THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 BOOKS BY RENE BAZIN 
 
 PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 "This, My Son" $1.26 
 
 (Lee Noelleta) 
 
 The Nun $1.00 
 
 (L'Isotee) 
 
 The Coming Harvest $1.25 
 
 (Le B16 qui Lfeve) 
 
 Redemption . , $1.25 
 
 (De toute son Ame)
 
 THIS, MY SON
 
 
 
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 
 (LES NOELLETS) 
 
 
 
 
 
 BY 
 
 
 RENfi BAZIN 
 
 
 
 AUTHOK OF "EDEMPTION," "THE NUN," "THE COMING HAJtVEST," ETC. 
 
 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 
 
 DR. A. S. RAPPOPORT 
 
 
 
 
 
 NEW YORK 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 1909 

 
 COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
 
 PQ 
 
 THIS, MY SON
 
 "THIS, MY SON." 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IT was an October evening, sad as they always 
 are. There was a death-dealing moisture in the 
 air; the leaves fell as if weary of life, and lay un- 
 stirred by the faintest breeze. Flocks of birds 
 were flying home to their nests, and up the steep 
 roadway, one of the hollow roads of the Angevin 
 Vende"e, along which the storm sweeps, and where 
 the goats find pasture, a young lad, mounted on 
 his mare, la Huasse, was also making his way 
 back to the farm. 
 
 La Huasse, with her rough white coat, her large 
 belly worn bare by the harness, and her cropped 
 mane, which gave her the appearance of a screech- 
 owl, had outgrown her beauty. She moved for- 
 ward with the resigned gait of an old servitor, 
 used to toil, dragging the hanging traces of her 
 collar along the ground, while her foal gambolled 
 ahead like a wild young fawn. Her rider left her 
 
 i
 
 2 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 to choose her own pace. He and she were of 
 about the same age. How many times since he 
 first saw the light fifteen years ago had she not 
 borne him on her back, in the same phlegmatic 
 and maternal manner! And now they were com- 
 panions in labour. All day they had been to- 
 gether driving the harrow over the low-lying 
 lands. The heat had been great, and the clods 
 of earth hard. They were both tired. And so 
 he let the gentle beast go as slowly as she liked, 
 with her eyes half shut, while he, with his head 
 rising above the hedge into the full light, gazed 
 tranquilly over the magnificent country which 
 claimed him as its child. 
 
 To his left was the steep slope of the hill-side, 
 with the alder-bordered Evre at its foot winding 
 round a wooded hillock; beyond were the fields, 
 and further off still was the opposite slope, rising 
 to where the white Mansion of Le Vigneau crowned 
 it like an aigrette. To the right the view differed; 
 here the fields rose in regular curves, marked by 
 long bands of cultivated land, the various colours 
 of the vegetation blending more and more as the 
 light declined. Pierre knew the owners of each 
 patch the stubble-field with its two rows of apple 
 trees; the field sown with large cabbages where 
 the partridges call to one another; the fallow 
 land whence arose the odour of newly-turned 
 earth. Like a young apprentice beginning to 
 have an opinion of his own about matters, he 
 thought the paternal farm was better cultivated, 
 better manured than others in the neighbourhood, 
 and that it stood unrivalled among them for its
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 3 
 
 good ploughing and its fine harvests. And what 
 wonder that it was so! The neighbours were all 
 more or less hampered by having to work for 
 others, and by being so heavily rented, while his 
 father ! 
 
 He had now reached the first field of La Geni- 
 viere. An illimitable extent of landscape was 
 here visible. Through the opening of the valley 
 the distant hills rose one above the other, and could 
 be seen as far as Geste and Saint Philbert-en- 
 Mauges, the spires visible finely delineated against 
 the sky, and the woods looking like masses of 
 violet mist. Many little villages, with their roofs 
 of ribbed tiles, lay dotted about glistening in the 
 last rays of the sun. 
 
 Sounds crossed one another: the cocks called 
 from the farms and the blackbirds from the 
 brookside ; there was a rumbling of carts, a barking 
 of dogs being let loose; now voices called from 
 the houses summoning the men who were far 
 afield and late in returning home; or a footstep 
 sounded one hardly knew where, its echo dead- 
 ened by the grass and soon dying away. Overhead 
 the stars were beginning to shine, and the im- 
 mense calm of night was gradually descending 
 upon the land of La Vendee. 
 
 Having reached the summit of the hill, Pierre 
 Noellet, before descending to La Geniviere, 
 paused in his ride, and drawing himself up, turned 
 his eyes toward a black mass, which darkly 
 blotted the twilight sky. It was La Landehue, 
 standing in the shadow of its fine old trees. A 
 light was burning in one of the windows. "They
 
 4 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 are back," thought the boy, and his eyes bright- 
 ened as he smiled. Would you know why? It 
 was just a child's joy, a childish recollection. It 
 had been so melancholy all the summer to see the 
 house shut up, with no master, and no life about 
 the place. For the first time Monsieur Laubriet 
 had spent the fine season away from La Landehue. 
 And, the master absent, there had been no long 
 trains of carriages, no visitors, no hunting, no 
 blowing of horns. But now the owners of the 
 house had returned, for there was undoubted 
 proof of it. 
 
 Pierre Noellet was pleased, and digging his heels 
 into la Huasse, he began to whistle a country tune 
 by way of giving notice of his arrival. 
 
 At that very moment, Monsieur Laubriet was 
 entering the yard of La Geniviere, which was 
 formed of three buildings: the barn which ran 
 alongside the road; and at right angles to this 
 building, and separated from it by a passage, the 
 farmer's dwelling house on the one side and the 
 stables and cow-sheds on the other. The fourth 
 side was open to the view, and from this point, 
 looking over the tops of the trees which covered 
 the descending slope of the Evre ravine, could be 
 seen the wide-spreading valley. 
 
 The lord of the manor was fond of the situation 
 of La Geniviere, a farmstead which had formerly 
 belonged to his wife's family, but he was fonder 
 still of the farmer, who was one of the best and 
 richest men of the country. He put his head, with 
 its long delicate face framed in gray whiskers, over 
 the half-door of a room at the end of the house.
 
 1C 
 
 THIS, MY SON" 5 
 
 "Good day," he called to the farmer's wife. 
 The latter, having just finished laying the table, 
 was on the point of putting the bread into the 
 soup. She held a large round loaf resting against 
 her hip, from which with a regular movement of 
 the hand she was cutting slices, and laying them 
 one above the other in the soup-pot. She was of 
 medium height, and of thin and nervous physique; 
 her face with its regular features was aged before 
 its time, and the mother's soul, that one instinc- 
 tively felt was forever anxiously on the alert, 
 looked out through the jet-black eyes. 
 
 The dancing flame on the hearth, driven hither 
 and thither by the wind which blew a little from 
 all quarters, lit up her figure and shone beyond 
 her on the table, on the polished cherry-wood 
 benches, on the ladder for the bread hanging from 
 the rafters, and on the two four-post beds, fur- 
 nished, according to ancient fashion, with curtains 
 of gray fustian and yellow coverlets, which 
 flanked each side of the door leading into the 
 adjoining room. 
 
 On seeing the lord of the manor, Perrine Noel- 
 let put the bread down on the table, and quickly 
 caught up the corner of her apron, which was, no 
 doubt, not entirely spotless. 
 
 "Good day, Monsieur Hubert," she said; "you 
 have come back then." 
 
 "Rather late in the day, is it not? We have 
 just returned from a three months' tour in Swit- 
 zerland and Italy which I would willingly have 
 been spared, for you know that I love this coun- 
 try, my home of Landehue, my woods and my
 
 6 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 parish of Fief-Sauvin, above all other places. But 
 what would you have? My daughters dragged me 
 off; you can't have your own way with them 
 when they are grown up as you did when they 
 were little." 
 
 "And pray why not?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know. The old rule, the paternal 
 authority of past days, is still kept up in your 
 home; but I, you see, I am one of the moderns, 
 and I spoil my girls a bit. Will you believe it 
 now that Madeleine is no longer satisfied with her 
 pony and little carriage, but wants me to give 
 her a hunter. Ah, these children!" 
 
 "And a very beautiful daughter you have in 
 her, Monsieur Hubert." 
 
 "You think so?" said Monsieur Hubert, smil- 
 ing and flattered. "And how is your hus- 
 band?" 
 
 Perrine Noellet's figure seemed to expand as 
 she looked toward the door and exclaimed, 
 "Here he is." 
 
 The farmer, seeing Monsieur Laubriet, had 
 paused on the threshold. His tall figure nearly 
 filled up the doorway. The head was large, the 
 face square and clean shaven, the lips thin, the 
 eyes deeply sunk under bushy eyebrows, the ex- 
 pression of the whole countenance serious, and 
 just a little hard. 
 
 His hair, cut short on the forehead, hung low 
 behind over the collar of his coat. Forty-five 
 years of toil under the sun had neither impover- 
 ished nor bent him, and it was enough to see his 
 straightforward gaze as he advanced toward his
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 7 
 
 guest and grasped his hand with respectful famil- 
 iarity to know at once that here was a man of up- 
 right character and of ancient race, and a master 
 in his own house. 
 
 The children followed their father into the 
 room: first a little girl, Antoinette, with a black 
 cap on her head, from under which one golden 
 lock of hair had escaped she went up to Mon- 
 sieur Laubriet, and offered her cheek to him in an 
 innocent way; then came Pierre, the rider of la 
 Huasse; Jacques, his younger brother, pale and 
 slender, with large eyes as soft as periwinkles; 
 and, finally, Marie, the eldest of the family, a 
 brunette, already somewhat grave in manner, 
 who turned down her rolled-up sleeves as she 
 went and stood by her mother. 
 
 Monsieur Laubriet looked round on them all, 
 pausing when he came to Marie. 
 
 "Seventeen, is she not, Farmer?" he said. 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur Hubert." 
 
 "That makes you old, friend." 
 
 "It makes us all old," replied the farmer, with 
 a half smile on his sun-burnt lips. 
 
 "And my godson!" continued the lord of the 
 manor, pointing toward Pierre, "how he has 
 grown! What age is he now?" 
 
 "Fifteen." 
 
 "And is what I hear true, my boy, you are 
 learning Latin with the Abbe" ? " 
 
 Pierre kept his head bent, and continued gazing 
 at his shoes with an air of discontent. 
 
 "Answer, my son," said the farmer, as a look 
 of pride, like a flame, brought a light into his face.
 
 8 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 "Since Monsieur Hubert speaks to you, answer 
 him." 
 
