmel 
 had been satisfied with the vague words: "There, 
 also, I had more trouble than I could bear." 
 
 They had been walking for half an hour. Be- 
 hind them a group of men came. They were evi- 
 dently young, from the gayety of their voices,
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 285 
 
 which rang out in the night. Hourmel pointed 
 out with his finger, a belfry on the hill among the 
 leafless trees. 
 
 "That is the church," he said, "the house is 
 not far off." 
 
 At that moment the three men who were fol- 
 lowing and who were about to pass Hourmel, 
 stopped, and one of them said : 
 
 "Ah! It is you, old fellow? You needn't say 
 where you are going! I am going there too!" 
 
 They were three workmen of the region, two 
 metallurgists of La Louviere and a watchman from 
 the railway. Each carried a small valise or a 
 hand bag. After having named them, Hourmel 
 presented his companion: 
 
 "A Frenchman, one of my friends, who is 
 coming to see how things are done with us." 
 
 "It is no secret," answered the watchman, 
 smiling. 
 
 A few steps farther on they were joined by four 
 miners of Borinage, who came from the other side 
 of the hill. The road began to go down. On the 
 left, in the wall following the slope a wide door- 
 way with two swinging doors stood open. The 
 Belgians entered in groups and, without waiting, 
 as if at home, surrounding Gilbert Cloquet who 
 looked on curiously. He found himself in a gar- 
 den sloping upward. A gravel path led around 
 a circular grass plot. Beyond and barring the 
 garden was a large two-storied chateau of white 
 stone. Shadows were moving about at the foot 
 of the steps, without doubt new arrivals, and at 
 the top, another shadow held out at arm's
 
 286 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 length a lamp which the wind caused to smoke 
 badly. 
 
 "This way, Chermant! Ah! It is you, Henin, 
 and you, Derdael! How do you do! It is cold, 
 isn't it? Come in quickly." 
 
 "Who is the man who holds the light?" asked 
 Gilbert. 
 
 "A Jesuit father! They are the ones who 
 preach here." 
 
 "I never saw one before. He looks like any 
 other priest." 
 
 He mounted the steps of the stairway, and was 
 presented by Hourmel, without being named, 
 simply as a French friend, to the priest who 
 held the lamp and who did not ask anything 
 more. 
 
 "All right, my dear Hourmel. You will lodge 
 him next to you. Welcome, sir. Ah! Here come 
 some others!" 
 
 And he leaned again over the balustrade. 
 
 Gilbert entered a well-lighted room full of 
 workmen in their Sunday clothes, nearly all of 
 whom were young like those he had met along the 
 road, and who were talking, and calling to each 
 other without ceremony, and running noisily 
 through the corridors. 
 
 "Ah!" he said, "how many of you will there be 
 to sleep here this evening?" 
 
 "Between eighty and ninety," answered Hour- 
 mel, hurrying him along. "There is not room to 
 lodge more. Come, I am going to show you your 
 room." 
 
 They went up to the second floor. The view of
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 287 
 
 the interior astonished Gilbert less than the aspect 
 of the fagade. The rooms were very clean, it is 
 true, but without gilt mirrors, without great cur- 
 tains, without flowered counterpanes, such as he 
 had seen at the house of the Count de Meximieu, 
 or at Monsieur Jacquemin's; there was an iron bed 
 with white sheets and a counterpane, a table, a 
 wash stand of painted iron, one chair, and white 
 walls. The most agreeable impression was that 
 of warmth. Houses are well heated in Belgium. 
 The comrades were noisy, but harmony and good 
 humour seemed to reign; they knew each other; 
 they played school-boy jokes; the majority had 
 come several times to Fayt. "That is my old 
 room ; tell me, father, shall I take it again? " " No, 
 it is already assigned." Even the priests seemed 
 to him gay, and he, being sad, was alone of his 
 kind. "What have I come here for?" He felt a 
 rising sense of anger against himself, and he said 
 to himself that the next day, the next evening at 
 least, he would be able to go away without being 
 impolite. The preoccupation of not being rude 
 and a little curiosity held him. He had supper in 
 a large hall, below the chapel, and listened with- 
 out comprehending much, with a stupor caused 
 by the novelty of this mingling of reading and 
 repast, to a workman in a jacket, who was read- 
 ing aloud, lighted by a lamp, and perched in a 
 pulpit on the left wall. 
 
 "Well, Gilbert," asked the butcher when supper 
 was over, and as the farm labourers and the fac- 
 tory workers of Belgium settled themselves in a 
 vast room adjoining the dining-room, and lighted
 
 288 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 pipes or cigars, "Well, you are not cross with me 
 for having brought you?" 
 
 "I do not know to-day, but to-morrow, it 
 might be so." 
 
 The other began to laugh and as the groups 
 formed, broke up, and formed again continually 
 around the Nivernais wood-cutter, their broad 
 fun, their companionship, and their faith, aroused 
 again in him the grief of solitude. 
 
 Good people, doubtless one of them came to 
 talk with Gilbert and questioned him about 
 French farms but so different from those whom 
 he knew! 
 
 He followed the crowd, about half-past eight, to 
 the chapel where the eighty men in retreat 
 chanted a canticle and responded to the evening 
 prayer recited by a young man from Flanders, 
 broad-faced and broad-shouldered, who uttered 
 the words in a thoughtful voice, in a voice which 
 expressed the faith of all youth, and which pene- 
 trated their hearts. 
 
 "Who is that?" demanded Gilbert. 
 
 "An employee of the dairy," replied his neigh- 
 bour, "a youth who shoots a bow like William 
 Tell. He brought down the parrot last Sunday." 
 
 The central altar was of oak wood, which Gil- 
 bert judged to be of good quality, and well-joined. 
 At the base of the altar was written, in letters of 
 gold: "Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanctus!" 
 
 The wood-cutter of France listened with atten- 
 tion, and more than once with astonishment, to 
 the first address made that evening in the chapel 
 of Fayt. The preacher was a very large and very
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 289 
 
 heavy man, seated behind a table, who from the 
 beginning mopped his forehead with a large 
 white handkerchief which he kept in his hand. 
 But how valiantly and forcibly he spoke! He 
 had the soul of the people, that man, and when he 
 ceased speaking, you imagined that you heard 
 his heart which continued to say: "I love you, 
 my poor people, and my life belongs to you." 
 
 Nevertheless, Gilbert went to his bed without 
 joy and fell asleep. The Belgian wind rattled the 
 panes. 
 
 The next evening, having listened again three 
 times to the priest who was conducting the re- 
 treat, having sung in common, and endeavoured 
 with ennui to think in the solitude of his chamber 
 during the "free time," Gilbert resolved to go 
 away. After supper he went up to a priest who 
 was talking with some of the Belgians, a man of 
 fifty, who had carved in his face many hollows, 
 much suffering, and that transparency of soul 
 which embellishes ruin and explains it. He did 
 not know him. He did not look for him. He met 
 him. He was one of the Jesuits of the little band 
 of missionaries of Fayt-Manage, but not the one 
 who had preached. Gilbert looked at him only, 
 without taking any part in the conversation 
 which was lively and commonplace as it must be 
 after a day of unaccustomed fatigue of mind. 
 The father separated himself from the group and 
 came to Gilbert : 
 
 "You wish," he said, "to speak with me?" 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur le Cure"." 
 
 "Come outside, then; it is a beautiful night."
 
 290 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 He opened the door of the corridor where he 
 stood, in the current of men, like a buoy which 
 stops bits of passing rushes, and he went out 
 with Gilbert. The night was blue, starry, silent. 
 A few voices penetrated it, coming from the steps 
 of houses built on the side of Joliment. The priest 
 walked slowly along beside the wood-cutter in an 
 avenue of the park which made a gentle ascent 
 to the chateau and which appeared immense in 
 the semi-obscurity. 
 
 "You will pardon me if I use the familiar 
 'thou.' It is our custom with those we love. We 
 are not formal in this country." 
 
 "Oh! I don't mind that. Monsieur le Mar- 
 quis at home always spoke to me that way, and 
 also Monsieur Michel. Some people don't like it. 
 But it makes no difference to me." 
 
 "Well! my friend, what do you want to say to 
 me?" 
 
 Under the heavy shoes of the two men the sand 
 creaked; the cold wind drove some scattered 
 clouds, and it would have been sharp to the pe- 
 destrians, without the shelter of the wall. Gilbert 
 waited to speak until he was far from the house. 
 
 "I am going to leave you to-morrow morning," 
 he said. 
 
 "Already?" 
 
 "I did not come to share the retreat myself, 
 I came out of respect for the butcher of Quievrain, 
 and to tell the truth, I hardly know why." 
 
 "The hand of God is gentler than that of man," 
 said the priest. "It has led you without forcing 
 you, and now you want to go away? I regret it
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 291 
 
 for your sake, but you are entirely free. Only 
 you must take your coffee to-morrow morning. 
 I do not want you to leave fasting." 
 
 "You are very kind. I won't refuse that, but 
 how much do I owe you? " 
 
 "Nothing, my good friend. The comrades pay 
 twenty sous a day for everything. But you who 
 have remained only one day, I am not willing that 
 you should pay. You have been an invited guest, 
 a dear passer-by, whom I regret." 
 
 The words sank into Gilbert's heart through 
 that closed door of human tenderness. For a long 
 time no one had spoken so to him. He had 
 reached the place where the avenue turns and 
 passes before a thicket of shrubs, where there is a 
 statue of the Virgin with the Child. Gilbert looked 
 on the other side at the long lawn almost white 
 under the moonlight, and beyond it, behind the 
 arches of the leafless branches, at the facade of the 
 house, with all its windows aglow in the night. 
 Sounds of voices and bursts of laughter rose and 
 died away. 
 
 "Tell me, you have not been bored here?" 
 
 "Oh, no! Not that! You can say so to the 
 preacher. I saw that he had no contempt for poor 
 people and I saw, too, that he felt friendship for 
 us. That is what I need sadly." 
 
 "You are unhappy?" 
 
 The wood-cutter's only answer was a sob. He 
 controlled himself, ashamed of his weakness, and 
 coughed to show that he was not crying. 
 
 "Say nothing, if you do not want to, my poor 
 friend. But if to speak of your sorrow can do you
 
 292 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 good, speak to me of it. We shall doubtless never 
 see each other again. And then, you know, you 
 will tell me nothing new. I have heard all the 
 miseries of life." 
 
 "I am all alone," said Gilbert, "I am at the 
 end of my hope." 
 
 "Your wife has left you?" 
 
 "No, she is dead. It is my daughter who has 
 been so ungrateful, and so wicked, that I cannot 
 even tell you what she has done. I am ashamed 
 of it." 
 
 "Had you other children?" 
 
 "No, she was the only one. And even before 
 she had left me, my comrades had turned their 
 backs on me; I helped them with their union; 
 I worked to have justice." 
 
 "And they rewarded you ill? Of course." 
 
 "They beat me. I would not help them to do 
 wrong, and they said then that I was old." 
 
 "You are not so at all. You are still young in 
 appearance." 
 
 "To you I can say, Monsieur le Cure*, that 
 they are right. I feel that I am growing old." 
 
 "Is that all? You have relations?" 
 
 "No. There is only one man who has never 
 betrayed me. I cannot say that I would have 
 voted for him no, because he is a noble; but 
 I love him all the same. And when I came away 
 to the land of the Picards with the oxen, you 
 understand, he was already so ill that I do not 
 know if he is still alive." 
 
 "Then, what is there left to you?" 
 
 "Nothing, Monsieur le Cure; I am all alone."
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 293 
 
 "You are mistaken there, my good friend! 
 God is left to you, and he waits for you." 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 "Between you and me. You do not know Him, 
 He has made you come here so that you may hear 
 His name. Listen to me, for I see that you have 
 an upright soul. I am going to leave you; I am 
 wanted; I must occupy myself with others, but 
 nevertheless, I am unwilling that you should go 
 away in sadness to death. Have you a good 
 memory?" 
 
 "Yes, unfortunately, I remember everything." 
 
 "Even words?" 
 
 "All those that I understand." 
 
 "Then, after the prayer this evening, in your 
 bed, do not go to sleep at once. Pass over in your 
 mind the things that you have heard and which 
 have touched your heart; in the silence you will 
 understand better; and when you leave us, I shall 
 feel that at least it is not without a little light, 
 and without a little consolation." 
 
 They had walked back near the right wing of 
 the great house. Through the slits of the window 
 shutters the light from the lamps struck the sand. 
 The abbe stopped; he extended his arms like 
 those of the cross, and he said : 
 
 "My brother and my friend, embrace me!" 
 
 Gilbert felt a heart beat against his heart which 
 loved him. He did not even know his name. 
 
 In the silence of the house of retreat, at half- 
 past nine, when the lights were extinguished, and 
 when, all along the corridors, in their rooms, the 
 companions had commenced their sleep, Gilbert
 
 294 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 Cloquet went over in his mind the words he had 
 heard. 
 
 Whole phrases returned to him as they had 
 been said, with their accent, with the fraternal 
 and divine life which they contained. 
 
 "My poor brother, provided you choose it, you 
 are rich. Your work is a prayer, and the ap- 
 peal to justice, even when it mistakes the tem- 
 ple, is another. You raise your spade, and the 
 angels see you; you are surrounded by invisible 
 friends; your pain and your fatigue spring up in the 
 harvest of glory. Oh! What joy not to be judged 
 by men! He, He is infinite pity, boundless good- 
 ness! He seeks every upright soul. He has 
 pardoned the blindness of the spirit. He has 
 pardoned especially the sins of the heart and 
 the senses. He has been severe only to the hypo- 
 crites. All the others he draws them to himself, 
 God does not revile us. His reproach comes in a 
 glance. Lift up only your eyes, my brother, and 
 you will read the pardon even before the re- 
 proach." 
 
 Gilbert thought: "That is fine. I am, then, 
 something noble, I, who believed myself merely 
 refuse!" 
 
 And other words flowed through his memory 
 like a tide. 
 
 "We are being tested. The bell which rings 
 has been through the fire. You struggle to gain 
 your living, and that is a most noble duty; you 
 go out in the morning to work, you are in the 
 noise, in the dust, or in the shadow of the mine,
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 295 
 
 or in the rain and the cold. He among you who 
 thinks of his wages and of the rest which he will 
 take in the evening is not wrong. He who thinks 
 of his children and of his wife has more courage. 
 If you would only think of God, you would have 
 much courage. You would suffer no longer. But 
 that is, perhaps, beyond your comprehension to- 
 day. In any case, you would no longer be violent, 
 but strong; no longer envious, but ambitious, and 
 no longer slaves, but free. Have not your fathers 
 had their unions, their corporations, their banners 
 and their struggles also? They won liberty. 
 Upon their fraternal shoulders they raised their 
 syndics as high as the nobility. After a noble life 
 they had a glorious death. You are only half men 
 because you have been confined to this present 
 life and forbidden to leave it even in thought. 
 And you have allowed this! You are much 
 poorer than you suppose. You have not the 
 earth, and you have no longer heaven. my 
 well beloved, I want to give you back your soul, 
 that beautiful working soul, which sings as it la- 
 bours, which grows rich in justice, and which flies 
 back to God in the light." 
 In another meditation, the priest had said : 
 "The enemies of the church continually ask 
 themselves how far they can do it harm with- 
 out hurting themselves. But you, they always 
 harm. You are the ones whom the evil word 
 wounds first, because you have no great defence 
 against error; you are the grass which is always 
 cut, over which they continue to drive their 
 wagons full of hay. As soon as they see the point
 
 296 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 of your mind rising toward heaven, they mow you 
 down, they shorten you, they only leave you your 
 root and the right to shoot up again. But they 
 watch jealously, and the grass is never tall." 
 
 He said again: 
 
 "I call you, as did Saint Vincent de Paul, who 
 spoke thus: 
 
 " 'My heart burns with the fire of charity. Ye 
 poor of the world, I carry you in my heart. Come 
 to me, your poverty calls me. Sons of vice, come, 
 children without mothers, refuse of sin, hearts in 
 peril, come!' 
 
 " You are a marvel which amazes me, you work- 
 men, who have come here for the retreat! When 
 I think of the many difficulties you have in order 
 to get a glimpse of religious truth, and the many 
 others which you have to come here, I feel that I 
 am your admirer as much as your friend. You 
 have so little luggage when you arrive: A paper 
 sack, a pair of shoes and a shirt at the end of a 
 stick. But the luggage of truth which your mind 
 carries is still much smaller. And its thieves can- 
 not be numbered. Do you know what I believe? 
 I believe that you are the forerunners, the first- 
 called of the crowds who will arise everywhere, 
 from the mines, the factories, the fields, the hov- 
 els, and the garrets, demanding again the heaven 
 for which they are thirsty. You demand it of 
 God, you! The others, they will demand it from 
 men, with pistol shots and fires, in revolts, howl- 
 ings, ruins, blasphemies; they will knead the 
 land to see where it has been hidden, the
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 297 
 
 portion of infinite joy, the tiny piece of ra- 
 dium which does not exhaust itself; they will 
 destroy what they covet, to see what pleasure 
 there is in the abuse of power! They will strew 
 the streets with money which should have served 
 for alms, they will have everything, except what 
 they are looking for. You imagine that it is 
 bread which you need? A little. But the famine 
 is deeper. It is God whom you need. Pray to 
 Him with me." 
 
 The priest had spoken of many other things: 
 of sin, of death, of redemption and of the family. 
 In the last meditation he had praised hope as if 
 he had divined the secret trouble of Gilbert : 
 
 "My well-beloved, what is life without the 
 faith in paradise? A horror. You suffer; you 
 abhor yourselves; you say it to each other; you 
 prove it; you fight for the five francs that your 
 neighbour has laid aside; for a rabbit skin which 
 he may have more than you. Self-interest is sad, 
 always; it is discontented, always. But by the 
 hope of paradise, the whole face of the world is 
 changed! You try, indeed, to make life more 
 easy, and that is every one's right. But how you 
 rise above it! How it loses its sorrow! The beg- 
 gar! If it laughs so much the better; but if it 
 weeps, even trouble has its value. We are no 
 longer afraid of it, nor of death. Have you ever 
 thought of that? To find ourselves, all of us, not 
 only with our parents, our children, our friends, 
 but with the. noblest of all the races, of all the 
 ages! The full assembly of all the brave, all
 
 298 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 the good, all noble souls chanting the same halle- 
 lujah! What heirs you are! I counsel you to be 
 proud of it and to despise no one. Some of your 
 comrades will be there whom you will be amazed 
 to meet. You will go up to them: 'Well, you 
 were a notorious scoundrel ! I was, but one mo- 
 ment has redeemed me.' However low you may 
 have sunk, as long as you live hope is there, she 
 descends with us to the depths of the abyss; you 
 have only to call her and she lends you her wings." 
 
 All this, everything indeed, that he had heard 
 came back in the silence, and sank deep into the 
 wood-cutter's heart. Lying in bed, his eyes 
 closed, he had never before had so many consecu- 
 tive thoughts, such springs of tenderness and of 
 regret, so many memories which fought some for 
 and some against. Finally he said: "I will go." 
 The tears came to his eyes and flowed very softly. 
 A matin bell rang. Without knowing why, he sat 
 upright, he placed himself on his knees, as he was, 
 upon his bed, and he sought for words to say. 
 Finding none, he made a great sign of the cross. 
 It was the only prayer which he remembered. It 
 put him to sleep, as if sleep had waited for this 
 sign to descend. 
 
 The next morning he got up but he did not go 
 away. 
 
 The evening of that same day, which was Mon- 
 day, he went to find the priest with whom he had 
 made the tour of the park, and he received abso- 
 lution for all that there was to be absolved in his 
 poor life. It was late. Like others, he had put
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 299 
 
 off to the last moment this confession which cost 
 him much. On leaving the cell of the priest, he 
 felt as light as a fly in the sunshine. Before open- 
 ing the door, he rubbed his hands with satisfac- 
 tion. He opened it and saw four companions who 
 were waiting and he said to them: 
 
 "It is your turn! There is nothing to be afraid 
 of, you know!" 
 
 "Bravo, le vieux!" they replied. 
 
 He followed the corridor to the end, entered his 
 room and opened the window which looked out 
 upon the park. The air, which was cold, seemed 
 balmy to him. There was undoubtedly a certain 
 joy fulness floating about in the night. The 
 stars spoke to Gilbert, and bade him good-morn- 
 ing. He breathed deeply, in full breaths, his head 
 uplifted, and it seemed to him that he had still a 
 child's heart in his breast. And it was of his 
 childhood, that very distant past, that he dreamt 
 at first, of the days at La Vigie, the days when 
 Mere Cloquet waited for her boy, every Sun- 
 day, on the topmost step of the church. "I have 
 been a long time coming, mother," he said, "but 
 here I am." Then he thought of the next day, 
 and his face saddened. He lighted his lamp and 
 gazed at himself in the little round mirror, which 
 hung upon the wall. "That is not possible," he 
 murmured, "that is not suitable." And, going 
 out of his room, he went and tapped at HourmePs 
 door. 
 
 The butcher had begun to undress. 
 
 "What do you want, Gilbert?" 
 
 The wood-cutter showed him his necktie, once
 
 300 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 green but now stained and faded by the heavy 
 wetting it had received, and he said gravely: 
 
 "I do not think that I can do this with such a 
 cravat." 
 
 "It is certainly not handsome. Do you want 
 mine?" 
 
 "No. With us, we are vain, Hourmel. When 
 my daughter, who is named Marie, took her first 
 communion, she was the best-dressed girl in all 
 Fonteneifles. And my Easter, you see, ought to 
 be like Marie's. For more than ten years, and 
 even more than twenty, I have kept it waiting." 
 
 "That is true," said Hourmel, so as not to 
 oppose his friend. 
 
