I could hardly contain myself, I was so angered by the stupidity of these brutes who were capable of crediting the work of charity to the avarice of a cure. I was about to reproach them for their ingrat.i.tude and treat them as they deserved, when Madame Pierson took one of the children in her arms and said with a smile:

"You may kiss your mother, for she is saved."

I stopped when I heard these words.

Never, was the naive contentment of a happy and benevolent heart painted in such beauty on so sweet a face. Fatigue and pallor seemed to be gone, she became radiant with joy.

A few minutes later, Madame Pierson told the children to call the farmer's boy to conduct her home. I advanced to offer my services; I told her that it was useless to awaken the boy as I was going in the same direction, and that she would do me an honor by accepting my offer. She asked me if I was not Octave de T-----.

I replied that I was, and that she doubtless remembered my father. It struck me as strange that she should smile at that question; she cheerfully accepted my arm and we set out on our return.

CHAPTER IV

WE walked along without a word; the wind was lowering; the trees quivered gently, shaking the rain from the boughs. Some distant flashes of lightning could still be seen; the perfume of humid verdure filled the warm air. The sky soon cleared and the moon illumined the mountain.

I could not help thinking of the freakishness of chance, which had seen fit to make me the solitary companion of a woman, of whose existence I knew nothing a few hours before. She had accepted me as her escort on account of the name I bore, and leaned on my arm with quiet confidence.

In spite of her distracted air, it seemed to me that this confidence was either very bold or very simple; and she must needs be either the one or the other, for at each step, I felt my heart becoming at once proud and innocent.

We spoke of the sick woman she had just left, of the scenes along the route; it did not occur to us to ask the questions incident to a new acquaintance. She spoke to me of my father, and always in the same tone I had noted when I first revealed my name--that is, cheerfully, almost gaily. By degrees, I thought I understood why she did this, observing that she spoke thus of all, both living and dead, of life and of suffering and death. It was because human sorrows had taught her nothing that could accuse G.o.d, and I felt the piety of her smile.

I told her of the solitary life I was leading. Her aunt, she said, had seen more of my father than she, as they sometimes played cards together after dinner. She urged me to visit them, a.s.suring me a welcome.

When about half-way home, she complained of fatigue and sat down to rest on a bench that the heavy foliage had protected from the rain. I stood before her and watched the pale light of the moon playing on her face.

After a moment's silence, she arose and in a constrained manner observed:

"Of what are you thinking? It is time for us to think of returning."

"I was wondering," I replied, "why G.o.d created you, and I was saying to myself that it was for the sake of those who suffer."

"That is an expression, which, coming from you, I can not look upon except as a compliment."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because you appear to be very young."

"It sometimes happens," I said, "that one is older than the face would seem to indicate."

"Yes," she replied, smiling, "and it sometimes happens that one is younger than his words would seem to indicate."

"Have you no faith in experience?"

"I know that it is the name most young men give to their follies and their disappointments; what can one know at your age?"

"Madame, a man of twenty may know more than a woman of thirty. The liberty which men enjoy, enables them to see more of life and its experiences than women; they go wherever they please and no barrier restrains them; they test life in all its phases. When inspired by hope, they press forward to achievement; what they will, they accomplish. When they have reached the end, they return; hope has been lost on the route, and happiness has broken its word."

As I was speaking, we reached the summit of a little hill which sloped down to the valley; Madame Pierson, yielding to the downward tendency, began to trip lightly down the incline. Without knowing why, I did the same, and we ran down the hill, arm in arm; the long gra.s.s under our feet r.e.t.a.r.ded our progress. Finally, like two birds, spent with flight, we reached the foot of the mountain.

"Behold!" cried Madame Pierson, "just a short time ago I was tired, but now I am rested. And, believe me," she added, with a charming smile, "you should treat your experience as I have treated my fatigue. We have made good time and will enjoy supper the more on that account."

CHAPTER V

I WENT to call upon her the next morning. I found her at the piano, her old aunt at the window sewing, the little room filled with flowers, the sunlight streaming through the blinds, a large bird-cage at her side.

I expected to find her somewhat religious, at least one of those women of the provinces who know nothing of what happens two leagues away, and who live in a certain narrow circle from which they never escape. I confess that such isolated life, which is found here and there in small towns, under a thousand unknown roofs, had always produced on me the effect of stagnant pools of water; the air does not seem respirable: in everything on earth that is forgotten, there is something of death.