 The boy, without lifting his head, half raised 
 his eyes, for just sufficient time to show that they 
 were lighter and harder than those of his father; 
 then in a tone which betrayed a consciousness of 
 wounded vanity: 
 
 "I am doing Greek as well," he said. 
 
 "To think of that! Greek as well! We shall be 
 seeing you at the College of Beaupre'au next year, 
 I suppose." 
 
 "That is what he thinks of doing," replied the 
 father. 
 
 "I am delighted," exclaimed Monsieur Laubriet. 
 "Read, work, teach yourself all you can, Pierre; 
 with your intelligence you will soon catch the 
 others. And now I wish you all good appetite! 
 I could not let my first day at La Landehue pass 
 without saying good day to La Geniviere. But 
 I have said it now, so I will be off." And as he 
 walked away, followed by a chorus of young 
 voices, calling out, "Good evening, Monsieur Hu- 
 bert -Good-by, Monsieur Hubert A vous revoir, 
 Monsieur Hubert," he turned to the farmer who 
 was accompanying him, with the words : 
 
 "I congratulate you, my friend; one son a 
 priest, another a field-labourer it is the picture 
 of our Vended. He is a good boy, your Pierre?" 
 
 "I can't say no: but a little too proud in his 
 ways. However, that will pass away, I hope, 
 since God has chosen him for His service. Jacques 
 will be easier to manage, Monsieur Hubert." 
 
 "Indeed!"
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 9 
 
 "More tender and loving to his mother, and an 
 indefatigable worker into the bargain, as good as 
 a young horse ; he will never give in as long as his 
 strength lasts out." 
 
 "A genuine farmer, in short." 
 
 "Just so." 
 
 "You are a lucky man, Julien, so don't 
 grumble." 
 
 The farmer had walked to the end of the road 
 that ran beside the barn, and he now shook Mon- 
 sieur Laubriet by the hand, as he answered in his 
 quiet, rather drawling voice : 
 
 "I am not grumbling, don't think it." 
 
 Then he returned to the house, where nothing 
 was to be heard but the talking and laughing of 
 the children, and the clack of wooden shoes on the 
 well-trodden earth floor. A farm servant followed 
 him in. The men went and took down their 
 spoons, which were hung on the wall by a leathern 
 strap, and then seated themselves round the smok- 
 ing soup. The women ate theirs standing about 
 here and there, as was customary; they spoke 
 little themselves, listening to the men as they dis- 
 cussed the work of the past day and of the mor- 
 row in short fragmentary sentences between the 
 silences imposed by their voracious hunger. 
 
 There was an air of prosperity about the farm 
 and its inmates. The parents were healthy, the 
 children well-grown and lively. The servant, 
 robust and composed, was in himself a proof of 
 his master's honourable position. There was 
 neither crack nor chip in the earthenware dish 
 which stood loaded with bacon and cabbages, nor
 
 10 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 in the blue-flowered salad bowl piled high with 
 fresh lettuces. Every bit of furniture was bright 
 with polish. 
 
 Outside in the cow-sheds, whence could be heard 
 from time to time the rattle of chains over the 
 wooden mangers, stood some of the best-fed beasts 
 in the country; milch cows, whose butter was at a 
 premium in the Beaupreau market; six oxen that, 
 when ploughing together, were a superb sight; 
 the old mare, La Huasse, and her foal, as well 
 as pigs, several broods of chickens and ducks, 
 without naming the goat a solemn animal said to 
 be indispensable for the health of the flocks. And 
 in order to keep this household of human beings 
 and animals alive, seventy acres or so of land, 
 cultivated, if according to a somewhat old- 
 fashioned routine, still with the greatest care, for 
 Julien Noellet was his own master at La Geni- 
 viere. It was his estate, his landed property, the 
 fruit of the labour of many generations of ances- 
 tors. 
 
 How all those, since passed away, those obscure 
 dwellers upon the earth, now taking their last 
 sleep in the adjoining churchyards, hoped and 
 worked and struggled and saved to make and 
 keep the land their own! One thought alone 
 pursued them as they went from farm to farm in 
 their slow pilgrimage across the Mauges, serving 
 first one master and then another. At night, 
 when, bent with the fatigue of the day, they re- 
 turned to their chimney corner, and sat in the 
 dim light to save the candle, they would see a 
 vision of a white house, a well-lighted house,
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 11 
 
 where some great-grandson their own death, 
 they knew, was near would reign as independent 
 lord. They found consolation in their own misery 
 hi this dream of joy for another who should in his 
 person realize the ambition of a whole race. And 
 then they died, and their small savings increased 
 in the hands of the eldest son, more or less slowly 
 according as the harvests were good or bad, but 
 whatever the fortune of the years, the money put 
 by lay untouched for purchase or pledge. Then 
 suddenly a good marriage might double the prop- 
 erty, and in this way it had come about that with 
 the money hidden away in a stone jar, added to 
 the price of a little garden he owned in the parish 
 of Villeneuve, and his wife's dowry, Julien Noel- 
 let's father had been enabled to purchase La Geni- 
 viere, which had been put up for sale by its an- 
 cient proprietors of La Landehue during an inter- 
 val of pecuniary embarrassment. 
 
 And now here was the heir of all this obstinate 
 labour looked up to with respect on account of 
 his fortune, which was the largest possessed by 
 any of the farmers of that district, and even more 
 on account of his character. He had inherited the 
 spirit of order, which had been the main strength 
 of his race, together with the desire to add to his 
 property; with these traits was combined the lib- 
 erality that is always associated with righteously 
 acquired ease of circumstance; and to crown all 
 there was his fine face, which expanded into a 
 smile of serene confidence as he looked round on 
 those belonging to him. He loved the land with 
 a profound and devoted love; he was an alms-
 
 12 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 giver and a believer. Yes, the dream of the older 
 race had been realized, and the one they had seen 
 in their visions was now occupying the white 
 house of La Geniviere, on the slope of the Fief- 
 Sauvin, facing the same horizon that they had 
 seen, under the same wide-spreading sky.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 IT was quite true. Pierre was beginning to study 
 Latin with Abbe" Heurtebise, the parish priest 
 of Villeneuve, which is one of the smallest of the 
 parishes into which the commune of Fief-Sauvin 
 is divided. 
 
 While still a child at the elementary school he 
 had been distinguished among the other pupils by 
 his ardent desire to learn and to get ahead of his 
 companions. His brother Jacques, who was hardly 
 a year younger than himself, read with difficulty, 
 and had no liking for it, nor any greater love for 
 writing, which he only performed as a task and 
 when under the master's eye. As to his thoughts, 
 they were occupied merely with such simple mat- 
 ters as were generally found interesting by the 
 lads of the town: his sisters, the traps he had set, 
 a nest he had discovered which was to lead to a 
 little bird-nesting when school was over, with 
 racing bareheaded over the fields, shouting and 
 stamping in the sun after four o'clock in the after- 
 noon, and, above all, with Pierre, whom he loved 
 to distraction. 
 
 Pierre was for him the one and only master, a 
 kind of presiding genius, a being who could order 
 all things according to his pleasure. No one re- 
 joiced at Pierre's success more heartily than 
 Jacques. Saturday, the pay-day of school-boys as 
 
 13
 
 14 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 well as of men, he would hurry and get home first, 
 and, arriving at the farm streaming with sweat, 
 cry out, "Pierre has won the cross! Maman, 
 Pierre has won the cross!" and embrace his 
 mother in the joy of his triumph, while she 
 would ask, "And you, Jacques, my boy?" Then 
 he would give a little pout and indicate that 
 he himself had nothing, but he was soon his 
 own contented self again. Everybody is not 
 born for the cross, and it is not everybody who 
 cares for it. 
 
 A moment later the elder brother would come 
 in, looking a little haughty, as his father had said, 
 with his books under his arm and his hand on his 
 hip. He allowed himself to be kissed and com- 
 plimented, and then went and sat himself down 
 without a moment's delay at the table that had 
 been bought expressly for him, and that was re- 
 served for his books and papers an unheard-of 
 luxury at La Geniviere while Jacques called in 
 the cattle that were loath to leave the watering- 
 place, or brought in the sheep. "What a pity 
 some one does not give that boy a lift!" the 
 teacher would often remark; "he would make his 
 way well." 
 
 To look at the two brothers was sufficient to 
 make one aware of the difference of character be- 
 tween them. The younger, who had shot up too 
 quickly, and stooped, looking like the untrained 
 sapling of a poplar, had the face of a girl; his 
 pink skin was covered with freckles, and in his 
 lively blue eyes could be read nothing beyond the 
 joy of life. Wild and nimble, he would run away
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 15 
 
 at the sight of a pedlar, or a sheep-dealer who 
 happened to come into the courtyard. Except 
 on these rare occasions, he never voluntarily for- 
 sook the house; he helped his father, he helped 
 his mother, he helped his sisters, he helped the 
 farm labourers. His heart was bound up with 
 La Geniviere, and he found happiness in his 
 home life. 
 
 Pierre was a different young man altogether. 
 In person he was like his father dark, heavily 
 built, with regularly cut features. The square 
 jaw and the thin mouth indicated an energetic 
 will, but the strength of the nature was even more 
 clearly shown in the eyes. It was difficult to say 
 whether they were blue or green; deeply set under 
 the shadowing brow, they looked out with that 
 direct, ardent, unflinching glance which belongs 
 to those overmastering characters that pass rap- 
 idly from one extreme to another. 
 
 They flamed up in a moment at the least re- 
 proof or the slightest contradiction. When at 
 rest they were somewhat haughty in their expres- 
 sion; they rarely grew tender. But the mother 
 loved her Pierre's dark eyes, and when she met 
 them fixed on her, the thought would flash 
 through her, too, that her Noellet had not his 
 equal throughout the Mauges. 
 
 Possibly she had said it in so many words, and 
 neither these words nor the unspoken flattery of 
 the smiles that were lavished upon him escaped 
 the boy's notice. When thirteen years of age he 
 had been taken away from school, and imme- 
 diately put in the place of the second farm servant,
 
 16 'THIS, MY SON" 
 
 who was dismissed, the father rejoicing at having 
 a son to help him. But the scholar survived his 
 schooling which was not generally the case in 
 the country and Pierre continued his reading, 
 and did not lose his desire for knowledge. His 
 heart was not in his daily labour, nor did he share 
 in the rough joy of the harvest. He did his work 
 well, but found no pleasure in it, and he had a 
 habit of going off by himself during the intervals 
 of rest for the horses instead of staying to laugh 
 with the others; and the indifference with which 
 he looked at the cattle in the sheds was a sorrow 
 to his father, whose one pride was in his farm. 
 What Pierre enjoyed was to sit reading in the 
 evening or on Sunday either the books he bor- 
 rowed from the lending library which had been 
 established at Fief-Sauvin by the Laubriets, or 
 bits of newspapers that had wrapped up caps or 
 shoes, purchases by his sisters at Beaupreau; 
 even the placards on the walls were a pleasure 
 to him. 
 
 At the fairs, whither he now accompanied his 
 father, he listened to the conversations of the 
 grain and cattle dealers, who are extensive trav- 
 ellers and have something to say about everything. 
 Many things to which his father turned an indif- 
 ferent ear, although he heard them equally, at- 
 tracted his attention, and he would ponder over 
 these as he worked in the fields. And so it was 
 that an atmosphere of ideas and imagination grew 
 up around him wherein he lived apart. Every 
 day the distance widened between his thoughts, 
 his opinions, his tastes, and those of his parents.
 
 'THIS, MY SON" 17 
 
 They had but a vague consciousness of this, but 
 he was more acutely aware of it. A restless ambi- 
 tion seized him, a longing to rise, and everything 
 continually added fuel to his desires; from men 
 and creatures, from all sides, from over the hills, 
 the church towers and the rivers, came that mys- 
 terious influence, which reaches to the humble 
 roofs, like those of La Geniviere standing on its 
 wooded slope, that rise far away from the great 
 centres. But Pierre Noellet took no one into his 
 confidence, and none could tell what was passing 
 in his mind. 
 
 Suddenly, on the morrow of his fourteenth 
 birthday, he expressed his intention of becoming 
 a priest. The choice of this vocation was not sur- 
 prising in this sacerdotal territory of La Vende*e, 
 where now, as before the Revolution, God levies 
 each year a tithe of young servitors. His mother 
 was delighted. At the bottom of her heart she 
 had often envied the women of the neighbourhood 
 who had a son in the church, either a parish priest 
 or a curate, and who were to be seen at rare inter- 
 vals walking with him, overcome with emotion 
 and a certain embarrassment between their love 
 for the son and their respect for the priest. She 
 had, therefore, no hesitation in giving her consent, 
 and would have liked the father to do the same, 
 but, for the moment, he refused his assent to the 
 project. It was, doubtless, only a boy's fancy, 
 and would not last, and he was not going to de- 
 prive himself for that of so serviceable a son, or 
 renounce his hope of seeing Pierre one day take 
 the direction of the farm into his own hands; still
 
 18 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 less could he contemplate the thought of sending 
 him away, and of undertaking for several years to 
 come the heavy expense of lodgings, books, and 
 clothes. No, he must wait at least another twelve 
 months before he could give consideration even to 
 such a proposition. And for a whole year the sub- 
 ject was never mentioned again between Julien 
 and his son. Pierre continued to plough and har- 
 row, and to cut the clover, and the grass for hay, 
 like any future farmer, without a single allusion 
 to the matter which had divided them. 
 
 But as September drew near, the year of wait- 
 ing having expired, Pierre renewed his request. 
 A further delay could not reasonably be asked for 
 on this occasion. It must be either consent or 
 refusal. The farmer, accordingly, gave in to ne- 
 cessity, and went to talk over the matter with the 
 priest of Villeneuve. Abbe" Heurtebise thereupon 
 sent for the boy, questioned him, and replied to 
 his father: " There are things to be said both for 
 and against it, but on the whole, more for than 
 against, and as one can never be sure how things 
 may turn out, let the boy come to me three times 
 a week, and I will take the responsibility: next 
 year he ought to be ready to enter the college of 
 Beaupre*au, and I promise you he will not enter a 
 low class." 
 
 Since which time, Pierre Noellet, his bag under 
 his arm, had regularly attended the Presbytery 
 at Villeneuve. This old bag, a large leathern 
 pouch, originally of a yellow colour, which had 
 done duty at school, and served in turn as a club, 
 as a cushion, and as a receptacle for stolen birds'
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 19 
 
 eggs, dirty, and out of shape as it was, Pierre car- 
 ried with pride, now that he could show that it 
 held Latin books, dictionaries, large volumes of 
 Greek and French history, and exercise books, 
 half bound in boards, such as a youth of his age 
 had never seen before, much less had the honour 
 of possessing. On his way he frequently met one 
 or other of his old school-fellows, with whom he 
 had studied reading and writing, and their looks of 
 astonishment were a pleasant flattery to him. 
 He made them hold out the dictionaries at arm's 
 length and feel the weight of them. It was a 
 prouder moment still when the scholar opened at 
 random before these bovine apprentices the "De 
 Viris Illustribus" of the worthy Lhomond, and 
 made them spell a Latin phrase. 
 
 "Do you understand?" he would ask. 
 
 "Not I," would be the answer. And Pierre 
 would shrug his shoulders and remark that, nev- 
 ertheless, it was quite easy; it merely meant that 
 Epaminondas died at Mantinea. 
 
 Epaminondas, Mantinea, words such as these 
 were quite sufficient to win for any one the reputa- 
 tion of a scholar at Fief-Sauvin, and it was not 
 long after he had started his mysterious classical 
 studies before Pierre Noellet found himself the 
 object of a certain consideration, not only among 
 those of his own age, but also among the elders. 
 
 To reach the Presbytery he had to pass through 
 the whole length of Fief-Sauvin, and to walk the 
 best part of a mile beyond; on the way he passed 
 the house of more than one of his friends, who 
 would greet him with a few kindly or jesting
 
 20 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 words, or a nod, or a bow, all unmistakable signs 
 of his growing importance. Fauvepre, the smith 
 and wheelwright, a big jovial man, whose forge 
 stood to the right at the top of the hill, would leave 
 off his shoeing, and call out to him, the horse's 
 hoof still held against his leathern apron: "Good 
 day, Rosa la rose!" The elder Huet, wholesale 
 and retail grocer, who always stood three paces 
 from his door, in order to be able to say " After 
 you," to his customer, and so had won for himself 
 a reputation of urbanity, nodded his head back- 
 ward and forward as he saw him pass. Mother 
 Mitard, the dropsical lady of property, would 
 send him a smile through one of the windows of 
 her new house ; the innkeeper, who was a Liberal, 
 with a shrug of his shoulders, would exclaim: "A 
 shame to turn a fellow like you into a priest! 
 Get away, you idle dog!" 
 
 At the further end of Fief-Sauvin, to the left, 
 stood also the dwelling of Nicholas Rainette, the 
 weaver, who was more often to be found at the 
 inn than at his work. His want of application to 
 his trade, however, was compensated for by his 
 daughter Melie, who did the work of two pairs of 
 hands; she was about a year older than Pierre and 
 his sister's particular friend. She might be seen 
 through the low windows of the cellar at all 
 hours of the day, leaning over the heavy wooden 
 machine, as she sent the shuttle flying, as if it 
 were a gray mouse, athwart the tightly-stretched 
 threads. Me"lie had nothing to say as Pierre went 
 by; she only raised her eyes, while the face for a 
 moment grew less serious, and as long as he could
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 21 
 
 be seen through the narrow opening, she kept her 
 gaze upon him. 
 
 Pierre, thinking of nothing in particular, or 
 repeating his lessons to himself, continued his 
 way along the road that wound across the pla- 
 teau, which brought him in a quarter of an hour 
 to Villeneuve that is to say, to a group of houses 
 and gardens which clustered in a disorderly man- 
 ner around the church. Close to the church stood 
 the Presbytery, equally new and redolent of plas- 
 ter. Between the two was a disused courtyard 
 overrun with aromatic herbs, lavender, hyssop, 
 and sage. 
 
 Pierre entered the house. 
 
 "Is Monsieur le Cure* not in, Gillette?" 
 
 "You know as well as I do that he is out in the 
 field; why do you want to have the same thing 
 told you every day?" 
 
 The field consisted merely of a narrow strip of 
 ground behind the Presbytery, where the grass, 
 eaten close by the cow, and trampled over by the 
 priest's wooden shoes or those of his parishioners, 
 had little chance of growing. Nevertheless the 
 abbe never spoke of it without reverence, and 
 seemed to find an incredible pleasure in its pos- 
 session. He was a tall, long-legged, upright old 
 man, large of bone, with closely-cut curly white 
 hair, a neck bronzed by the sun, a long thick nose, 
 and two small extremely black eyes almost lost 
 beneath the gray eyebrows. He greeted his pupil 
 with solemnity, responded to his good day with 
 an inclination of the head, and then took Pierre's 
 work from his trembling hands. Presently he
 
 22 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 began to move about, to puff and blow, and then 
 suddenly stopped and gazed at the boy in a terri- 
 fying manner. 
 
 "You did all that by yourself?" 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur le Cure"." 
 
 "No one gave you any help?" 
 
 "Why, Monsieur le Cure", who is there, do you 
 think, to give me help?" 
 
 "I can hardly believe it my word! Every- 
 thing understood, and not a fault. Such an exer- 
 cise as in my time was given to the Fifths!" 
 
 And then for the next hour or two the field re- 
 sounded with Latin words, with apostrophes, with 
 geographical and historical names which were 
 well calculated to disconcert the old people seated 
 not far off on their several doorsteps, and who 
 amid the silent atmosphere of their homes could 
 catch every sound. 
 
 The sitting lasted as long as was required for 
 the correction of exercises and repeating of les- 
 sons. Then the pupil, his satchel over his shoul- 
 der, wended his way home again, generally choos- 
 ing the short cut, athirst for liberty and violent 
 exercise. He longed for fatigue of body as a re- 
 laxation for his tired mind, and reaching home at 
 the hour when master and men, with all the long 
 day's labour behind them, were beginning to feel 
 less stalwart, he would set to work and outdo 
 them all, whether it was a question of mowing a 
 corner of clover for the cattle, holding the plough, 
 climbing barefoot into the chestnut tree to shake 
 down the fruit, or of cutting the stalk of a potato 
 with a single stroke. Now that it was no longer
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 23 
 
 his actual calling, and that no one obliged him to 
 do it, he liked this rougher kind of farm labour. 
 He performed it with the ease of a strong, full- 
 grown man, and the father, watching him, could 
 not help thinking what a splendid farmer he 
 would have made. Then he sighed, only to re- 
 proach himself afterward for this momentary 
 weakness. 
 
 It was only by fits and starts, however, that 
 Pierre occupied himself with the more serious 
 duties connected with the farm. In order to give 
 him time to study, he was sent with his books and 
 papers to watch the cows in place of his sisters. 
 And it was while thus employed, surrounded by 
 Nature, amid the speaking solitude of the country, 
 that his mind for the first time conceived the idea 
 of letters. A fine school for him, and how well he 
 profited by it ! He was carried away by an intense 
 fever of life, which he mistook for thought. There 
 were wonderful vistas along all the new paths 
 which now opened to him tumultuous proces- 
 sions of dreams, of floating figures, of vague aspi- 
 rations. At moments his heart also became sur- 
 charged, and he was astonished at this new joy 
 which had so suddenly come to him. The most 
 ordinary things, seen or heard a hundred times 
 before, the pale billows of waving corn, the open- 
 ing out of the little valleys, a group of trees, the 
 cattle-call, which he had sung out himself, echo- 
 ing from hill to hill everything seemed to intoxi- 
 cate him. A longing possessed him to thank the 
 trees, the grass, and the sky for being beautiful, 
 smiling, and young like himself. Why, he asked
 
 24 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 himself, was there all this rejoicing in the world, 
 so that everything around him was radiant; and 
 at certain softer hours of the day, if he lifted his 
 eyes from his books, he would immediately close 
 them, his very heart seeming to melt within him. 
 
 He frequently did not return home till supper 
 time. The meal over, he would remain in the 
 general room, which was known as the Maison, 
 and where he slept with Jacques, while his mother 
 and sisters would retire into the adjoining apart- 
 ment, the tidiest and best furnished in the farm, 
 and called in La Vendee the Chambre. His les- 
 sons were not always finished by this time, for 
 Abbe* Heurtebise gave him plenty to do. Some- 
 times the young scholar sat up another hour, or 
 even two. The fire would die out on the hearth, 
 large red mushrooms appear on the wick of the 
 tallow candle, a smell of yeast steal from the bin, 
 while Jacques snored as he lay with one shoulder 
 uncovered and casting a shadow on the wall, and 
 still the little pen with its death's head went 
 scratching over the paper, until the mother, hi 
 bed on the other side of the wall, catching sight 
 of the light under the door, would call in a low 
 voice, as she tapped with her finger against the 
 partition: 
 
 "Put out the candle, my Noellet; it is getting 
 late." 
 
 He obeyed. But his nerves were often too ex- 
 cited for him to sleep, and he would open the door 
 on to the court and draw in the fresh air, or amuse 
 himself with looking up through the opening of 
 the wide chimney and counting the stars which
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 25 
 
 he could see passing overhead. There were some 
 of these for which he had a particular affection, 
 among them the three in the belt of Orion; and 
 as he was not without a desire for glory, he would 
 dream sometimes that he wore one of these on his 
 forehead and the other two at his ears, and that 
 thus adorned he paraded magnificently among 
 the constellations.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MELIE also had a star of her own which she loved. 
 At a certain hour of the morning, which varied 
 with the seasons, a ray of light shot over the roof 
 of the opposite house, and fell through the window 
 of her low room. It shone all day, gliding over 
 the great wooden roller, round which the cloth 
 was wound, or on to the frame, which had grown 
 polished with constant friction as it was regularly 
 driven backward and forward by the weaver's 
 hands. Melie knew it well and greeted it with 
 a smile. She missed it sorely on dark days, and 
 when it lost itself in the evening in the corner of 
 the cellar among the old barrels heaped with 
 skeins of thread and odd pieces, she felt a tighten- 
 ing of the heart. 
 
 That little ray of light, you see, meant joy. And 
 there was so little of this in the weaver's home ! 
 
 No house in Fief-Sauvin was older or more di- 
 lapidated. 
 
 The sunk and bulging old walls were seamed 
 with cracks, and only held together in places by the 
 kindly mosses. The roof was crooked with age, 
 and had given way between each of the rafters. 
 The house itself consisted only of a passage, a 
 room on the right for the father, where was the 
 trap-door leading down into the cellar, and an- 
 other on the left for Melie. This, with the little 
 
 26
 
 'THIS, MY SON" 27 
 
 garden at the back, was all the property they 
 possessed, and it would have been necessary to 
 deduct the owner's debts before making quite 
 sure, even then, of what they were worth. He 
 owed money at all the public-houses of his own 
 and the neighbouring villages. Pere Rainette 
 drank. During the time his wife was alive it was 
 asserted that he was only drunk once in every 
 two days. But this must have been a mistake. 
 Melie could remember nothing of the kind; since 
 her infancy she had been familiar with all the lu- 
 gubrious drama of drink and poverty, and all that 
 she could recall of her mother was of a wretched, 
 meek, beaten woman, who rejoiced at death as at 
 a deliverance from misery. 
 
 In order to keep her away as much as possible 
 from her unhappy home, the Sisters of the school 
 had allowed her to stay on after she had com- 
 pleted the regulation number of years, and had 
 taught her everything which they knew them- 
 selves : a great deal of gentleness and pity, a little 
 literature, sufficient for the preliminary certifi- 
 cate, and many pretty secrets of needlework, of 
 lace-making, crochet, and embroidery, in which 
 arts they excelled. Her intercourse with them 
 had not only made Me"lie one of the most skilled 
 needlewomen in Fief-Sauvin, but had developed 
 the soul in her, which was naturally refined. She 
 had caught something of their manners and tone 
 from these women of humble birth, whose voca- 
 tion rendered them superior to their surroundings. 
 She knew nothing of the coarse gaiety of the 
 country-people, and was annoyed at the equivocal
 
 28 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 jests which were passed round at wedding feasts. 
 The pale cheeks, with their one patch of faint 
 colour on either cheek-bone, seemed to have 
 known the protecting shadow of the convent cap. 
 Outside matters awakened no curiosity in her 
 she had too much to do at home. Her mother 
 being dead she had been gone now eighteen 
 months the duties of housekeeping fell on her, 
 and since her father worked rarely, if at all, she 
 had to make money for both. Nicholas Rainette 
 was generally willing to go down into the cellar 
 in the morning and take his place opposite Melie, 
 and then, clac, clac, clac, clac, the weaving song 
 would start, echoed by the same clac, clac, clac, 
 of Melie's machine. He was a good weaver, and 
 the cloth seemed to roll out under his hands, so 
 quickly did his shuttle fly, but he had scarcely 
 done half-a-day's work before he would suddenly 
 disappear, as if summoned by some irresistible 
 power. 
 
 His orgies at the tavern cost him more than he 
 had earned. Furthermore, the manufacturer, 
 who employed some dozens, at times some hun- 
 dreds, of hands and who supplied the thread and 
 paid for the cloth, would not put up with having 
 the work delivered a week late. 
 
 So Melie made up her mind. Her own piece 
 being finished, she went on with the one left half 
 done by her father, and when Nicholas Rainette 
 returned after dark, dead drunk, knocking him- 
 self against the wall as he felt for his bed, she rose 
 from her task, tired and content, and taking her 
 shawl, went out for a turn along the road.
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 29 
 
 There were days when she sat on longer to 
 accomplish some lesser piece of work which had 
 been committed to her clever fingers; perhaps a 
 cap to mend, a frill to make up, or a monogram 
 to embroider. Two or three such trifles were 
 generally lying in her cupboard awaiting a mo- 
 ment of leisure. 
 
 She had no time, therefore, for trifling. The 
 sellers of pigs and calves, who trotted past in their 
 covered carts, drawn by their lank horses, cracked 
 their whips in vain, for they never caught sight of 
 so much as the colour of the eyes of the dark girl 
 leaning busily over her weaving. A quick sign of 
 recognition was all she vouchsafed even to her 
 older acquaintances of the village, who came and 
 tapped with their sticks on the window frame, by 
 way of amusing themselves. But there came a 
 day when she broke through her usual habits in 
 a surprising manner. 
 
 It was a morning of April, the Eve of Palm 
 Sunday. Pierre had now been studying Latin 
 for six months, and although the winter was over, 
 and the sun already shone warmly down on his 
 daily route, he still wore the cap of imitation otter- 
 skin that had been a present to him from his 
 mother for the new year, and of which the other 
 mothers in Fief spoke as being an unheard-of 
 luxury. The fur looked well on his light-coloured 
 hair. His blue blouse was fastened round the 
 waist with a bright leather waistband quite in 
 the correct style. Pierre was beginning to take 
 pains with his appearance, as was natural to 
 a growing youth.
 
 30 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 He had just paused on the farther side of the 
 road and was looking up at the wistaria growing 
 over Mere Mitard's house; it was a fine old 
 twisted creeper, from which were already hang- 
 ing masses of downy clusters ready to break into 
 flower. 
 
 "Good day, Pierre." 
 
 He turned at the sound of the voice, and seeing 
 the girl standing in the doorway: 
 
 "Is it you, Melie?" he said with a tone of sur- 
 prise in his voice. Then he crossed the road with 
 his swinging gait and joined her as she stood 
 framed in the doorway; she leant against the 
 lintel as he began conversing with her. 
 
 The usually pale Melie had turned a little red, 
 partly at the daring on her part of having ad- 
 dressed him, partly on account of his observant 
 looks. But she had had her reason for calling him. 
 
 "I am not sure if I did right in calling you sim- 
 ply by your name," she said. "Now that you are 
 studying I ought perhaps to have said Monsieur 
 Pierre." 
 
 "You are laughing at me," said the young 
 scholar, who was inwardly flattered. "What 
 work have you there?" 
 
 "A piece of fine mending, so fine that I can 
 hardly see to do it." 
 
 "And it was to show me how well you work 
 that you called me? I guessed that was it, Melie." 
 
 "Indeed, no such thing, you silly boy; I 
 wanted to ask you if you had any palm for to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "I don't think so. Have you some to sell?"
 
 
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 31 
 
 "To sell, no!" she replied, somewhat offended; 
 what I have I give. Formerly, when all the 
 young ladies from Landehue came here for 
 Easter, they used to strip my rosemary bush. 
 But now they no longer do this, I have plenty to 
 give to my friends, if you would care to have 
 some." 
 
 "Certainly, Melie. Only let us make haste, for 
 I have my lesson." 
 
 "Come," she said. 
 
 She rose, and Pierre opened the door of the 
 house. At the farther end of the passage lay the 
 Rainettes' primitive garden plot, which consisted 
 of a small path between two ill-kept beds; two 
 pear trees stood at the nearer end, and two plum 
 trees at the other, while here and there among the 
 cabbages and celery there was a clump of tulips 
 or of polyanthuses which had seen many genera- 
 tions. The rosemary grew in the farther left-hand 
 corner, at the angle of the quick-set hedge, which 
 was hidden in all directions by its splendid, plume- 
 like branches, which formed a veritable bush of 
 silvery and mauve flowers. On the farther side 
 ran a path. 
 
 Melie and Pierre went up to the rosemary 
 bush, whence came the sound of many humming 
 bees. Then the girl began to cut off the finest 
 branches, handing them one by one to her com- 
 panion. 
 
 "See, this branch is for your father, this for 
 your mother, this for Marie, and that for you." 
 
 The "for you" was the magnificent top branch 
 which crowned the others.
 
 32 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 "How sweet they smell," said Pierre in response. 
 
 "For Jacques, for Antoinette," continued Melie. 
 
 "Do you know, Me"lie, that you are still taller 
 than I am." 
 
 "Do you think so, Pierre?" 
 
 "Well, look!" 
 
 "This for your farm-servant." 
 
 She drew herself up to her full height beside 
 Pierre. 
 
 "It's true, Melie; your shoulder is a good inch 
 or two above mine. After all, it is not surprising, 
 for you are older than I am." 
 
 "Oh!" she answered, laughing, "hardly more 
 than a year; what is that? Anyhow, you are 
 already my elder in mind; I hear you are quite 
 learned!" 
 
 "Not yet, Melie, but I shall be some day. 
 What a kind girl you are; I am sorry I cannot 
 stay longer with you!" 
 
 "Oh!" exclaimed Melie. 
 
 "But my lesson is awaiting me, and I am al- 
 ready late." 
 
 She helped him gather the flowering branches 
 together, and placed them on his arm, full of a 
 childish joy at having thought of them for the 
 morrow. He went back through the garden, she 
 following; he waved her a cheerful good-by as he 
 reached the door, and then went off humming. 
 She gave him a little parting nod, and watched 
 his figure as it gradually retreated along the sunlit 
 road in the direction of Villeneuve.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE abba's pupil made such rapid progress that 
 by the end of the first year of study his master 
 began to feel uncomfortable. The abbe had 
 taken what was considered a high class in his 
 youth, but that was now some time back, and in 
 spite of his efforts he was aware of his own lack of 
 knowledge in many branches of the vast mass of 
 erudition which was necessary for any one who 
 wished to be even the meanest bachelor of arts. 
 The quick, argumentative, and questioning mind 
 of Pierre was becoming embarrassing. In vain 
 the professor tried to shield himself behind such 
 subterfuges as "it would be too long a matter to 
 explain to you," or "that is a delicate point, to 
 which we will return another time"; his scruples 
 were not relieved by these formulas. Certain 
 solecisms, excusable of their kind, would return 
 to his memory with the persistence of remorse 
 during the quiet hours of devotion, and the good 
 man would blush as if guilty of dishonesty as a 
 teacher. 
 
 "My boy," he said one day, "I am going to send 
 you to the college, where they will be responsible 
 for you." 
 
 And, in fact, he carried on all the negotiations 
 for Pierre's admittance into the Seminary at 
 Beaupreau. Hearing from him of his pupil's 
 
 33
 
 34 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 capacity, and taking into consideration the latter's 
 advanced age, the authorities arranged that he 
 should be placed among the fourths. 
 
 During the two months which preceded his 
 entry into collegiate life, the needles at La Geni- 
 viere were industriously plied in order to get 
 Pierre's trousseau ready. All his linen had to be 
 marked with his number. Such trousers and coats 
 as were still serviceable were carefully overhauled, 
 and the weak places in them neatly repaired. 
 The village tailor had orders for a complete suit. 
 He spent immense pains upon it, but his scissors 
 knew but one style of cut, and the result was a 
 coat which would have been quite the correct 
 kind of garment for the father. Nobody, how- 
 ever, minded this, and it was indeed with a feeling 
 of maternal pride that the farmer's wife, having 
 brushed and combed her son's hair on October 3, 
 said: 
 
 " You will put on your new coat, my Noellet, to 
 go and say good-by to your godfather." 
 
 None of the Noellet children ever thought of 
 disputing orders, so Pierre did as he was told. 
 This visit to Landehue, however, caused him a 
 considerable amount of trepidation. He never 
 felt less at his ease than on Sundays, when he met 
 the Laubriet family in the village. In presence of 
 these well-dressed and well-bred people he felt 
 awkward and flustered. He studied their general 
 appearance, and pondered over the difference 
 between their manners and his own. On each of 
 these occasions he was conscious of an irritability 
 and a sense of confusion of which he spoke to no
 
 ''THIS, MY SON" 35 
 
 one, for neither his father nor his sisters appeared 
 to be troubled with any feelings of the kind. 
 
 In proof of which, behold the mother already 
 on her way, in gala attire, with her closely-fluted 
 cap fastened with a beautiful ribbon bow, her 
 velvet kerchief looking as if fresh from a band- 
 box, and her dress held up with both hands. As a 
 finishing touch, she had thrown her black hood 
 over her head, not liking to be seen only in a cap 
 "en tete blanche," as she expressed it on 
 such a solemn occasion. She walked with her 
 usual short, measured, and dignified pace, and in 
 spite of the superb weather, carried the brown 
 cotton umbrella which had done duty for the 
 whole of the Noellet dynasty under her left arm. 
 
 It was no great distance from La Geniviere to 
 Landehue by the way of the fields. After walking 
 about a hundred paces along the path which led 
 up to Landehue, there was a cross-bar gate, and 
 a little lane which opened on the principal path 
 across the fields, a few clumps of trees, and then 
 the house itself. Pierre longed to turn and flee. 
 The very windows seemed to be watching their 
 approach, and behind the closed shutters he 
 could fancy he detected smothered bursts of 
 laughter: "Aren't they a droll couple look, 
 Pierre Noellet and his mother? Oh, just see the 
 umbrella which the good woman is carrying! And 
 the boy's coat! Oh, and his hands!" 
 
 Pierre did not know what to do with his hands. 
 He was red in the face, and bit his lips, and was 
 annoyed at seeing his mother walking so undis- 
 turbedly beside him, and stooping down to exam-
 
 36 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 ine the flower-beds, which bordered the whole 
 length of the avenue. 
 
 "What lovely flowers they have here, my 
 Noellet ! But be sure you don't pick any of them ! " 
 
 As if, when one was past sixteen years of age, 
 and on the way to the great house at La Landehue, 
 one had any wish to pick flowers! 
 
 A footman had hardly shown them into the 
 little study where Monsieur Laubriet interviewed 
 the farmers, when the latter himself entered. On 
 seeing the farmer's wife, he gave a friendly wave 
 of the arm by way of greeting and invitation. 
 
 "My good woman," he said, "this is not the 
 place in which to receive you. Bring this young 
 collegian into the drawing-room; the ladies will 
 be delighted to see him." 
 
 "You are too good, Monsieur Hubert." And 
 without further ceremony she walked out after 
 Monsieur Laubriet, who had taken hold of Pierre's 
 arm. 
 
 "Ah, ah! your son is the pride and glory of 
 Fief-Sauvin." Pierre slipped and stumbled over 
 the parquetted floor of the corridor, and over the 
 Italian mosaic of the hall, and his heart beat furi- 
 ously as, having reached the drawing-room, Mon- 
 sieur Laubriet threw open the door, saying as he 
 did so: 
 
 "My dear, let me introduce one of the new 
 fourths to you. Only a year's training; it is 
 marvellous, marvellous!" 
 
 Pierre was quick to perceive a slight gesture of 
 ill-temper on the part of Madame Laubriet a 
 tall, strongly built woman, who had not lost all
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 37 
 
 her beauty; she was reposing drowsily in her cane 
 arm-chair, which was decorated with wool pom- 
 pons. 
 
 "I shall be delighted," she said in a low voice. 
 "Come in, Pierre." 
 
 He advanced toward her, redder than the cerise- 
 coloured hangings and furniture of the huge room, 
 dazzled by the reflection of the mirrors, by the 
 gilding and the chandeliers, intoxicated with the 
 scent of verbena, a delicate perfume to which he 
 was a stranger. Behind him he could hear the 
 clamp of his mother's iron-tipped shoes. 
 
 Madame Laubriet made a sign to him to take 
 a seat on the divan in the middle of the room, 
 from the centre of which rose a jardiniere full of 
 ferns. Pierre thought she was holding out her 
 hand to him, and awkwardly seized the chate- 
 laine's white plump fingers, and then, in his po- 
 liteness, not wishing to turn his back upon her, 
 retired, facing her, and sat down on an open book. 
 He got up quickly, and put the book aside. At 
 the end of the room near the windows, which were 
 shaded with light, cream-coloured curtains, Mon- 
 sieur Laubriet's two daughters children respec- 
 tively of fifteen and twelve years of age leaned 
 forward as if to pick up a pencil that had fallen, 
 in reality to conceal an irresistible fit of laughter. 
 
 Monsieur Laubriet called out imperiously to the 
 eldest girl: 
 
 "Madeleine!" 
 
 "Yes, papa." 
 
 "Do you see who is here? What can you be 
 thinking of?"
 
 38 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 They turned to Pierre Noellet. 
 
 "My daughters are learning water colours with 
 one of our friends from Paris." 
 
 The friend, in white curl papers, put up her eye- 
 glass, but did not move. The two girls rose, the 
 elder tall and slender, in a white flannel dress with 
 sailor collar, proud of her chestnut hair, which 
 she had just begun to put up with a comb, and 
 fully assured of the royalty of her young woman- 
 hood, since she had seen it mirrored in her father's 
 eyes; the younger thick-set and brusque, with 
 a plait of fair hair hanging down her back. 
 
 Madeleine, obedient to her father's wish, smiled 
 and shook hands with Pierre Noellet. "It is kind 
 of you to come," she said to the farmer's wife. 
 
 Marthe planted herself squarely in front of 
 Pierre, who had been such a capital bird's-nester 
 in his time, and with a little wink, remarked: 
 "I have seen your goat; what a funny animal 
 His!" 
 
 "Is my friend Marie quite well?" continued the 
 elder girl. "I am hoping to see her one of these 
 days." 
 
 "Yes, mademoiselle, very well." 
 
 "And la Huasse has a foal; you haven't seen 
 it, have you, Madeleine?" 
 
 "Oh! have you got a foal?" said Madeleine, 
 who was greatly interested in horses now that she 
 was allowed to ride with her father. 
 
 "What do you call it, Pierre?" 
 
 "La Roussette, mademoiselle." 
 
 "Is it pretty?" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 39 
 
 "I shall come and see it. You'll sell it me, 
 won't you, when it is full grown?" 
 
 Something that overcame his timidity caused 
 the farmer's son to lift his head. He threw a rapid 
 glance over the figure of the girl in front of him, 
 as she stood a few paces off in all the pride of her 
 youth and grace. 
 
 "It is not for sale," he said. 
 
 "What are you saying?" put in Mere Noellet, 
 taken aback by his answer; "if mademoiselle 
 wishes for it " 
 
 "You will use it for hunting, perhaps," said 
 Madeleine, showing her white teeth. 
 
 Pierre was not one of the obstinate and touchy 
 sons of La Vendee for nothing. This time he 
 looked the girl straight hi the face as he answered: 
 
 "Yes, if I wish to." 
 
 Every one laughed at his way of answering. 
 
 Madame Laubriet opportunely turned to him, 
 and said: 
 
 "We have all been extremely pleased, my dear 
 child, to hear that you are to begin studying at 
 Beaupre"au; and still more to know of the motive 
 which is urging you to study." 
 
 "Yes, of course, the motive " put in Made- 
 leine, who appeared to have no idea what the 
 motive was, but who was anxious to atone for her 
 former speech. "You will meet our cousin there; 
 did you know that, Pierre?" 
 
 "My nephew, the Viscount of Ponthual?" 
 added Madame Laubriet, who had no dislike to 
 reminding people that she was born of one of the 
 noble families of the country.
 
 40 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 "Cousin Jules is stupid!" exclaimed Marthe, 
 "and idle as well! You will have no difficulty in 
 getting ahead of him." 
 
 Madeleine coloured slightly. 
 
 "That child is unbearable to-day," she said, 
 "talking in that random way. Jules is not a very 
 steady worker, it is true, but he has been delicate 
 for a long time. One can hardly put that down 
 to him as a crime." 
 
 "And more than that, he is a good boy," con- 
 tinued Madame Laubriet in a conciliatory tone 
 "too good and too rich. He is, however, two 
 classes above you, so there will be no occasion for 
 you to contend with him." 
 
 Then, in a more lively voice, and in a tone of 
 dismissal, she turned and addressed the mother: 
 
 "When my husband goes to visit his nephew at 
 the college he will ask to see your son too." 
 
 "Most certainly," said Monsieur Laubriet. 
 "My godson and my nephew two friends of the 
 house." 
 
 "You will do him great honour," replied little 
 Mere Noellet. 
 
 And, thoroughly satisfied with her visit, she 
 made her obeisance and left the room followed by 
 her son, calmly took repossession of her umbrella, 
 which she had left beside the door, and tucked up 
 her dress again in preparation for the homeward 
 walk. 
 
 The next day the whole of the Noellet family 
 might be seen on their way to Beaupreau seated 
 behind la Huasse, who trotted along at her usual 
 brisk pace, the three men on the front seat of the
 
 ''THIS, MY SON" 41 
 
 cart with the collegian's boar-skin trunk, and the 
 women at the back, each having a pointed ker- 
 chief tied over her best cap on account of the wind. 
 They were not talking, for they none of them felt 
 very gay at heart. The departure of one of their 
 number for college was to each, for different rea- 
 sons, more or less of a trouble. It was a strange 
 and unknown experience among the race of la- 
 bourers, this early separation from a child, who, 
 if it had not been for the college, would have re- 
 mained under the paternal roof until he was one- 
 and-twenty. For Jacques and Antoinette it also 
 meant the loss of a lively companion. What was 
 worse still, Pierre would return home only at rare 
 intervals, and then but for a brief stay; and when 
 he did return, it would not be as the same boy, but 
 as a changed youth, who would have grown dif- 
 ferent to those left behind. The family were deeply 
 affected at this parting from Pierre. Julien, the 
 father, sat silently ruminating as he held the reins; 
 now and again when they reached the higher 
 ground he would turn round to ask the women if 
 their feet were cold. The mother, catching sight of 
 a vehicle following them at some distance along 
 the road, and evidently bearing a student to the 
 same destination, would address her son in as 
 cheerful a tone as possible, in order to keep up his 
 spirits and accustom him to the coming change. 
 
 "Look, my boy, here is some one from our 
 neighbourhood a boy from Landermont this 
 time. You see you will not be alone." 
 
 It was not long before they came in sight of 
 Beaupreau, which is crowded by the woods of the
 
 42 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 estate of the Civrac family, and began to descend 
 the hill leading to the lower town, where the col- 
 lege stands beside the river Evre. The farmer put 
 up his cart at the little inn, where there was as 
 much bustle going on, owing to the return of the 
 students, as if it had been a market day. Then 
 for the next few hours it was nothing but a regu- 
 lar procession backward and forward from one 
 part of the little town to the other, broken by 
 long-standing pauses, for there were friends to call 
 on, and shopping to do, and men to be engaged 
 who were wanted for some work or other at La 
 Geniviere. 
 
 Everywhere it was the same greeting: "Ah, there 
 you are, Maitre Noellet, and that's your boy, is 
 it? How he has grown! Well, he will have to be 
 steady now!" 
 
 Pierre followed with lagging feet, looking va- 
 cantly about and wrapped in thought, while his 
 brother kept close to him, holding his hand as if 
 he could never let him go. 
 
 Now and again the girls at work at the back of 
 a shop, who almost considered themselves young 
 ladies of the town, would look up, and seeing the 
 fine, strong figure of the boy, would bend their 
 heads down again, laughing among themselves, as 
 much as to say, " He is a fool to go and shut him- 
 self up!" 
 
 It was the first thought that came to Pierre when 
 he passed the porter's lodge into the entrance 
 court. The little seminary at Beaupre"au was not 
 then repaired and whitewashed, as it is now. The 
 side facing the road, with its high, dark walls, was
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 43 
 
 peculiarly discouraging, and had the appearance 
 of a barrack. 
 
 The Noellets defiled in procession across the 
 outer and inner court, and found themselves 
 eventually in front of the chief fagade, and on the 
 terrace which overlooks the playgrounds and the 
 fields beside the Evre. Here were gathered family 
 groups, pupils and parents, arrived from all parts 
 of military La Vendee. Several had been standing 
 for hours in the same place, stationed round the 
 same orange-tub, chattering together as if they were 
 at a fair, and with the naive ease o behaviour of 
 people who feel at home anywhere between the 
 SeVre and the Loire. The head of the college went 
 from one to the other, obliged to make himself 
 agreeable to each in turn, and valiantly perform- 
 ing his enforced service, although worn out with 
 the lavish distribution of his smiles and assur- 
 ances. He came up to the Noellets, and, after 
 exchanging a few words with them, turned to 
 Pierre. 
 
 " Carry your box into the dormitory of the 
 juniors. You know where it is?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Well, some one will show you." 
 
 Pierre and Jacques lifted the trunk and ran off 
 with it. On arriving at the foot of a stone stair- 
 case, where students of all ages were hurrying up 
 and down with a deafening clatter of feet, they 
 asked their way to the dormitory. They were 
 answered with peals of laughter. Feeling some- 
 what put out, they mounted to the first landing 
 and went along the passage. Suddenly a student
 
 44 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 rushed out upon them from one of the window 
 recesses. 
 
 "Sapristi," he exclaimed, "how you frightened 
 me! I was lighting a cigarette. What is your 
 name you, the big one?" 
 
 "Pierre Noellet." 
 
 "And I am Arsene Loubret. But where are 
 you taking that box? These are the masters' 
 rooms." 
 
 The youth who was addressing them was low of 
 stature, and his broad, short face was covered 
 with freckles. There was a look of dissipation in 
 the round, quick, inquisitive eyes. Good-natured 
 he certainly was, since he did not hesitate to ex- 
 tinguish his cigarette and put it in his pocket 
 while he led the two boys to the dormitory they 
 were seeking. 
 
 "Forty-seven; this is your number." 
 
 Jacques gave a scared look round the large 
 whitewashed room, at the iron bedsteads stand- 
 ing in rows, and at the two cast-iron basins sur- 
 mounted with taps in the shape of swan-bills; his 
 astonishment seemed quickly to give way to a 
 feeling of discomfort. All those people in one 
 room! What would become of his brother in 
 such a place ? He made haste to get out of the 
 house, and, once outside, breathed heavily for a 
 few minutes, as if he had been stifled in that 
 upstairs-room. 
 
 The two brothers rejoined the rest of their party 
 on the terrace. But during their short absence, 
 which had been felt as the beginning of the final 
 separation, the faces of the family had grown
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 45 
 
 longer. His mother, who had borne up bravely 
 till then, was now red about the eyes. She threw 
 her arms round her son's neck and held him in 
 a long embrace, as if she would leave behind a 
 store of kisses and love to support the young life 
 that was to be for the first time withdrawn from 
 her protection. Marie, more mistress of herself, 
 and more conscious of the presence of lookers-on, 
 although her absence of colour and abrupt nervous 
 manner of speaking betrayed her emotion, gave 
 Pierre a rapid kiss "Au rev&ir," she said. "The new 
 year will soon come round, and I shall make a pie 
 in honour of your arrival." Antoinette made no 
 attempt at hiding her weeping, while the father, 
 anxious to conceal his feelings, walked off every 
 minute or so to examine the sky, over which some 
 heavy clouds were gathering. He seized his son's 
 hand in his own horny one, and with some abrupt- 
 ness, "Go, my boy," he said, "and be an honour 
 to us." Last of all Jacques came up, and clasping 
 his brother round the waist looked up into his face, 
 lifting his red head and murmuring, "Pierre! my 
 Pierre!" The one word expressed everything: all 
 his past affection, his present sorrow, and the joy 
 it would be to see him again. The elder could 
 with difficulty disengage himself. At last he es- 
 caped and ran off, looking back to throw a smile 
 to those belonging to him, and in four strides had 
 reached the bottom of the twenty steps that lead 
 to the court. 
 
 But Jacques had followed him, and seating him- 
 self on the parapet of the terrace, began calling, 
 "Pierre! Pierre!" and the child, so full of tender
 
 46 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 and brotherly affection, was only at last driven 
 away by the shouts of the excited students. 
 
 A few minutes later Pierre heard what he 
 thought was the cart from La Geniviere passing 
 along the road that skirted the seminary. How 
 often on late evenings, when his father was ex- 
 pected home at the close of some fair-day, had he 
 listened for the sound of la Huasse's hoofs and 
 the particular creak of one of the springs of the 
 cart, he, and his brothers and sisters, amusing 
 themselves with guessing if it was he while still 
 a long way off! He was surprised himself at his 
 own freedom from emotion. He would have been 
 more surprised . still, could he have seen the sor- 
 rowful faces, and the sadness and anxiety of all 
 those kindly souls who were father, mother, sis- 
 ters and brother to him, and who were in truth at 
 that moment driving up the shorter road past the 
 college, and above all, had he realized what rich 
 possessions were his at that young stage of life, or 
 guessed that a later day would come when there 
 would be no longer a little sister, no longer a 
 mother with heart full of love for him, no longer 
 a Jacques clinging broken-hearted to the brother 
 who was leaving him. 
 
 Pierre Noellet thought of none of these things. 
 He stood alone, leaning against one of the lime- 
 trees of the court, watching the other students 
 near him, who in their turn made this new arrival 
 the object of their attention. Pierre was partic- 
 ularly interested in one fat, chubby-faced youth 
 who was distinguished from his companions, who 
 were for the most part quietly clad in black coats
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 47 
 
 or jackets, in trousers that were too short for them, 
 and thick walking shoes, by a certain air of dis- 
 tinction about his get up the tail coat, the white 
 collar with turned-down corners, the polished 
 boots while his well-nourished appearance and 
 slightly insolent manner denoted a person of 
 wealth. He was some one to be afraid of, it would 
 seem, for he spoke in a loud voice which was evi- 
 dently habitual with him. For some five minutes 
 he had been the centre of a group of his particular 
 friends, standing taller than all of them by a 
 head, questioning them about the new-comer. 
 
 "Noellet?" he inquired of one of them. "Are 
 you sure?" 
 
 "Quite sure; I heard the master call him by 
 that name a few minutes ago; he comes from 
 Fief-Sauvin." 
 
 "It's he, then." 
 
 "Do you know him?" 
 
 "Not personally; you understand he is only 
 a small farmer-tenant of my Uncle Laubriet. 
 Does he look somewhat of a muff?" 
 
 "Well, I must say he does." 
 
 "And not very pleased that we should be talk- 
 ing about him. You new young one down there, 
 if you don't like us talking about you come and 
 say so to me." 
 
 The blood mounted to Pierre's face. He longed 
 to exchange a blow or two with the impertinent 
 youngster who lied out of sheer vanity in repre- 
 senting his father as a tenant of La Landehue, 
 and the temptation was growing stronger, when 
 Loutrel came up to him. The latter was no fop,
 
 48 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 although by no means careless in his attire. 
 Pierre hailed him as a saviour. 
 
 "Who is that tall fellow who stands spouting 
 with his hands in his pockets? " 
 
 "Jules de Ponthual, one of the seconds." 
 
 "I do not like the look of him." 
 
 "He's a brute; beware of him when he is throw- 
 ing a ball." 
 
 "Is he strong?" 
 
 "Yes, with his hands," answered Loutrel, laugh- 
 ing, and his mean little face grew as puckered as 
 a squashed bladder. 
 
 The conversation was cut short, for a bell 
 sounded, and a flock of sparrows, well acquainted 
 with the rules of the seminary, alighted on the 
 lime-trees: the recreation hour was over. The 
 students, ranging themselves in two lines, their 
 voices becoming gradually hushed under the eye 
 of the master, silently passed up the steps of the 
 terrace, and disappeared one by one through the 
 doors of the various class-rooms. 
 
 College life had begun again.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 PIEERE NOELLET soon grew accustomed to his 
 new surroundings. A few months were required 
 to fill up certain omissions in his previous train- 
 ing, to show him where he was behind his compan- 
 ions, and to teach him what classic models were 
 most in favour with his teacher, but at the end of 
 this time he took the head of his class and re- 
 mained there. He gained several prizes the first 
 year; the second year he took them all. After 
 that it was an understood thing that Pierre Noel- 
 let of Fief-Sauvin was above the usual level, and 
 that no one had any chance of competing with 
 him. Quick of intelligence, and at the same time 
 patient, Pierre had that further excellent quality 
 of the scholar of being equally developed on all 
 sides. He was first in mathematics and in French 
 prose, first in Latin verse and in Greek exercise. 
 Endless rounds of applause greeted him on the 
 day the prizes were distributed, his name being 
 called fifteen times, while little Mere Noellet sat 
 in a corner covered with confusion, conspicuous 
 by the laurel wreaths that lay heaped upon her 
 lap. If the bishop or any other person of distinc- 
 tion came to visit the college, it was Pierre who 
 was chosen for the complimentary address. 
 
 Other honours of a still higher class and more 
 flattering still awaited him at the "Academies" 
 
 49
 
 50 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 literary meetings to which only the most advanced 
 students of the higher classes were invited, and at 
 which each of these in turn read an original com- 
 position in prose or verse. On these occasions 
 a stage was mounted in the large reception room 
 made to represent a modern drawing-room, with 
 a bust of Moses, recognizable by his flowing beard, 
 to the right, and one of David, with his harp at 
 his breast, on the left. The orchestra was seated 
 at the back, while in front were the five elected 
 orators, their rolled manuscripts in their hands 
 one philosopher, two rhetoricians, and two tall 
 boys from the seconds looking somewhat awk- 
 ward and frightened, but with eyes whose expres- 
 sion of unsullied youth spoke much for the excel- 
 lence of the race, and for the surroundings amidst 
 which they were brought up. When the head- 
 master arose and gave out the name " Monsieur 
 Pierre Noellet of Fief-Sauvin, of the Seconds," 
 a flattering murmur ran through the audience. 
 The reading finished, the band struck up some 
 ancient air, while the son of the farmer of La 
 Geniviere sat down amidst applause, and as he 
 saw all those extended hands, all those eyes turned 
 toward him with looks of admiration or envy, he 
 felt himself king of that little world, the unques- 
 tioned victor in that first contest with those of his 
 own rank and those above him. He had no 
 means of comparing his triumph with that of 
 others, and therefore exaggerated its importance. 
 Like the taciturn peasant of the Mauges that he 
 was, he slowly and silently grew intoxicated with 
 his success. The mute processes of thought in
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 51 
 
 which he indulged led him to the conviction that 
 the intellect was the sole sovereign of the world, 
 capable of securing to its possessor the same high 
 rank everywhere that he held at college. 
 
 And he was encouraged in this proud illusion 
 by Arsene Loutrel. The son of a village manu- 
 facturer, who did some business also in money- 
 lending, he had been born and brought up among 
 a growing population of middle-class people, and 
 was imbued with all their prejudices, hatreds, 
 distastes, and instincts of flattery. Chance had 
 led him to be the protector of Pierre Noellet on 
 his first arrival, as well as his initiator into his new 
 life. When Pierre had risen to a privileged rank in 
 the estimation of his school-fellows and masters, 
 Loutrel was clever enough to profit by it. He 
 understood how to flatter his friend, to gain his 
 confidence, and to reap the advantage of his un- 
 sullied reputation, and thus, though inferior in 
 character, and of far less ability, he gained an in- 
 credible ascendancy over a nature in every way 
 superior to his own. 
 
 The chief opportunities for conversation were 
 on the days when they went for a walk and a halt 
 was called after a long march at one of the tradi- 
 tional spots of rest a crossway, a clearing in the 
 wood, a mound that remained from a Roman 
 camp, or under the trees beside the Evre, near a 
 garden that had run wild, surnamed by them 
 "La Mere-au-Buis," on account of the shrubs that 
 for some unknown reason grew here and there 
 about the place. Pierre loved this little corner of 
 country, with the water running at his feet and
 
 52 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 curling the water-lily stems, the swinging sails of 
 the windmill to the left, and facing him on the 
 further side of the river the red roof and the 
 spreading vine of the farm of Roche-Baraton, 
 which reminded him of La Geniviere. 
 
 One day when he and Loutrel were sitting here 
 together, while their companions raced about the 
 slope of the chestnut grove chasing a squirrel of 
 which they had caught sight of the red tail, or 
 amused themselves fishing with some primitive 
 lines to which a bent pin was attached, they be- 
 gan talking about the future. 
 
 "I have quite made up my mind what I am going 
 to be," said Loutrel. 
 
 "What is that?" asked Pierre. 
 
 "An architect." 
 
 "Well, it must be a fine thing to build castles 
 and churches and public monuments, and to in- 
 vent new styles appropriate to the new demands." 
 
 "Pooh!" laughed Loutrel; "I am not aiming 
 at anything as high as that, I assure you. New 
 ideas, I leave those to others. Five per cent, on the 
 work, that is the part of the trade that appeals to 
 me. For that price I will build houses of any 
 number of floors, farms, barns, or pig-styes, if 
 any one wants them, with as much pleasure as I 
 would build a palace." 
 
 "I always told you, Loutrel, that you had a 
 commonplace mind." 
 
 Instead of showing any anger at this remark, 
 Loutrel shrugged his shoulders and replied: 
 
 "Practical, you mean; don't let us confound 
 the two. You are for the higher things, I for the
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 53 
 
 plain realities. I know how to calculate; I don't 
 spend my time dreaming. When I was no higher 
 than that, my father called me into his room one 
 day, and, tapping his pocket, said to me, ' Never 
 forget, little one, that two and two make five.' 
 He understood how to live, did my father." 
 
 "That was not what I was taught," said Noellet 
 scornfully. "Where shall you go to learn your 
 profession of architect? " 
 
 "To the School of Fine Arts." 
 
 "At Paris, I suppose." 
 
 "Certainly. I shall go there for three years, 
 taking with me an introduction to an architect 
 and to a professor at the school. I then return 
 to Clisson, and buy Monsieur Lafeuillade's busi- 
 ness, which he has almost agreed to make over to 
 me. He makes on an average nineteen thousand 
 francs a year." 
 
 "Everything seems to fit in admirably, and 
 I congratulate you on being able to see the way 
 before you so clearly. Do your parents approve 
 of your plans?" 
 
 "It is they who have so advised me, and who 
 have decided that I shall go to Paris instead of 
 vegetating in a provincial training-school, and 
 who have cautiously approached Monsieur La- 
 feuillade on the matter. You have not had the 
 same chances, Noellet; you were obliged to 
 choose a profession for yourself. What made you 
 first think of becoming a priest?" 
 
 "Well, how do ideas generally come to people?" 
 answered Pierre somewhat brusquely. 
 
 "I don't say it was a bad idea, but why that
 
 54 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 profession rather than any other? With your 
 powers there is nothing you might not try for." 
 
 Pierre tried to look into his companion's eyes, 
 which were wandering and restless as usual, to 
 make sure that he was not laughing at him, and, 
 seeing that it was not so : 
 
 ''But what sort of thing," he asked. 
 
 "Anything and everything, as I said before. 
 A fellow like you can be whatever he likes 
 a lawyer, a doctor, journalist, magistrate, or for 
 all I know, a state councillor." 
 
 It is to be doubted whether Loutrel had any 
 clear idea of the duties of a state councillor. 
 
 Noellet remained silent. He had fallen into a 
 reverie. The fanner had just closed the mill 
 sluice, and he watched the water of the river as it 
 rose to the level of the moss-grown stones of the 
 embankment, washed over them and fell back in 
 cascades, hiding in its fall thousands of little air- 
 filled hollows that shone like mother-of-pearl. 
 
 "Fall in, Monsieur Noellet! Monsieur Loutrel, 
 fall in!" cried the voice of the master. 
 