 He sought to collect his thoughts all the mus- 
 cles of his- heavy face grew tense and he remem- 
 bered that one of his comrades before coming to 
 Fayt had been at a wedding. 
 
 "He will lend you his white cravat, old man, 
 and you will have the air of a prince. I will go 
 and ask him at once." 
 
 He went. The next day, in the midst of the 
 eighty men assembled in the chapel of Fayt, there 
 was one who wore a white cravat, "to celebrate 
 his November Easter." He was the son of Mere 
 Cloquet. 
 
 When they saw that he remained at Fayt, espe- 
 cially when 'they knew that he had returned to the 
 faith, the Belgian comrades showed him their 
 friendship, which expressed itself in many ways; 
 in smiles, words, and shaking of hands, tactfully 
 and fraternally. "Well!" said one, "you must 
 be satisfied!" then afraid of having offended the
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 301 
 
 wood-cutter: "It was just what happened to 
 me, you know. I was behind in my account for 
 several years, and now I am out of debt!" An- 
 other said: "Tell me, you who are from the other 
 side of the frontier, do you not find this strange? 
 Three days ago I did not know you, and to-day it 
 is as if we had lived together always." Gilbert 
 replied: "Yes, when we arrived here we were of 
 all kinds; now there is only one kind." A great 
 number of them gave him invitations; those 
 whose rooms were near his, or who sat near him 
 at table, miners or metallurgists of La Louviere : 
 "Come and stay a while with us?" 
 But Gilbert thanked them and answered : 
 "I cannot; I am going back with Hourmel, 
 and after that I have my own country which I 
 must see again." 
 
 The whole of the night preceding the "Novem- 
 ber Easter" he had thought over what he must do.
 
 XIV. 
 
 THE RETURN. 
 
 HE left Fayt-Manage on Tuesday in the after- 
 noon, in company with the butcher of Quievrain. 
 On foot, side by side, they travelled again the road 
 from Fayt to La Louviere. Gilbert was silent. He 
 asked himself if the joy which he felt did not come 
 from the companionship of the Belgian mission- 
 aries and workmen, from the park and the chant- 
 ing, from the presence of these things and their 
 novelty. But no; as he went away, he felt that 
 the peace was within himself, and living. At La 
 Louviere, they took the railway train. The light 
 was fading, although it was not late. It was cold; 
 it was cloudy. The roadsides, planted with trees, 
 the fields, sowed or ploughed, bordered with houses, 
 the knolls of the coal-mines, the hamlets where 
 twenty factory chimneys smoked above the 
 sprouting wheat all these passed by, and yet 
 his contentment did not pass. Pressed close 
 against each other, the collars of their jackets 
 turned up, silk handkerchiefs around their necks, 
 the two men, seated upon the same bench, watched 
 the fleeing landscape as it was swallowed up in the 
 shadow. The butcher named the villages, the 
 people, and the farms. He had returned to his 
 
 302
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 303 
 
 every-day thoughts. Not so Gilbert. With his 
 arms crossed, he pressed his thin garment and 
 covering closely against himself, and he did so 
 undoubtedly to protect himself from the cold, 
 but also secretly, to hold within bounds a certain 
 young voice, which longed to speak, to cry out, 
 to break loose; and which was his happy soul. 
 And not being accustomed to it, he was aston- 
 ished at this joy which lasted. 
 
 "Well," said the butcher, when they had 
 arrived at his house at Quievrain, "I think that 
 you have changed your mind and that you will 
 stay at least until. to-morrow?" 
 
 "I cannot, even with you; I must go back to 
 my country. I wished never to see it again, be- 
 cause I suffered there. Now, do you know why 
 I am no longer afraid to return there?" 
 
 "I can imagine- that," answered the tranquil 
 Belgian. 
 
 "You can imagine it because you have always 
 been as I am now. But I am astonished at what 
 I am doing. I return to my people because I have 
 no longer the same heart; sorrow makes no dif- 
 ference to me." 
 
 And as Hourmel insisted on keeping his friend, 
 Gilbert said: 
 
 "My strength has grown, but I begin to grow 
 old, and I think that I shall die a poor man." 
 
 This he said in the presence of HourmePs wife 
 who, attentive and moved, was holding a lighted 
 lamp before the faces of the two travellers. She 
 would have liked to know what had happened. 
 Yet when she heard Gilbert speak, she did not
 
 ask any question. She said, letting all her soul 
 be seen in her worn, transparent face : 
 
 " Husband, we must not hold back those who 
 are going to their duty. There are too few of 
 them. Monsieur Cloquet will leave us after he 
 has had a glass of beer." 
 
 After the two men had touched their glasses 
 together, Gilbert bade farewell to the butcher 
 and to Madame Hourmel. And, all alone, he 
 plunged between the houses of Quievrain toward 
 the frontier of France and toward his new destiny. 
 
 The train soon carried him to Onnaing. Then 
 Gilbert was seized with anguish. He was about 
 to see again the farm of Pain-Fendu. Until then, 
 this thought had only passed swiftly through his 
 mind between two long moments of calm, like a 
 shower. Now it did not leave him. Must he not 
 go in, settle his accounts, and get the few clothes 
 left in the loft? He took the street which went by 
 the church. In the factories the furnace fires 
 were extinguished. At the doorways, children 
 were eating a piece of bread before going to bed; 
 men were standing, breathing in the night air 
 after so many hours in the workshops; they were 
 illumined by the lamps within, and their garments, 
 weary like themselves, hung in soft folds along 
 their bodies. Gilbert, in passing, envied them 
 because they had a shelter. A great wave of pity 
 for himself tempted him and said to him: "Yield 
 to me." When he reached the plain and knew 
 from the gigantic shadow which it made in the 
 desert of the fallow land that the farm lay before 
 him, he was afraid. "It is not Heilman, however,
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 305 
 
 whom I fear," he thought. "If he wishes to beat 
 me, I will let myself be beaten for the first time in 
 my life. I have deserved it." No, he was afraid 
 of himself, of a desire which he felt stirring and 
 growing in his heart, that of finding himself near 
 the wife of the foreman and of saying good-by to 
 her. "Oh! Only for a moment. I would ask her 
 pardon. I would tell her that I am all changed!" 
 He made a great effort not to listen to these voices 
 which troubled him, and he strove to think, as he 
 walked along, of his oxen, and of each of the ob- 
 jects which he had brought from Nievre and 
 which he must soon pack up. The dark walls rose 
 before him; the gables of the stables, the sheep- 
 folds, the house, the barn, already detached 
 themselves vaguely the one from the other in 
 the night which had grown milky and chill. And 
 he still felt, in the depths of his heart, the growing 
 of this voluptuous desire of which he had emptied 
 his soul but which sprang up again. 
 
 At this hour the servants would have finished 
 supper. Some of them were, doubtless, smoking 
 or chatting before the great gate. Gilbert did not 
 go as far as that. Cutting across the fields he 
 turned toward a small gate, opening into the en- 
 closure of Pain-Fendu, on the side of Onnaing. 
 Luckily it was not locked. He had only to lift up 
 the wooden panel, using a stone as a lever, and the 
 gate turned on its hinges. The orchard was de- 
 serted and so was the long passage which bordered 
 the warehouses, the forge, and the first cow- 
 sheds. Gilbert on reaching the back of the court 
 saw only a single man by the bed of manure where
 
 306 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 the Picardy cattle were sleeping; a day-labourer, 
 who did not recognize the silhouette of the Niver- 
 nais, and who kept on putting the beet pulp into 
 the feeding troughs. He hid himself for a mo- 
 ment behind the corner post of the shed. Heil- 
 man's voice could be heard in the dining-room 
 and then in the corridor. The foreman appeared 
 upon the threshold. Gilbert saw him shake the 
 hand of a servant who, having finished his supper, 
 was going back to the village. He went forward 
 rapidly, crossed the court and mounted the steps 
 of the stairway. 
 
 ''Monsieur Heilman?" 
 
 The latter had opened the door of the dining- 
 room, but he bent back, turning his head in the 
 direction of the passage from whence the voice 
 came. His eyes, already reaccustomed to the 
 light of the lamp, made an effort to adapt them- 
 selves to the shadow. 
 
 "Ah! It is you, Cloquet? Enter!" 
 
 Gilbert felt weak. He went up the steps; he 
 entered, and at first looked around him. Madame 
 Heilman was not in the dining-room where she 
 had, as usual, just put everything in order. The 
 bright lamp was upon the table, the chairs were 
 ranged along the wall and the coffee pot stood 
 near the extinguished fire, read}'' for the next 
 morning's coffee. Heilman remained standing, 
 leaning against the high end of the table, and 
 facing the door. He looked disdainfully and dis- 
 trustfully at this stray drover who came back, 
 no doubt, to ask for work after his spree. He 
 had seen many of them before, these adventur-
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 307 
 
 ers, crossing frontiers, coming from the West or the 
 East, drunkards or debauchees, wanderers in any 
 case. He had seen too many to get angry with 
 them. He waited several moments, surprised that 
 Gilbert did not excuse himself. 
 
 "You have given a fine example!" he said. 
 "A four days' spree and I took you for a steady 
 workman! My wife, indeed, said to me: 'He will 
 do something rash!' She could not understand 
 it, on Saturday evening, when you went away. 
 But you are like the others, without interest in 
 your work. Where have you been?" 
 
 Gilbert made a vague gesture : 
 
 "I have seen a great deal of the country," he said. 
 
 "And now you would like to come back? I 
 understand that; but I must warn you. I have 
 replaced you, I have hired a young man who was 
 passing, some one probably who is no better than 
 you. The kind one picks up in these days." 
 
 "No, I do not ask to be taken back; I am go- 
 ing home." 
 
 "Ah! That's good! I will pay you, then. 
 Monsieur Walmery will reimburse me." 
 
 The foreman opened one of the cupboards and 
 came back with his hand plunged in a linen bag of 
 which he had untied the string. He clicked upon 
 the table, one by one, the pieces of gold "one 
 hundred francs, hundred and twenty, hundred and 
 forty, that makes up the sum and generously?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Now, my man, I have a letter for you. It 
 came at noon." 
 
 He opened the table drawer and drew out the
 
 308 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 letter. Gilbert recognized the post mark of Fon- 
 teneilles. He left the pieces of gold upon the 
 table, took the letter, and tore open the envelope. 
 He had not read two lines, when his eyes filled 
 with tears. 
 
 "Ah! Mon Dieu!" he said, "Monsieur Michel 
 is dead!" 
 
 He stopped reading. His arms fell at his sides. 
 The tears rolled down his cheeks and his beard 
 and he did not dry them, and he did not hide his 
 face. 
 
 "He died on Sunday. It is Etienne Justa- 
 mond who sends me word. My friend is dead!" 
 
 Heilman, although little sensitive to the sor- 
 rows of others, was touched by this grief. 
 
 "Who was he, then? One of your relations?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "He was not your master?" 
 
 "I have none. He was a noble, Monsieur 
 Heilman. I had mowed for his father, and then 
 for him. He loved us, he talked with me; he 
 would have changed the country." 
 
 He counted upon his fingers: 
 
 "Five hours from here to Paris, then six or 
 seven. I shall arrive, perhaps, too late for the 
 funeral." 
 
 Heilman shook his head to give more impor- 
 tance to his reply. He admired in the bottom of 
 his heart this passer-by, and he regretted him. 
 
 "You are a curious man, Gilbert. You are the 
 first one whom I ever heard speak in this way. 
 Listen, there might, perhaps, be a way to arrange." 
 
 "What? Is there a train at once?"
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 309 
 
 "I know nothing about that, and that is not 
 what I want to say. No, Cloquet, but I might 
 be able to keep you." 
 
 Gilbert raised his arms as if he were coming out 
 of a dream. 
 
 "No! No! You must not propose that to me. 
 I might accept it. Let me go." 
 
 He approached, swept up the gold with his two 
 hands, and thrust it in his pocket. At this mo- 
 ment, the door which led from the dining-room into 
 the room of Heilman opened. A woman appeared 
 in the half opening, her head partly turned 
 toward some one following her who was speaking 
 to her. 
 
 "Gilbert!" caUed Heilman. "Gilbert! At 
 least come and say good-by to your mistress?" 
 
 But Gilbert had disappeared. He fled. He was 
 already in the court. He reached the shed and 
 disappeared in the darkness. Heilman would 
 have followed him and called him back but his wife 
 stopped him. She had the wise speech to which 
 men yield. 
 
 "Let him go," she said. "You do not know 
 him well; he is a man who has had many griefs." 
 
 Gilbert had entered the cow-shed. In an in- 
 stant he had folded the clothes which he had left 
 in the corner of the loft. He fastened the pack- 
 age with a leather belt, and threw it on his back. 
 Then he took his stick. Passing behind his six 
 great oxen, who were eating at the rack, he slack- 
 ened his step. 
 
 "Adieu, my oxen! Work well with the other 
 man. I am going back home."
 
 310 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 One of the oxen gave a short bellow. 
 
 "He answers me," said the drover. 
 
 He had recognized Griveau, who had a deep 
 voice, and short breath. And he continued his 
 way swiftly, recrossing the orchard to the little 
 open gate in the wall of the enclosure. 
 
 He was soon upon the drenched fallow lands 
 and then upon the road which leads to Onnaing. 
 The fields were level and bare. The village slept. 
 There were still some trails of smoke, blacker than 
 the shadow and beaten down by the east wind. 
 The man no longer thought of the farm which he 
 was leaving. All his imagination and all his heart 
 were in Nievre. He groaned, he repeated: 
 
 "Monsieur Michel I shall never see again! My 
 friend is dead!" When he reached the station, 
 he asked: 
 
 "I wish to go to Fonteneilles, which is in 
 Nievre. Will I be there to-morrow morning?" 
 
 "Train 2916 passes in a few moments. Get 
 your ticket for Paris. At Paris, they will tell 
 you, if they know where your place is." 
 
 Gilbert got into a compartment where there 
 was only one other traveller. He stretched him- 
 self out on the seat, his bundle of clothes under his 
 head, and he closed his eyes, but sleep did not 
 come to him. Gilbert continued to think of the 
 next day, and the work and the trouble of the 
 days to come. And at last he said: 
 
 "I shall live my new life as if Monsieur Michel 
 saw me."
 
 XV. 
 
 THE PASSING OF THE MASTER. 
 
 MICHEL DE MEXIMIEU died, almost suddenly, on 
 Sunday night. The news ran over the country 
 faster than a galloping horse. "Monsieur de Fon- 
 teneilles is dead. The old one? No, the young. 
 It is a pity; he was the better of the two; he 
 was not proud." Monday and Tuesday, at the 
 angelus, morning and evening, the bells of Fon- 
 teneilles rang for a long time to announce the 
 death. All the forest trees, all the underbrush, 
 all the thickets on the hills shivered at the pas- 
 sage of their voice, and a few souls who had loved 
 Michel de Meximieu shivered also. For twenty- 
 four hours the chateau remained entirely closed, 
 empty and dumb. Then they began to transform 
 the vestibule into a chapel for the dead to lie in 
 state. An unwonted animation broke the silence 
 of the avenue, of the court, and of the neighbour- 
 ing barns. At the summons of the Marquis, who 
 arrived Monday evening, the workmen of the 
 country and the employees of Corbigny flocked 
 there. The noise of saws and hammers rose round 
 the walls. Curiosity, a little human pity, and a 
 little regret were roused at the same time. The 
 carriages from neighbouring chateaux came down 
 the avenue; peasants came, only a few at first, 
 
 311
 
 312 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 and then more, emboldened by numbers, "to give 
 the holy water": others, who did not enter, un- 
 covered themselves before the door and wandered 
 around for a moment in the grounds which death 
 had opened to all. 
 
 They met the Marquis here and there. He 
 superintended every detail; gave orders, and 
 ruled at Fonteneilles for the first time; greeted 
 from a distance, respected, obeyed at his slight- 
 est word. His grief had reestablished him in 
 authority and almost in friendship. He said: 
 "Madame de Meximieu was unable to come; she 
 is crushed; pity her." Sorrow inspired him with 
 phrases not in his usual manner, which the hearts 
 of all men understood. They thought: "How he 
 suffers, to be gentle like that!" The names of 
 the farmers, the farm servants, of the shepherds, 
 at least of the oldest, he remembered as well as 
 those of his own cavalrymen. "Mehaut, my 
 friend, go and open the family vault; do what- 
 ever is necessary; I do not want strange hands to 
 touch the resting place of our dead. He would 
 not have allowed it. Go, my friend, I know that 
 all will be well done." Again he said: "Monsieur 
 PAbbe, I shall be grateful to you all my life for 
 having been with him at his last hour. You took 
 my place, without doubt, better than I could 
 have done ; you understood him better. We were 
 so different, he and I! Education, occupations, 
 ideals even. Ah! Monsieur PAbbe, I suffer for 
 not having known my son. I have suffered for a 
 long time on account of these differences, but I 
 did not fathom them until after his death. It is
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 313 
 
 he who was right. And now we are separated 
 forever after having been strangers to each 
 other all our lives." 
 
 Wednesday at dawn, Renard and the sacristan, 
 the cart-wright and the farrier of Fonteneilles 
 finished nailing in the interior of the church and 
 before the door which opens upon the cemetery 
 the long black draperies, sewed with those tears 
 which are the image of so many others and which 
 do not fall. The parish had only old, very short 
 hangings; they had sent to Corbigny to get all 
 the funeral material of the best quality. The 
 men made haste, aided by the village workmen. 
 They opened cases of tapers; they erected, at the 
 entrance of the truncated nave, a catafalque 
 higher than the people of the hamlet had ever 
 seen, "so splendid, with feathers at the corners." 
 The merchants' wagons which went up the slope 
 on a walk, stopped; children, old women, and 
 young mothers with their little ones by the hand, 
 stood around the wall of the cemetery, chatter- 
 ing, and at times drew near the door, to look in. 
 An odour of stuff, such as floats from draper's 
 shops, of wax and of mustiness, filled the old 
 church and made the air heavy. 
 
 The hour had come. In the great sandy court 
 before the chateau, a large crowd assembled. It 
 made two moving masses: one to the right, at 
 the entrance of the avenue, the other, the largest, 
 on the side of the common. They were the men 
 from Fonteneilles, from the neighbouring hamlets, 
 from Corbigny and elsewhere, workmen, day-
 
 314 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 labourers, artisans, small landed proprietors, 
 merchants and among them there was a sprink- 
 ling of women, veiled in mourning, or dressed in 
 the canette of their grandmothers. They talked 
 in a low tone. The confused noise of voices grew 
 loud by starts and then again died away almost 
 entirely. In the space left the carriages moved at 
 a walk; they stopped before the chateau, and 
 then ranged themselves in line in front of the 
 stables half hidden by a clump of trees. They 
 were of all fashions and of all epochs, automobiles 
 or landaus bringing relations or friends of the 
 Meximieus, the cab of the notary, the tilbury of 
 a business man, jaunting cars or English carts of 
 the large farmers of the region, hacks hired by 
 the travellers at some near-by station. ' ' That is a 
 carriage from Touchevier of Saint-Saulge ; that 
 one from the hotel de la Poste, that one from 
 Monsieur Cahouet of Corbigny. Ah! there is 
 Monsieur Honore* Fortier." The farmer of La 
 Vigie came on foot, wearing a silk hat, very alert 
 still and ruddy in spite of his age, scarcely open- 
 ing his thin lips to reply to the greetings mur- 
 mured on all sides, those lips closed since child- 
 hood by the secretiveness of the peasant. "Do 
 you know that fat man who is passing? He is the 
 wood merchant of Saint-Imbert. Have you seen 
 Monsieur Jacquemin? No, nor Mademoiselle 
 Antoinette." Their eyes followed the carriages; 
 people pushed each other forward to see better, 
 trying to distinguish the faces behind the raised 
 panes of the coach doors, to surprise words, 
 gestures, the faces of the newcomers who en-
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 315 
 
 tered the chateau through the door hung with 
 black, behind which vague shadows moved. The 
 crowd increased continually. Few peasants went 
 down the avenue. They came in small groups, 
 from the woods and the fields, along the fences 
 made of tree branches and the paths, avoiding the 
 open spaces where they would be exposed to the 
 fire of so many eyes. The court was as crowded 
 as the square on a market day. At nine o'clock 
 there arose a great commotion. All heads turned 
 in the same direction. Abbe Roubiaux, preceded 
 by the " cross of gold" draped with crepe and 
 with a group of choristers, was seen at the top 
 of the avenue. Behind him came the hearse from 
 Corbigny. It was the second time that "the town 
 hearse" had come into the country of Fonte- 
 neilles. The first time it came to bear away the 
 body of a stout lady, who had begun life by being 
 a nurse in Paris, and who had returned to her 
 native place to die, having become very rich, no 
 one knew how. But it was not the same carriage ; 
 there were not the two caparisoned, plumed 
 horses, or the carriage covered with black and 
 trimmed with silver; no, it was quite a different 
 thing. 
 
 "What a poor hearse!" 
 
 "For a Count, too!" 
 
 "It would be good enough for people like us, 
 common people, as they call us." 
 
 "Only one horse!" 
 
 "And not a fine one. You can count his ribs. 
 His tail is not even combed out." 
 
 "Do you understand why?"
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 316 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "No. Perhaps the Mayor of Corbigny was not 
 willing to let the big hearse go out." 
 
 "Politics, then?" 
 
 "Who can tell? A noble, with only one horse 
 for his funeral, that is something I never saw 
 before. There is enough money in that house, 
 too! More than thirty thousand francs, that the 
 Marquis got from the sale of his woods!" 
 
 "You are all wrong! Renard, the guard, has 
 just told me the reason!" 
 
 Thirty persons gathered around the man who 
 knew. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "It appears that the Count made a will. He 
 asked for the first class at the church, and the 
 fourth to carry him there." 
 
 "He wanted the priests to make the most." 
 
 "Do you know what astonishes me? It is that 
 he did not ask to be carried by the men of his 
 farm." 
 
 "Perhaps he did not wish to tire them. He 
 was capable of thinking of that." 
 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 Abbe" Roubiaux recited the prayers and the words 
 floated above the assembly and by their power of 
 discipline silenced the noise. Heads were uncov- 
 ered. Suddenly there came an absolute, touching 
 silence, the result of poignant emotion. The car- 
 riage took up its march, and in the framework of 
 the doorway, through which his son, lying in his 
 bier, had just passed, the father appeared, mag- 
 nificent and sorrowful, grown white in four days, 
 his face uplifted, the glance of his blue eyes fixed
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 317 
 
 before him upon the wreaths of chrysanthemums 
 and autumn roses laid on the top of the funeral 
 car, his frock coat closely buttoned on it, above 
 his heart, a red point shone clearly his silk hat 
 held in his ungloved right hand, his left hand 
 gloved, hanging motionless. Everybody looked 
 at him. He saw no one. He walked with a mili- 
 tary bearing and seemed like one advancing to the 
 sound of a fanfare which chants the mourning of 
 the entire world. His reputation for courage and 
 wealth, his rank and his years gave him im- 
 portance; and grief added its consecration. 
 Many men felt tears springing to their eyes, and 
 the worst enemies of the chateau found this 
 nobleman very brave and very worthy of pity. 
 He walked slowly, dominating the crowd, his 
 white beard and his moustaches alone trembling 
 in the wind. 
 
 All the friends, the neighbours, the clients, and 
 the whole country follow. At the end of the 
 avenue of beech trees, the small, sorry-looking 
 horse which dragged the hearse turned to the left, 
 and the body of Michel, late Comte de Meximieu, 
 left forever his beloved land of Fonteneilles. 
 
 At that point a man joined the procession. It 
 was Monsieur Jacquemin. He did not wish to 
 enter before the time into the domain which was 
 now his. The bells tolled. The forest trees in the 
 background grew smaller. And before the first 
 houses of the hamlet, upon the square, hi the 
 cemetery, and on the terrace which surrounds the 
 tower of the church, many women and men also 
 waited for the passage of the long procession.
 
 318 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 When the nave, the two arms of the transept, 
 and the choir, were crowded with people, the 
 walls on every side rubbed by the people's shoul- 
 ders, the service began. The flames of the wax 
 tapers did not dissipate the shadows gathered by the 
 hangings. They shone like sparks arrested in their 
 flight and nailed on the darkness. The officiating 
 priest stood near the communion table. In the 
 central aisle, between the benches, a new proces- 
 sion was formed, that of the men and women 
 who had known the dead man, and who, to 
 honour him, were going "to the offertory." Abbe* 
 Roubiaux looked at these parishioners whom 
 death and not God had brought to the church. 
 "She is their mistress," he thought, "she raises 
 the cross again above them." They came in two 
 ranks; they kissed the silver crucifix; lips differ- 
 ing greatly in respect and love, sluggish, disdain- 
 ful and unaccustomed lips ; lips which, at all times, 
 blasphemed, but did not dare at this moment to 
 refuse the traditional gesture; lips of old women 
 who pressed the metal at the pierced feet of 
 Christ, and seemed to wish to devour it. And all, 
 both the men and women of Fonteneilles, after 
 kissing the crucifix, placed one sou or two sous 
 in the tray which a chorister standing near the 
 officiating priest held out to them. The rich and 
 the poor filed past. The poor had taken the 
 money for the offering not from their pocket, but 
 from another tray, upon which was heaped a mass 
 of copper coins, which the guard of Fonteneilles, 
 watching carefully the people who took, held by 
 the side of the holy water font. All the parish
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 319 
 
 had known Michel, and nearly all gave for the 
 repose of his soul, because their ancestors had be- 
 lieved, had loved and had hoped fraternally. 
 
 Another priest of the district had replaced 
 Abbe Roubiaux at the offertory, and the proces- 
 sion went on, and the dry sound of the sous 
 dropping upon the platter, sometimes the sound 
 of a kiss, were mingled with the chants for the 
 dead, the appeals for mercy, and the promises of 
 resurrection and eternity. 
 
 The General, standing in the first row to the 
 left, moved only an arm, which he raised now and 
 then to the height of his eyes. 
 
 And when the mass was finished and the abso- 
 lution given, the father went out, recrossing the 
 nave. He took his place on the top step of the 
 church portal, his back to the flight of steps, in 
 the full light, replying with a sign of his head to 
 all the congregation who passed near him. He 
 did not hear the words which they addressed to 
 him: "General, I pity you; General, I shall not 
 forget him." He waited. He looked repeatedly 
 at the coffin placed there before him, upon the 
 edge of the path which crossed the cemetery to 
 the most frequented and the most honourable 
 place near a large raised slab of marble, marked 
 with a cross and bearing the inscription: "N'a 
 failli Meximieu." Six workmen of Fonteneilles 
 had borne the body to the threshold of this dwell- 
 ing, which it was to enter, the last but one of his 
 name and last hope of his race. The six men were 
 fine looking and thoughtful, affected by the place 
 and by the apparatus of the things of death, and
 
 320 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 by the glance of the General, which they imag- 
 ined to be resting upon them. Again chants were 
 raised; a benediction descended upon the coffin. 
 The cemetery was crowded; there were men, 
 children, and women between all the tombs and 
 even upon the wall of the enclosure. And the 
 gray sunlight appeared and disappeared, covered 
 by the passing mists. 
 
 Then, when the priest had finished the prayers 
 and reentered the church, from the top of the 
 steps the father extended his arm. A second 
 time silence fell upon the vast crowd. "People of 
 Fonteneilles," said he, "my family is ended; my 
 son is dead; me, you will see no more! During 
 four hundred years, the Meximieus have lived with 
 your fathers. I constitute you the guardians of 
 the tomb of this child, and of my ancestors who 
 sleep here. When you pass, let those who still 
 know how to pray, pray for my son. He loved 
 you. You did not understand him, not entirely. 
 I have no right to reproach you, for no more 
 did I, until recently, know what he was w r orth. 
 He was better than we are. You will learn from 
 your priest that he died thinking of you. I have 
 not the strength to speak of these things. I say 
 to you only, he was a brave man; do not forget it. 
 Try also to be more just toward those who will 
 take his place upon the land of Fonteneilles. I leave 
 you. But I beg the poor to allow me to give them 
 myself these tickets for the distribution of bread. 
 Come my friends! And to all the others, adieu!"" 
 Murmured words replied, here and there : 
 "Has he made a donation to the board of
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 321 
 
 charity? Or could it be a hospital which he had 
 given for Fonteneilles? But no, he had not even 
 his lawful portion, Monsieur Michel. He lived on 
 the property of his parents." 
 
 The guard came up with a package of bread 
 tickets, each one for twelve pounds on the baker 
 of the hamlet. The Marquis went down to the 
 last step, that which touched the ground, uneven 
 and hollowed here into a shell by the feet of the 
 faithful of all ages. The poor came, arranging 
 themselves in a procession, the lame, the knock- 
 kneed, the humpbacked, the old of the village or 
 of the neighbouring villages, rovers of the forest, 
 old women in black mantles like nuns, mothers 
 who dragged a group of children after them. 
 And to each one the old Marquis gave twenty- 
 four pounds of bread. "In memory of Michel 
 de Meximieu!" he said. The procession was long; 
 the Marquis, firm as he was, closed at times his 
 eyes to keep himself from weeping; the people 
 said to each other: "It is true that he was a good 
 man, Monsieur Michel; we would perhaps have 
 understood each other in the end." Again they 
 said: "They are going to sell Fonteneilles now. 
 The Marquis has no longer the courage to return, 
 and he is selling his land. For he has no need of 
 money, he is worth millions." 
 
 "In memory of Michel de Meximieu," repeated 
 the Marquis upon the lowest step of the church. 
 
 Near the tomb a young girl, kneeling in the 
 grass, bowed and overwhelmed by her grief and 
 indifferent to all the rest, was weeping. They had 
 not seen her come. She was there. The women
 
 322 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 especially were moved with pity and said: "It 
 must be that she loved him, the poor little one! 
 What a fine couple they would have made, and 
 kind to the poor!" 
 
 There were still left to be served a dozen poor, 
 who made a file of some yards long to the right of 
 the Marquis, when a man, arriving by the road 
 and pushing through the groups which were be- 
 ginning to go down, came up the steps of the 
 cemetery. As he was a tall man, the whole 
 assembly saw him. A great murmur arose: 
 "Gilbert Cloquet, back from the Picards! Look 
 at him ! His beard has grown white, but he looks 
 well all the same! Where is he going? He is 
 passing between the tombs. Perhaps he wants to 
 speak to the Marquis?" 
 
 He did want, in fact, to speak to Monsieur de 
 Meximieu, and, thinking it scarcely polite to 
 address him in front and to disturb the distribu- 
 tion, he gained the part of the enclosure where 
 the procession of the collectors of bread which 
 was now finishing had formed. He took his place 
 in the last rank, behind a woman who was drag- 
 ging a child, and he waited his turn, treading like 
 her upon the grass. People noticed him. He, his 
 head erect, and his beard motionless upon his 
 closely buttoned jacket, had only eyes for this 
 grand old noble, who stooped rhythmically and 
 who said so sadly: "In memory of Michel de 
 Meximieu." They were soon face to face. The 
 master of Fonteneilles, whose sight was blurred 
 by his tears, did not recognize the reaper of his 
 meadows, and extended to him a slip of paper
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 323 
 
 upon which were two written lines. But Gilbert 
 said, very low, so as not to offend him : 
 
 "I am not yet in need, Monsieur Philippe; I 
 only wanted to speak two words to you." 
 
 "Ah! It is you, my poor Cloquet ! Come up to my 
 side to tell me the two things; I hear you badly." 
 
 When the two men were standing upon the 
 same step of the flight, all the crowd thought: 
 "He is as tall as the Marquis, and even a little 
 more so to-day, because the Marquis bears too 
 much sorrow." 
 
 "I want to tell you that I loved Monsieur 
 Michel well, that I shall always keep him in my 
 thoughts. I have come from farther than Paris 
 to do him honour." 
 
 General de Meximieu grasped the hands of 
 Cloquet, and pressed them. 
 
 Cloquet continued: 
 
 "You are going away, Monsieur Philippe. Do 
 not be troubled about the flowers. I remain, and 
 I will watch over him. During my life, I will put 
 flowers on his grave." 
 
 A sob answered him, then the words: 
 
 "I trust you to do it." 
 
 And Gilbert Cloquet withdrew and disap- 
 peared in the crowd. Then General de Meximieu 
 descended the steps and went down the narrow 
 path on whose edge were the coffin, the wreaths, 
 and the grave-digger stupefied with wine and 
 who seemed sad. Suddenly a silence of pity fell 
 upon the cemetery, the road, and the square. 
 Even those who could see nothing were silent. 
 Antoinette Jacquemin was no longer there. The
 
 324 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 General stopped, inclined his head and made the 
 sign of the cross; then, instinctively, by force of 
 habit, or perhaps for some secret reason, at the 
 moment of turning away he again carried his 
 hand to his forehead and gave a military salute. 
 Straightening himself to his full height, he went 
 on his way. 
 
 He walked very swiftly. He fled. People 
 separated before him. 
 
 He crossed the square, replying to the greetings 
 with a feverish hand which touched the brim of 
 his hat. Two notaries followed him, some guards, 
 and some wood or land merchants, but he held up 
 his head and spoke to no one. The path went 
 down. The avenue opened before him. The 
 Marquis, without halting, raised his eyes toward 
 the edge of the forest which surrounded the walls 
 in a fair half circle. The anguish which seized his 
 heart was like that which he had felt upon the 
 battle-fields in 1870. A whole race had been 
 mowed down; four hundred years of memories 
 and of friendships were about to be blotted out, 
 and the last of those estates which had stood as 
 gems in the crown of the Marquis de Meximieu, 
 he, he had sold it. The windows were closed; 
 they would remain thus until the new master 
 opened them on the new era. The shadow alone 
 belonged still to the old master, his sign, his 
 mark, the mourning over everything. He entered, 
 making a sign to the importunate to wait. In the 
 vestibule was a package of letters, cards, and dis- 
 patches. Among them was an official telegram 
 brought within an hour. The General opened it
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 325 
 
 and made a gesture of anger. "In truth, they 
 might have gotten along without me ! Have they 
 never suffered, those people!" It was an impera- 
 tive recall to Paris, on account of a strike which 
 had just broken out. The Minister ordered: 
 "Take the first train, I need you." The Marquis 
 de Meximieu was alone in the vestibule of the 
 chateau. He tore the paper and crumpled up the 
 pieces, which he threw on the tiled floor. "So 
 much the worse ! I shall not go !" He had prom- 
 ised himself to go through for the last time the 
 bedrooms, the drawing-rooms, and the cluttered 
 attics of Fonteneilles; to receive the farmers; 
 and to point out to Renard the objects that must 
 be sent at once to Paris. There were sacred sou- 
 venirs. Madame de Meximieu had -made him 
 promise to bring back several himself. "This, 
 and again this which you will find in his room, or 
 in the smoking-room." He would do it. And, in 
 fact, he called the guard and walked toward the 
 stairway. But, at the moment of going up the 
 first step, he halted; he passed his hand over his 
 forehead as if to put aside a feeling of faintness. 
 
 "No," he said, "my duty as a soldier is at 
 Paris. I must go!" 
 
 He reappeared outside, leaving the door open, 
 and said to Renard who was hurrying toward him. 
 
 "Bring the auto." 
 
 When the machine was in front of the door : 
 
 "Gentlemen," he said to the group of men who 
 were waiting for him, "I will forward to you my 
 instructions from Paris. I am compelled to leave. 
 A matter of duty. Adieu ! ' '
 
 326 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 And, throwing himself into the carriage, with- 
 out looking back, he said to the chauffeur: 
 
 " Sixty kilometres an hour, Edward, we will 
 catch the express for Paris at La Charite." 
 
 At the moment when the automobile turned the 
 corner of the avenue and launched itself at full 
 speed upon the road to Lache, the sound of its horn 
 passed over the woods and over the village of 
 Fonteneilles. It was the last adieu of a race. The 
 women had gone back to their houses. Many 
 men had remained on the square before the 
 church, or gone into the public houses. Gilbert 
 Cloquet was talking before the door of the cafe* 
 Blanquaire in the midst of some two score of them. 
 He interrupted himself in the narrative of his 
 travels, and all listened to the sound of the horn 
 which was going away and steadily growing less, like 
 the sparks of a rocket. Neither the enemies, nor 
 the friends of the chateau made the least obser- 
 vation; the same serious thought restrained 
 them, a common feeling of the instability of hu- 
 man things changed their silence into secret 
 homage. It was only for a moment. Then a 
 worn voice, that of Lampriere, asked : 
 
 "See here, Cloquet, will you pay a round? 
 When one comes back home, one treats." 
 
 "That is true," cried the day-labourer. "I am 
 willing!" 
 
 "And then, you know, that won't keep you 
 from telling about your trip; and in Blanquaire's 
 we will be more comfortable than we are outside; 
 there is a nasty fog." 
 
 Cloquet raised his head. Enormous, heavy
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 327 
 
 clouds were drifting past, tossed by the wind, and 
 spitting down a frozen mist of rain. 
 
 "They come from the country which I have 
 just left," he said, " where the people are better 
 than their rain. Come on, who will follow me?" 
 
 He entered Blanquaire's, and most of the men, 
 who considered themselves invited by the glance 
 which Cloquet cast around the circle, entered 
 also. Several came out of the neighbouring 
 houses, or left the shelter of the church wall. The 
 long room of the cafe was filled with the uproar 
 of voices and with the grating of the heavy nailed 
 shoes on the tiles, and soon there were scarcely 
 three or four stools vacant around the wooden 
 tables, which were placed in double rows from the 
 door to the rear of the room. All the comrades 
 of the forest were there; Ravoux, who had gone 
 into the cafe while the Marquis de Meximieu was 
 still speaking, as a kind of protest; Supiat Gueule- 
 de-Renard, who arrived at the last moment, and 
 entered without invitation, with his restless eyes 
 and sneering mouth ; Durge, the one who broke the 
 first mowing machine of Fonteneilles; Gandhon, 
 the former cuirassier; Trepard, the huge wagoner 
 who never laughed except at the end of wedding 
 feasts; Mehaut, Justamond, Lampriere, and oth- 
 ers who, like them, were grown men; there were 
 also a small number of very young workmen, 
 whose youth drew them together and who called 
 to each other out of the tumultuous crowd of the 
 older men: "Etienne Justamond! Jean- Jean! 
 This way! I have a place for you!" During sev- 
 eral moments the hall of the cafe* Blanquaire was
 
 328 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 like the hall of an inn, taken by assault on a fair 
 day, by sellers and merchants shouting there as 
 they do without, in a hurry to drink, spending 
 through pride, masters of the public room and the 
 surroundings, of the wine and the landlord whom 
 they are able to pay and who must laugh. ' There 
 were the same cries, the same teasing words to 
 the two daughters of Blanquaire who brought the 
 bottles and defended themselves carelessly, just 
 as if used to it; the same hits about the skill of the 
 coffee-house keeper, the same noise of corks pop- 
 ping and of glasses clinking against each other. 
 But very quickly it was evident that one ruling 
 thought, a common curiosity, excited all these 
 men grouped in fours around the tables. Hands 
 pointed out Gilbert Cloquet; heads were turned 
 toward him. He had seated himself toward the 
 centre of the room, near the right wall, and there 
 was only one man beside him, quite a young one, 
 Jean- Jean, the whistler of Montreuillon, who had 
 taken his place at the upper end of the table. 
 Gilbert, his arms crossed by the side of his full 
 glass, looked at his old comrades whom he saw 
 again after several months of absence ; he felt that 
 he was observed, and he also observed them, 
 attentively, silently, like an old pilot who has a 
 head wind. Sometimes with a nod of the head, he 
 answered a comrade's good-evening. A voice from 
 the back of the room said : 
 
 "It seems that his opinions have changed. 
 They say that he is no longer one of us." 
 
 He kept quiet, but he raised his head a little 
 to see who was speaking. It was Ravoux, seated
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 329 
 
 in the back of the room, the centre of a compact 
 group. Another voice, vehement and loud, re- 
 plied from the other end of the cafe*, near the door: 
 
 "He does not hide it. You saw him speaking 
 to the nobleman just now. And a few minutes 
 ago, he said that the Belgians were better than 
 the lads of Nievre." 
 
 A murmur rose ; forms which were leaning over 
 stiffened up; and astonished, suspicious, or irri- 
 tated, questioned Gilbert Cloquet with their eyes 
 while the glasses were placed upon the tables. 
 
 He did not budge any more than a column. 
 Some of his neighbours, who were not very near 
 him, shoved back their stools. Supiat's banter- 
 ing voice went on : 
 
 "All the same, we must know what to count 
 on. The season is beginning in the forest. We 
 cannot have traitors among us." 
 
 Protestations interrupted him: 
 
 "He is not one! Cloquet, say that you are not 
 one?" 
 
 "I saw the way he spoke on the square, and the 
 way he saluted the church," continued Supiat, 
 "and I tell you that Gilbert Cloquet here has be- 
 come something like a clerical. I would not 
 swear that, among the Picards, they have not 
 made him take the sacrament!" 
 
 The sixty drinkers looked at Gilbert Cloquet. 
 He lifted his hat tranquilly and said : 
 
 "I have done so." 
 
 The men all rose. The wrath of their gestures 
 and their voices filled the room. They threat- 
 ened him with their arms; they called to each
 
 330 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 other from one table to another, from the window 
 to the door, from the rear of the room to the en- 
 trance. Many of the men cried: "Down with 
 Cloquet! Down with the skull-caps!" Others 
 shouted: "He is free! We are free!" Over- 
 turned stools fell upon the tiled floor. Supiat 
 whistled in a key. A formidable blow from a 
 fist, which made the glasses and bottles jump, 
 brought a half silence, and the deep-chested 
 voice, the voice which Ravoux, the president, 
 used at public reunions, proclaimed : 
 
 "Let him explain! We will judge him, com- 
 rades. Listen to him!" 
 
 They saw then that Cloquet was also standing 
 with his shoulders braced against the wall, that 
 his look was calm and that his arms were crossed. 
 
 "It is true," he said, "I have seen over there 
 comrades who loved each other better than we 
 do, and who lived better lives than ours. I might 
 have seen the same thing in France; but as 
 for me, I have seen it on the other side of the 
 frontier." 
 
 "No! No! Don't let him speak! Out of the 
 union, Cloquet! Put it to vote now, Ravoux; 
 there is a quorum!" 
 
 "Not yet!" cried Ravoux. "Let him speak!" 
 
 "Not yet," returned Cloquet, "I am blaming no 
 one ! My heart has not changed for the worse, on 
 the contrary; but I have seen that we do not have 
 real life, and I have come back to tell you where 
 it is. I will tell you once, twice, ten times, just as 
 long as I am alive. No one shall stop me ! I want 
 to stay with you. The justice that I used to long
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 331 
 
 for, I long for still, but I know now that it is more 
 beautiful than I ever imagined. And I follow it." 
 
 "Follow it alone! Enough! Put him out! 
 Bravo, Cloquet! No! Put him out!" 
 
 "Come, then, and put me out!" 
 
 "We are coming!" 
 