On Madame Pierson's table were some papers and new books; they looked as though they had not been more than touched. In spite of the simplicity of everything around her, of furniture and dress, it was easy to recognize mode, that is to say, life; she did not live for this alone, but that goes without saying. What struck me in her taste was, that there was nothing bizarre, everything breathed of youth and pleasantness. Her conversation indicated a finished education; there was no subject on which she could not speak well and with ease. While admitting that she was naive, it was evident that she was at the same time profound in thought and fertile in resource; an intelligence, at once broad and free, soared gently over a simple heart and over the habits of a retired life.

The sea-swallow, whirling through the azure heavens, soars thus over the blade of gra.s.s that marks its nest.

We talked of literature, music, and even politics. She had visited Paris during the winter; from time to time, she dipped into the world; what she saw there served as a basis for what she divined.

But her distinguishing trait was gaiety, a cheerfulness that, while not exactly joy itself, was constant and unalterable; it might be said that she was born a flower, and that her perfume was gaiety.

Her pallor, her large dark eyes, her manner at certain moments, all led me to believe that she had suffered. I know not what it was that seemed to say that the sweet serenity of her brow was not of this world, but had come from G.o.d, and that she would return it to him spotless in spite of man; and there were times when she reminded one of the careful housewife, who, when the wind blows, holds her hand before the candle.

When I had been in the house half an hour, I could not help saying what was in my heart. I thought of my past life, of my disappointment and my ennui; I walked to and fro, breathing the fragrance of the flowers, and looking at the sun. I asked her to sing, and she did so with good grace.

In the meantime, I leaned on the window sill and watched the birds flitting about the garden. A saying of Montaigne's came into my head: "I neither love nor esteem sadness although the world has invested it, at a given price, with the honor of its particular favor. They dress up in it wisdom, virtue, conscience. Stupid and absurd adornment."

"What happiness!" I cried in spite of myself. "What repose! What joy!

What forgetfulness of self!"

The good aunt raised her head and looked at me with an air of astonishment; Madame Pierson stopped short. I became red as fire when conscious of my folly, and sat down without a word.

We went out into the garden. The white goat I had seen the evening before was lying in the gra.s.s; it came up to her and followed us about the garden.

When we reached the end of the garden walk, a large young man with a pale face, clad in a kind of black ca.s.sock, suddenly appeared at the railing.

He entered without knocking, and bowed to Madame Pierson; it seemed to me that his face, which I considered a bad omen, darkened a little when he saw me. He was a priest I had often seen in the village, and his name was Mercanson; he came from St. Sulpice and was related to the cure of the parish.

He was large and at the same time pale, a thing which always displeased me and which is, in fact, unpleasant; it impresses one as a sort of diseased healthfulness. Moreover, he had the slow yet jerky way of speaking that characterizes the pedant. Even his manner of walking, which was not that of youth and health, repelled me; as for his glance, it might be said that he had none. I do not know what to think of a man whose eyes have nothing to say. These are the signs which led to an unfavorable opinion of Mercanson, an opinion which was unfortunately correct.

He sat down on a bench and began to talk about Paris, which he called the modern Babylon. He had been there, he knew every one; he knew Madame de B-----, who was an angel; he had preached sermons in her salon and was listened to on bended knee. (The worst of this was, that it was true.) One of his friends, who had introduced him there, had been expelled from school for having seduced a girl; a terrible thing to do, very sad. He paid Madame Pierson a thousand compliments for her charitable deeds throughout the country; he had heard of her benefactions, her care for the sick, her vigils at the bed of suffering and of death. It was very beautiful and n.o.ble; he would not fail to speak of it at St. Sulpice. Did he not seem to say that he would not fail to speak of it to G.o.d?

Wearied by this harangue, in order to conceal my rising disgust, I sat down on the gra.s.s and began to play with the goat. Mercanson turned on me his dull and lifeless eye:

"The celebrated Vergniand," said he, "was afflicted with that mania of sitting on the ground and playing with animals."

"It is a mania," I replied, very innocently. "If there were none others, the world would get along without so much meddling on the part of others."

My reply did not please him; he frowned and changed the subject. He was charged with a commission; his uncle, the cure, had spoken to him of a poor devil who was unable to earn his daily bread. He lived in such and such a place; he had been there himself and was interested in him; he hoped that Madame Pierson--

I was looking at her while he was speaking, wondering what reply she would make and hoping she would say something in order to drown out the memory of the priest's voice with her gentle tones. She merely bowed, and he retired.

When he had gone our gaiety returned. We entered a greenhouse in the rear of the garden.

Madame Pierson treated her flowers as she did her birds and her peasants, everything about her must be well cared for, each flower must have its drop of water and ray of sunlight in order that she might be gay and happy as an angel; so nothing could be in better condition than her little greenhouse. When we had made the round of the building she said: