He was feeling that the time had come for him to speak, and the difficulty of beginning made him walk with head downcast. At the far end of the field they turned and began the ascent, the plough marking a second line of furrows beside the first. From where Mathurin sat he had lost sight of them on the low ground; now the horns of the oxen and his brother's goad came into view, and, to greet the return of the plough, he began with stentorian voice to chant the slow refrain which can be varied or ended at pleasure. The notes were flung far and wide from his powerful chest, embellished with _fioriture_ ancient as the art of ploughing itself. The oxen knew the rhythm, and stepped in time to it; the cadence accompanied the groan of the wheels on their axes; borne on the air, it was wafted afar o'er the hedges, telling other labourers in fields that the plough was at work on the fallow land of La Cailleterie. The cadence rejoiced the farmer's heart. But Francois remained gloomy. As the plough neared the shade of the ash-tree, Mathurin, whose thoughts were always busied with the future of La Fromentiere, said:

"Father, it would be a good thing to re-plant our vineyard that is dying off. As soon as Driot is home we should do it; what think you?"

The farmer stayed his oxen, lifted his hat to cool his hot head, and smiled, well pleased.

"You are always thinking of something to the point, Mathurin. If the wheat comes up well in La Cailleterie, faith of a Lumineau! I will lay in a stock of vines. I am hopeful of our work to-day. Come on, youngster, straighten the harness. Look to your mare, she is hot; coax her a bit, walk beside her, that she may see you and go more quietly."

The team moved off again; a mist of heat enveloped men and beasts; the air was thick with flies; turtle-doves, gorged with seed, took shelter in the ash-trees from the burning heat of the stubble fields. The cripple had ceased his song, and the farmer, as they got to the middle of the field, said:

"It is your turn to tune up now, Francois. Sing, boy, it will gladden your heart!"

The young man went on a few paces, then began: "Oh! oh! my men, oh!

oh! oh!" His voice, of higher register than Mathurin's, made the oxen p.r.i.c.k up their ears as it faltered past them; then, all suddenly, it came to a dead stop, rendered mute by the fear that mastered the singer. He pulled himself together, raised his head, and, looking towards the Marais, made a fresh effort; a few more notes faltered out, then a sob choked them, and, crimson with shame, the young man resumed his way in silence, his face turned towards the fallow land, walking in front of his father, who looked at him across the croup of the oxen. No word was said by either until the farmer had finished the furrow; then, at the end of the field, Toussaint Lumineau, troubled to the very depths of his soul, said:

"You have news for me, Francois, what is it?"

They were some three feet apart, the father standing level with the hedge, his son on the far side of the plough at the head of the oxen.

"That I am going away, father."

"What, Francois? The heat has turned your head, my boy. Are you feeling ill?" But from the expression of his son's eyes he quickly saw that this was a very different thing from some pa.s.sing illness; that misfortune was coming.

Francois had made up his mind to speak. With one hand resting on n.o.blet's back, as if to support himself, trembling and nervous, yet with hard, insolent look, he cried:

"I have had enough of this. I shall cut it."

"Enough of what, my lad?"

"Enough of digging the ground, enough of looking after the cattle, enough of drudgery at seven-and-twenty to make money that all goes to pay the rent of the farm. I mean to be my own master, and make money for myself. I have got a situation on the railway, and I begin to-morrow--to-morrow, do you hear?" His voice rose in a kind of frenzy.

"I am accepted; there is nothing more to be said. The thing is done. I am taking Eleonore to La Roche to keep house for me. She, too, has had enough of this. She has found a good place, a shop where she will make more than with you; at any rate, she will have a chance of marrying.... And I don't see that we have acted badly towards you in what we have done. Don't say that we have! And don't make that rueful face about it! We have served our time with you, father, have waited patiently for Andre's return. Now that he is coming home, let him help you. It is his turn."

The unexpected blow had stupefied the farmer; he had grown very white.

With set teeth, one arm resting on the plough, he remained speechless, his eyes fixed upon Francois as if demented. Slowly the full force of the situation, with all its pain, filtered into his soul.

"But, Francois, what you tell me cannot be true; Eleonore never complained of her work."

"Oh yes, she has; not to you."

"As for you, you have always had plenty of help. If I have sometimes reproached you for idleness, it has been because times are hard for everyone. But now that I am going to take on a farm-servant, now that another fortnight will see Driot home, we shall be four of us, counting myself, who am still of some use. You will not go, Francois?"

"Yes."

"Where will you do better than at home? Have you been short of food?"

"No."

"Have I ever refused you clothes, or even money for your tobacco?"

"No."

"Francois, it must be that military service has changed your heart towards us."

"That may be."

"But say that you will not leave us?"

The young man put his hand into his coat pocket, and held out the letter.

"I have to be there at noon to-morrow," he said. "If you don't believe me, read for yourself."

The father stretched out his hand across the team for the letter, trembling so much that he could scarcely take it. Once in his hands, without opening it, in a sudden access of indignation he crumpled and tore it into atoms, then crushed the pieces under his sabots into the soft earth.

"There," he cried, "is an end to the letter. Now are you going?"

"That alters nothing," returned Francois.

He would have pa.s.sed his father, but a powerful hand was laid upon his shoulders, a voice commanded:

"Stay here!"

And the son was constrained to stay.

"Who engaged you, Francois?"

"The head of the office."

"No; who advised you? You did not do this thing by yourself, you had the help of some gentleman. Who was it?"

The young man hesitated for a moment, then, feeling himself a prisoner, stammered out:

"M. Meffray."

With one thrust the farmer sent him flying.

"Run; harness La Rousse to the dog-cart. Quick! I am going myself to M. Meffray."

So he shouted in his rage. But when he saw his son obey him and take the path towards the farm--when he found himself alone in the far end of his field, he was seized with anguish. So far he had ever found help in the difficulties of his life; this time, taken unawares by danger in the full swing of work, he turned him slowly round as if moved by habit, and searched the landscape as far as his eyes would carry, for a helper, a support, someone who should defend his cause and advise with him. His oxen standing still, looked at him out of their large soft eyes. The first object he saw, in among the trees, was the belfry of Sallertaine. He shook his head. No, the Cure, the good old friend he consulted so willingly, could do nothing. Toussaint Lumineau knew him to be powerless against town officials and authorities, all the great unknown outside the parish. His gaze left the church, pa.s.sed over the farm without stopping, but rested awhile on the pointed roofs of La Fromentiere. Ah! were the Marquis but there! He feared nothing: neither uniforms, nor t.i.tles, nor long words that poor uncultured people could not understand. And expense was nothing to him. He would have made the journey from Paris to prevent a _Maraichin_ from leaving the soil. Alas! the Chateau was empty. No longer the Master to appeal to.... The old farmer's eyes fell upon the two newly made furrows rising before him to the ash-tree on the hill; then it struck him that Mathurin was waiting and wondering, and that he must say something to prevent his growing uneasy.

"Ohe!" cried he, "Lumineau!"

Over the curve of the hill, through the still air, a voice replied:

"Here I am. You are not coming up again?"

"No; the chain has snapped. I must take back the team."

"All right."