 In the increasing tumult, which Ravoux failed 
 to quiet by blows of his fist on the table, three 
 men, jumping over a table, ran toward Cloquet; 
 Tournabien, with his cat's face, Le DeVore, and 
 Lamprie're, completely drunk. A human wave 
 dragged along by them surged to the middle of 
 the room, spreading out in a half circle. But 
 at the moment when Cloquet, surrounded at a 
 distance, was preparing to defend himself, and 
 was unfolding his arms, the assailants and the 
 curious, the secret friends and the open enemies 
 stopped, and became suddenly silent. A new 
 sight confounded them all with the same amaze- 
 ment. A man had ranged himself along the wall 
 at Gilbert's side. Youth illumined him. He 
 smiled. He was slender and smaller than the 
 tall Gilbert; he looked up to him from his feet to 
 his head with affection as a younger brother looks 
 at an older one, and he said, in the silence, without 
 paying attention to the clenched fists: 
 
 "Monsieur Cloquet, I am on your side!" 
 
 Cloquet smiled with satisfaction, and showed 
 his white teeth. 
 
 "Ah, Jean- Jean, little wood-cutter of Mon- 
 treuillon, you have a heart such as few have ; but 
 do not take my part so quickly, betray me rather; 
 they might do you harm."
 
 332 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 The little man turned toward the excited mob. 
 
 "They are not all against you." 
 
 And, to show that he was right, two others, 
 who were about his age, making a way with 
 their elbows, stepped out of the ranks. They 
 came through some instinct, because a word of 
 honour or of friendship had touched them; they 
 took sides for the weak and for the unknown 
 God; they were pale, and one was fair-haired, 
 ruddy and freckled, and the other, his chest 
 still narrow but limbed like a cuirassier, had on 
 his chin the curly shavings of a brown beard. 
 Their eyes were quivering with restrained anger. 
 
 "You, too, Etienne Justamond?" said Cloquet. 
 "You, too, Victor M6haut? Ah! there are brave 
 men everywhere!" 
 
 And when the three young men were by his side 
 framing him, one on his right, two on his left, he 
 began to laugh aloud to keep himself from crying; 
 he reached out his arms, and placed them upon 
 the friendly shoulders, and he cried, and his 
 voice drowned the murmur of the room : 
 
 "Turn me out of the union if you want to, 
 comrades, this is my union! Is it not fine? 
 Nothing but young oaks!" 
 
 "No joking, Cloquet! No one is expelling you; 
 you are free! Come back, comrades, and take 
 up your glasses again!" 
 
 Ravoux interfered, Ravoux had felt afraid; 
 he felt that these young men acted in a new way 
 and had a certain disquieting look in their faces, 
 like that of dogs without a collar. Being an ex- 
 perienced man, he saw that a party of the wood-
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 333 
 
 cutters secretly admired Gilbert Cloquet; he had 
 guessed the ruling opinion and he spoke with au- 
 thority as usual; his pale, hairy hands pushed 
 aside the men and broke, the circle made around 
 Cloquet by Jean-Jean, Etienne Justamond, and 
 Victor Mehaut. 
 
 "I like that better," said Cloquet. "Come on! 
 my boys, take up your glasses. Unclinch your 
 fists. I will call upon you, if I have need of you." 
 
 He remained standing, while the men seated 
 themselves gradually around the tables. He 
 called Blanquaire, paid for the drinks of all who 
 were there, and then, raising his glass filled to the 
 brim with Narbonne wine, he emptied it at a 
 single draught. 
 
 "Adieu, comrades and friends! I must go and 
 see my house where I have not yet been." 
 
 He made a sweeping gesture with his hands, 
 as if to scatter his adieu over the crowd. Several 
 men cried: "Vive Cloquet! Thanks Cloquet!" 
 others with a movement of their head or their 
 eyes gave him to understand: "I am with you, 
 in my heart." Others appeared to hear and to 
 see nothing. He crossed the hall, slowly, halted 
 for an instant on the threshold, to show clearly 
 that he was not running away, and went out into 
 the street. 
 
 The noise of the dispute, the acclamations, the 
 outbursts of voices had roused the curiosity of the 
 neighbours of the cafe* Blanquaire. When Gil- 
 bert Cloquet raised his head to see whether the 
 weather had improved, he noticed faces behind 
 all the low window-panes of the houses; he even
 
 334 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 saw, at the high window of the rectory, quite 
 near the cafe*, Abbe Roubiaux leaning out, dis- 
 turbed, and wondering to himself: "Have they 
 killed some one?" 
 
 "I am not yet dead, Monsieur le Cure"," he 
 said. "And even if you should wish to read me 
 a little sermon, I have something to tell to you!" 
 
 The abbe, bare-headed, came out through the 
 latticed door and began to walk beside Gilbert, 
 in the direction of the forest and of Pas-du-Loup. 
 But the day-labourer did not tell him any im- 
 portant news. It was rather he who asked ques- 
 tions and made the abbe tell him about the last 
 weeks of Michel de Meximieu's life. At the place 
 where the path separates from the road, far from 
 the houses, far from ears which lie in wait for 
 words : 
 
 "Monsieur le Cure," said Cloquet, stopping, 
 "you must not go any farther. It is a great deal 
 to have made you come so far without telling you 
 the news. But I did not wish to be spied upon. 
 Monsieur le Cure*, whom do you think you have 
 before you?" 
 
 "Gilbert Cloquet, the wood-cutter." 
 
 "No, it is another man; I am converted." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Converted thoroughly, heart, body and spirit. 
 But you have not done this work. The Belgians 
 did it." 
 
 Rapidly, he told the story of his stay in the 
 country of the Picards and how he had been led, 
 almost without wishing it, to follow the butcher 
 of QuieVrain. He talked without taking his eyes
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 335 
 
 off Abbe Roubiaux, with a clear, satisfied, friendly 
 glance, which meant: "You see, indeed, that I 
 do not lie. I am not the same man who turned 
 away when you passed, or who did not under- 
 stand." The abbe did not always look at Gilbert; 
 at times, he raised his eyes above his friend, above 
 the earth, as Christ does in the paintings, when he 
 is going to bless the bread. And each time his 
 eyes came back from above, all glistening and 
 suffused with new tears. At last he said: 
 
 "I have worked, I also, during the time of your 
 absence; and you will see on Sunday, that sev- 
 eral have listened to me. But I am still much 
 alone, Gilbert; you will help me, will you not?" 
 
 "What a question! No one believes for himself 
 alone, Monsieur PAbbe! When I have had any- 
 thing good, I have always shared it." 
 
 "What a misfortune for us was Monsieur 
 Michel's death!" 
 
 "Yes, you may well say that. You, he, and I, 
 we were like a Trinity. But just we two to- 
 gether, Monsieur le Cure*, we are very strong, 
 because people respect us." 
 
 "And have you thought what you will do?" 
 
 "Yes, I will act as I did on the night before 
 the sale at Epine. There was a horse here, a cow 
 there, another somewhere else, some sheep in the 
 stubble field, and I brought them all home!" 
 
 He made a gesture as he used to do in the pub- 
 lic meetings, and his voice rose : 
 
 "And then, you know, I am staying in the 
 union. Old Gilbert is a comrade as before." 
 
 "You do well!"
 
 336 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "Even if you did not say so, I would think so 
 just the same. Only, Monsieur le Cure " 
 
 He bent down and he lowered his voice, be- 
 cause he was talking in confidence. 
 
 "Only, you will have to be like the priests of 
 the country of the Picards. They are friendly to 
 the poor people." 
 
 "I am also." 
 
 "The one who preached to us, when we looked 
 at him, we saw in his heart something which loved 
 us, and when he spoke, we would have said that 
 he was one of us." 
 
 "I shall know how; do not fear!" 
 
 Then the abbe asked : 
 
 "Give me your hand." 
 
 Gilbert reached out both of them. And the 
 abbe pressed them in his, a long time, and he con- 
 sidered, dumb with emotion, that ancient, beau- 
 tiful and necessary thing, the workman's hands 
 clasped in the priest's. 
 
 They separated. Cloquet went down by the 
 foot-path which leads to Pas-du-Loup. 
 
 It was two o'clock in the afternoon. The sky 
 was visible toward the mountains of Morvan. 
 But the houses of the hamlet, buried in the forest, 
 received only the overflow of the light which 
 passed above them. At this moment, they were 
 already in the dusk and the shadow, and one 
 would have said that night had begun for them. 
 Gilbert bent his steps toward one which was more 
 hidden than the others, and of which the window 
 was closed. He gave three loud knocks with his 
 cane.
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 337 
 
 Mere Justamond ran to the threshold of the 
 neighbouring house. 
 
 "Who is knocking? What, is it you, Gilbert 
 Cloquet! You are waiting for the key? I will 
 bring it to you." 
 
 She disappeared, and returned almost imme- 
 diately, flanked by her two daughters, Julie the 
 tall, and Jeanne the dumpy one. 
 
 "Well, my poor man, we had given up hoping 
 for you! See the house, how dead it looks! No 
 one has come to inquire for you for a long time." 
 
 "No one? You are sure?" 
 
 The good woman put the key in the lock and 
 said, struggling with her knee against the door 
 which resisted: 
 
 "No, nobody, not a Christian. Only Mehaut 
 the old tile-maker asked about the house. He 
 would have liked to rent it." 
 
 "He can do so, probably," replied Gilbert. 
 
 Mere Justamond, having succeeded in pushing 
 the door open, stood aside to let Cloquet pass. 
 But he dared not enter at first. The musty air' 
 which blew from within, the air which dies in our 
 homes when we are no longer there and all the 
 memories of the past stopped him on the thresh- 
 old. He wiped his forehead with his hand, as if 
 an insect had stung him, and stooping a little, his 
 eyes intent, he contemplated this poor cube of 
 shadow which had been the home of his joy, the 
 home of his sorrow, and which lived no more. 
 
 Mere Justamond only partly understood. She 
 shook her head, protruding her lips, like a person 
 who would like very much to know more but
 
 338 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 who dares not ask a question. She merely 
 asked : 
 
 "Then you did not get on in Picardy?" 
 
 Gilbert, without answering and without stirring, 
 asked in his turn, in a very low voice, which 
 trembled : 
 
 "Tell me, Mere Justamond, where is Marie? 
 Do you know? " 
 
 Julie Justamond, red like a squirrel, standing 
 by her mother, her teeth gleaming, answered: 
 
 "She was always a gad-about from her youth, 
 and she keeps it up." 
 
 Her mother gave her a box on the ear : 
 
 "Jade! That's for you! Forgive her, Gilbert, 
 she is still young. No, I have not had much 
 news. People have told me that she was at Paris, 
 with her husband." 
 
 "I will find her because she will have need of 
 me, Mere Justamond." 
 
 He turned his head toward the woman, who 
 pitied him when she saw him so disturbed, and 
 he said, bending down: 
 
 "I am going to begin again to work for her." 
 
 "For her, Gilbert! It's not possible! For a 
 daughter who has gone back on you!" 
 
 "Yes, one can come back from far away, you 
 see. She may return, even she!" 
 
 "Who has been sold out, who has " 
 
 "I know all that she has done, Mere Justa- 
 mond, but I know what I am saying. I am going 
 to begin again to work for her." 
 
 He went into the house and they saw him no 
 more, except like a shadow which advances un-
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 339 
 
 certainly. Then the women went away. The 
 hamlet relapsed into silence. There could only 
 be heard the rustling of the dead leaves blown 
 along the forest path. 
 
 Gilbert Cloquet remained more than an hour 
 in his house. When he came out and passed before 
 the house of Mere Justamond, he carried in his 
 hand a package rolled up in a handkerchief. They 
 were little articles, which he had not wished to 
 take with him to the country of the Picards, 
 among them some photographs of his wife and 
 his daughter, a small statue, two fingers high, all 
 smoked and formerly completely neglected, and 
 which was the only thing he had kissed on his 
 return. He walked slowly. 
 
 "My poor Cloquet," asked the good woman, 
 " where are you going, so sad like that?" 
 
 "I am going to do something which costs me 
 much to do," replied Cloquet, without stopping. 
 "But I must go " 
 
 She called: 
 
 "You will come back, at least?" 
 
 He made a gesture as if to say no.
 
 XVI. 
 
 THE RETURN TO THE FARM 
 
 HE saw the sunlight again, on leaving the forest, 
 but the days had begun to shorten, for it was the 
 month when the earth sleeps for a long time. The 
 road which led to Fonteneilles was deserted. 
 The men and women who had been present at the 
 funeral had scattered across the country, and 
 their minds, too, had returned to their own affairs. 
 Gilbert went up alone. Yet, as he crossed the 
 hamlet, he was seen by the women and girls who 
 were idly dreaming and plying their needle behind 
 the windows. Ten faces, young and old, ten 
 pairs of eyes followed the man who walked in the 
 middle of the road. 
 
 "Were is he going?" 
 
 He looked at no one. His head was bent and his 
 little bundle was still in his hand. 
 
 "Where is he going? He has on his best 
 clothes. He is not going toward the woods; no, 
 he is going toward the upper part of the hamlet; 
 there he is in front of Durge's house; he is not 
 stopping. He is already growing smaller. He is 
 far away. Can it be? Yes, that is it! He is 
 going up to La Vigie!" 
 
 He was going up, in fact, to La Vigie. For 
 twenty-three years he had not once followed the 
 
 340
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 341 
 
 bit of road which goes from Fonteneilles to the 
 summit of the hill on which the farm house was 
 built, and then down on the other side. When he 
 had to go to Crux-la- Ville, he chose to prolong 
 the trip by going around the green hill, rather 
 than to see again the walls which he had left and 
 to risk meeting the master of the land on the land 
 itself. He had left the market place behind him 
 now, and he was on the last ascent, which is 
 straight and regular. He glanced neither to the 
 right nor to the left, but he raised his head, and 
 there above, level with the sky, he watched grow- 
 ing larger and moving in measure with his steps, 
 the outline of the roofs and of the broken stones 
 whose name was La Vigie! The years which he 
 had spent there, the best ones, those of his youth, 
 rising above the dust and the stones which had 
 fallen upon them, came back to life in the mind of 
 Gilbert. He saw all the past living again, and the 
 countenance of Monsieur Honore Fortier, on the 
 day when they had separated. For Gilbert this 
 stern, smooth shaven face, round and knotted, 
 had never changed, never grown old; it lived, 
 transfixed in an expression of anger, disdain and 
 defiance. Now they were going to meet again; 
 Gilbert had changed, but had the other, the one 
 who never left La Vigie, except to go to fairs 
 in the red spring cart? 
 
 As the double hedge of the little road which 
 joins the farm to the highway, and the rounded 
 ash tree which hides still the edge of the forest, 
 and the stables half concealing the house, "the 
 manor" which is built on the left side of the court,
 
 342 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 grew larger as he approached them, Gilbert Clo- 
 quet slackened his steps. "Have I indeed grown 
 old? "he thought. 
 
 The sun shone again for a little while before it 
 disappeared. 
 
 When the wind of the plateau blew upon his 
 damp brow, Gilbert stopped at the entrance of 
 the little road of the farm. He was within fifty 
 paces of La Vigie ; he saw, on one, the widest side, 
 Monsieur Fortier's house, then the court leading 
 down from it, and in the rear the pig-pens and the 
 hen-house, and quite near, forming the third side 
 of the court and showing its longest side, the ox- 
 stalls, the cow-sheds, the barn and the stable with 
 the pigeons on the roof. The farm seemed to be 
 deserted. 
 
 " Perhaps he is away," murmured Gilbert. 
 
 He entered by the road, and advancing to the 
 middle of the court, stood there, facing the door 
 of the house, which was closed. On his left, shel- 
 tered by the wall of the cow-sheds, two young 
 servants of La Vigie were unharnessing a mare and 
 unyoking four oxen, and they began to point at 
 the newcomer, and to laugh at him. He paid no 
 more attention to them than to the gnats which 
 were dancing around him. He did not take his 
 glance away from the door of the farm house. 
 He waited, leaning with one hand upon his staff 
 of thorn, his bundle placed near him upon the 
 ground. More than five minutes passed, and then 
 Gilbert raised his hat. He had just seen Madame 
 Fortier, all white, behind the window. The door 
 opened, and Monsieur Fortier appeared on the
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 343 
 
 threshold. But he did not come forward. Gil- 
 bert's old master, the rich farmer, now the chief 
 personage of the community, examined in his 
 turn this day-labourer whose intentions he was 
 trying to discover. Across the court, from one 
 man to the other, thoughts and silent questions 
 and answers went and came. An ill will as violent 
 as on the first day swelled the heart and made the 
 shaven lips of Monsieur Fortier tremble. He was 
 on the point of crying out: 
 
 "Get out of here, Cloquet, my court is not for 
 servants who have left me!" 
 
 But he noticed that the day-labourer had his 
 hat in his hand, and he said, half lifting his arm. 
 
 "Come nearer, if you have any reason for com- 
 ing before me." 
 
 "I have," said Gilbert. 
 
 He came, still keeping his eyes raised, so that 
 Monsieur Fortier might be able to read the mind 
 of his old servant. He halted at three paces from 
 the flight of steps, and he replaced his hat. 
 
 "Monsieur Fortier, I did you a wrong when I 
 left you twenty-three years ago." 
 
 "Do you think I have forgotten it? I am as 
 angry with you as on the first day." 
 
 "Monsieur Fortier, I would like to repair the 
 wrong which I did you. I would like to come 
 back to La Vigie." 
 
 "You have taken your time about it, Gilbert 
 Cloquet ! Is it because you have no more strength 
 that you come back to me?" 
 
 "Come, now!" said Gilbert, raising his cane 
 slanting like an axe.
 
 344 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 "Then, it is because you have no more money?" 
 
 "Listen," said the man, approaching a step, 
 "you cannot reproach me for having lost my prop- 
 erty to pay my daughter's debts. Yes, I want to 
 earn my bread, and I am able to earn it anywhere, 
 Monsieur Fortier! I come back to you because of 
 the justice which I owe you, and because I shall 
 be less alone here where I was young." 
 
 "I told you twenty-three years ago: 'Even 
 when you are old, never will I take you back.' 
 I have but one word!" 
 
 "I, too, Monsieur Fortier, I said: 'I want to be 
 my own master.' Now, I think so no longer. It 
 is not your trade which makes you free. I saw 
 that among the Picards." 
 
 "Yes, I have heard things." 
 
 Monsieur Fortier had a little, dry laugh which 
 Gilbert knew. When Monsieur Fortier let his 
 chapped lips stretch, were it only a fraction, it 
 was a sign that he would take back his first 
 decision. 
 
 "I beg you, Monsieur Fortier! I love La 
 Vigie!" 
 
 The farmer straightened himself up at the tone 
 of emotion. He, too, loved La Vigie above all ! At 
 his right, he saw the two drovers, two sprigs of 
 boys of eighteen, weak heads and bad hearts, alas! 
 and like all the other servants that you get now- 
 adays. And near him was Gilbert, an old man, 
 certainly, but who loved the land, who did not 
 drink, did not let the property of his master go 
 to waste, who had touched and turned over every 
 sod of the great farm.
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 345 
 
 He was moved in thinking of his interest in 
 taking Gilbert back. 
 
 "Come," he said. 
 
 And he held out his hand toward Gilbert to 
 make him come up to him. 
 
 Those four steps taken, the day-labourer be- 
 came again the servant of Monsieur Fortier at La 
 Vigie of Fonteneilles. 
 
 The two men drank first two glasses of the red 
 wine of the South, one after the other, and ate a 
 biscuit, as a sign of rejoicing. Gilbert had re- 
 gained his courage, and asked questions about the 
 changes and the plans. 
 
 "You will find your lair again; it is not so soft 
 as a bed!" 
 
 "It is all the same to me. The oxen have the 
 same names?" 
 
 "Always! Griveau, Chaveau, Corbin, Mon- 
 tagne, Jaunet and Rossigneau." 
 
 "So much the better," said Gilbert, laughing 
 contentedly. "I shall have nothing to learn over 
 again, then." 
 
 "Not much, God be praised," replied Monsieur 
 Fortier. 
 
 He raised the curtain of the window toward the 
 fields: 
 
 "Well, then," he said, "while there is still light, 
 go make a round of the fields, my old Gilbert." 
 
 Gilbert crossed the court, and went into the 
 meadow which lies behind the ox-stalls, and from 
 where you can see Fonteneilles with its forest. 
 But he remembered especially the view from the 
 pasture. He reached by the road the great pasture
 
 346 THE COMING HARVEST 
 
 field which lies upon the plateau to the right, 
 he saw again the mountains of the Morvan V 
 all the horizon which he had looked at in his yout. 
 Then along the paths, and by the leafless hedges, 
 he wandered through the fields, one by one. 
 
 The animals looked at him for a moment, and 
 began to graze again, thinking: "It is all right, 
 he belongs here"; some thrushes, of the large 
 kind, perched upon the poplar trees, which had 
 now only a leaf or two, called out before going to 
 crouch down in a tuft of mistletoe; some ravens 
 saluted him with their wings passing in flight; 
 some wood-pigeons launched in swift course from 
 the golden heights, plunged, circling round and 
 round, toward the valleys already blue. 
 
 It was cold. The setting sun foretold wind on 
 the next day. The bell of Fonteneilles sounded 
 half-way up the slope. Gilbert was alone, above 
 the vast country, in the falling darkness. He 
 thought of the house where he would return no 
 more, hidden away down there, among the tall 
 forest trees of Pas-du-Loup. He thought of his 
 comrades, the day-labourers of Fonteneilles, and 
 he understood that he loved them all, that he for- 
 gave everything, and that it would be good for 
 him to live again among them. 
 
 Then as the light began to fail, he embraced 
 with his glance the whole round hill where he was 
 going to begin his work again on the morrow. 
 The grass was beautiful. The fallow lands were 
 waiting for the plough. In many a place, above 
 the broken lands, the grain lifted up its green 
 point. Gilbert uncovered his head and he said:
 
 THE COMING HARVEST 347 
 
 It matters little, now, to live with others. 
 
 jat, cold, fatigue or death matter little now. 
 ivly heart is at peace." 
 
 He felt a great living joy spring up of itself in 
 his regenerated heart. 
 
 And again he said : 
 
 "I am old, and yet I am happy now for the 
 first time." 
 
 THE END
 
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