 Pierre rose. Then he rushed with impetuosity 
 down the slope, winding in and out among the 
 chestnut-trees. He was full of superb nervous 
 energy, and his foot was accustomed to the steep 
 paths of the hills. It took him no more than a 
 minute to join his division, while Loutrel was left 
 far behind, catching his feet in the roots and 
 stumbling over the stones. 
 
 In his heart of hearts he had but a poor opinion 
 of Loutrel. The instinct of the peasant in him 
 could detect the vulgarity of this provincial child
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 55 
 
 of the town, and the frank and upright soul that 
 he had inherited from his mother warned him 
 against a nature of such precocity and inferior 
 qualities. And yet, every day, dinner was no 
 sooner over than he went to Loutrel to join his 
 side in the game, or, if wet, to walk up and down 
 with him under the gymnasium shed. The truth 
 was that Loutrel was not only full of insinuation 
 and flattery, but among the simple-minded farm- 
 ers' sons who formed the majority of the stu- 
 dents, good fellows ah 1 , and somewhat chary of 
 speech, there was not one who possessed such a 
 comparatively large knowledge of the world, not 
 one who could tell such an amusing tale of the 
 scandalous sort rife in large market towns, with 
 which he had been familiar since childhood. He 
 spoke with familiarity of Paris, which he had vis- 
 ited when twelve years old; of Nantes, where he 
 occasionally stayed; of trades, which he had 
 studied with his father; of balls, of politics, of 
 fashions; of a multitude of things of which his 
 listeners had for the most part only a confused 
 idea. They laughed and made fun, these boys 
 who were no more than children, when they heard 
 Loutrel boasting and expounding his theories 
 about the world and about money. They much 
 preferred balls and hoops, or running races on 
 stilts. What did it all matter to them? Did not 
 their own simple, upright hearts supply them with 
 the highest knowledge of life? Was there not a 
 directing voice that left them in no doubt which 
 way they were to go a voice that they had 
 known in childhood, and which they as truthfully
 
 56 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 and undoubtingly obeyed now as then? But 
 Pierre Noellet was not only older than most of the 
 others, he was of a different stamp of nature alto- 
 gether. His restless spirit found pleasure only 
 in wandering beyond the present moment. The 
 world, the future, the unknown these had from 
 the outset lured him on. He was unable to resist 
 even the semblance of these things, and he fol- 
 lowed those who presented themselves in their 
 name. His intimacy with Loutrel, therefore, 
 although at first sight incomprehensible, was not 
 to be lightly accounted for, since at the bottom 
 of it lay Pierre's flattered vanity and his insatiable 
 curiosity. 
 
 His masters began to notice his quick changes 
 of temper. A bad mark or a word of reproof 
 would be followed by days of sulkiness. Nor 
 were they well pleased at the intimacy which had 
 sprung up between him and Loutrel. It was dis- 
 quieting to them, for they had a fellow feeling for 
 one so richly gifted in nature, and as time went 
 on, they became more and more alarmed at the 
 symptoms which displayed themselves hi their 
 pupil. One of them, an old, stout, white-haired 
 professor, who had voluntarily buried himself, 
 his scholarship, and his unusual talents as an 
 orator, in the collegiate life of a teacher, openly 
 spoke of it to Noellet. More than once he led him 
 aside into a sheltered spot of the garden, which 
 was his favourite promenade, and where the sun 
 had but to show its nose to feel warm, and there, 
 in a paternal manner, he reminded the young man 
 that there was something nay, many things of
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 57 
 
 greater value than success, and he led him back, 
 as to a healthy spring, to the thought of the voca- 
 tion he had chosen as a child. And he grew elo- 
 quent as he talked, with the additional authority 
 of one who had practised what he preached. He 
 might with truth have said: " Do as I have done; 
 spend yourself on the little ones, on the poor, 
 who will not be conscious of what you do for 
 them, and will give you no thanks; do not har- 
 bour a single ambition, though you may have a 
 right to all: the hidden joy that will result is 
 worth all that glory can bring you." 
 
 But Pierre, always extremely polite, and 
 touched to a certain extent by this mark of affec- 
 tion, did not respond with the same openness of 
 heart. He eluded the professor's questions, and 
 made vague promises: but his thoughts and in- 
 tentions remained unchanged. He continued to 
 be at the same time both reserved and friendly, 
 undeniably clever and insupportably vain, and 
 often melancholy for no cause, or for one which 
 he kept secret in his own heart. 
 
 And yet no one could have been more welcome 
 everywhere, more liked by his companions and 
 tutors, more cherished by his own family. The 
 first vehicle to draw up in front of the college 
 gates every half-holiday, before even the hour of 
 freedom had struck, was Jacques' cart, harnessed 
 to la Huasse or Roussette. The mother never 
 failed when she came to market, nor the father 
 when he attended the fairs, to leave their business 
 in order to see and embrace their boy. During the 
 summer months, Monsieur Laubriet, according to
 
 58 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 promise, sent for him sometimes into the parlour; 
 this was a great event in Pierre's life. He had al- 
 ways stood somewhat in awe of Monsieur Lau- 
 briet, and Madeleine put him completely out of 
 countenance. To him she appeared like a god- 
 dess, and he could not understand how Ponthual, 
 who was refined neither in thought nor language, 
 found grace in the sight of a being so far superior 
 to all the rest of humanity. As soon as he was 
 back in the school-yard he began to recall all the 
 clumsy and impolite things he had said or done, 
 blushing, and for long after unhappy, at the re- 
 membrance of them, and even torturing himself 
 to the point of dreaming about them at night. 
 
 Monsieur Laubriet's visits necessarily became 
 less frequent after his nephew had left college. 
 The last he paid was during the mid-day recreation 
 hour, toward the end of November. Jules de 
 Ponthual had then been gone more than a year. 
 Pierre was beginning to study philosophy. He 
 had not seen anything of Monsieur Laubriet dur- 
 ing the vacation, as the latter had only returned to 
 Landehue in October, and was on his way to Paris 
 through Beaupre"au, when he suddenly thought of 
 his godson. 
 
 Just as Monsieur Laubriet, with his wife and 
 daughters, opened the door of the vestibule and 
 came on to the terrace Pierre was playing at ball 
 at the further end of the outer court. He was 
 playing with all the vigour and energy that he 
 loved to employ at certain times, covered with 
 dust, bareheaded, his forehead bathed in sweat. 
 The late autumnal sun shone palely down from
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 59 
 
 between the clouds, and a few chaffinches, anxious 
 to warm themselves in its declining rays, perched 
 themselves, in spite of the noise, on the topmost 
 branches of the limes, where caterpillars had al- 
 ready replaced the fallen leaves with their cocoons. 
 
 All of a sudden the parasols of the ladies Lau- 
 briet appeared above the low terrace wall. 
 
 "Noellet!" called twenty voices all at once. 
 "Noellet! you are wanted in the parlour." 
 
 Pierre came to a dead standstill. Recognizing 
 the party from Landehue, he was for a moment 
 so overcome with confusion that he longed to run 
 and hide himself. Another moment, and his mind 
 was made up; he retied his cravat, brushed the 
 dust off his coat, pushed back the long hair that 
 was clinging to his forehead, and ran toward the 
 stairs. 
 
 Was it a sense of freedom due to Ponthual be- 
 ing no longer there, or the self-assurance that had 
 come with years? Was it the sudden courage that 
 comes to the timid when they find themselves 
 caught in a trap? He clasped Monsieur Laubriet's 
 hand, and said what he had never been known to 
 say before, and that without stammering: 
 
 "Good-day, godfather." 
 
 Monsieur Laubriet appeared delighted. He 
 gazed with surprise and admiration at the young 
 collegian as if he had never seen him before and 
 replied : 
 
 "Well, to think this is Pierre! It's an age 
 since I saw you last, godson." 
 
 "Not since Easter." 
 
 "And you are now half-way toward being a
 
 60 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 bachelor of arts, and already an accomplished 
 philosopher. In a few months' time your studies 
 will be completed, and then the other life, the 
 more serious one, will begin for you." 
 
 "In two hundred and fifty-nine days." 
 
 "You have counted them?" said Madeleine, 
 laughing. 
 
 He ventured to lift his eyes as far as the bottom 
 of the dress of this elegant Parisian lady, and 
 answered: 
 
 "Yes, mademoiselle, I count them because I 
 am afraid of them." 
 
 "How?" she asked. "Are you afraid of the 
 future?" 
 
 "I understand exactly what he means," broke 
 in Marthe, "the seminary with its grating, its bell, 
 its discipline above all, the discipline would 
 drive me out of my mind with terror!" 
 
 "Marthe!" exclaimed Madame Laubriet, who 
 was always flurried by her younger daughter's 
 impetuous sallies. "Pierre can have no feeling of 
 that kind. Am I not right, Pierre?" 
 
 "Of course," the young man hastened to rejoin; 
 "I like being here, that is all." 
 
 They continued to talk as they walked up and 
 down the terrace. Pierre felt much more at his 
 ease than usual. Monsieur Laubriet was in a good 
 temper at the thought of returning to Paris. And 
 so the conversation was more animated, and 
 lasted longer, than on former occasions. Made- 
 leine took no part in it. The visits to the college 
 were not exactly what she looked upon as a 
 pleasure, and so she contented herself with walk-
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 61 
 
 ing behind her parents and crunching the gravel 
 under her short steps, with looking at the things 
 around her, listening in an absent-minded man- 
 ner to what was being said, and with occasionally 
 exchanging a word or look with her sister which 
 set them both laughing. Notwithstanding this, 
 however, as Pierre, after saying good-by to the 
 family, was going down the first steps of the 
 flight leading to the court, he heard Madeleine, in 
 her clear, somewhat haughty, voice, say to her 
 father: 
 
 "He has really very much improved." 
 
 And it was true, for Pierre's features had 
 grown refined from the continual mental work 
 which always leaves its impress on the face; they 
 had lost some of their original harshness. Small 
 delicate curls of hair were beginning to show on 
 the cheeks and at the corners of the mouth. The 
 face had a look of energy upon it; the eyes were 
 a little melancholy, the smile charming. 
 
 On returning to the class-room that day Pierre 
 felt that work was impossible to him. 
 
 With his elbows on his desk, his head between 
 his hands, he sat for long gazing down at the 
 book before him without reading a word, full of 
 delightful emotion as he thought over the six flat- 
 tering words which had fallen from Madeleine's 
 lips.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AND at La Geniviere also they were counting the 
 days. To-morrow would be a whole holiday. 
 How pleasant it was that winter night, to be sit- 
 ting up beside the fire. Outside there was a slight 
 frost. Within, around the hearth, on which a 
 fagot of wood covered at one end with a crust of 
 white quivering ash which at moments was scat- 
 tered by the winds was burning slowly, the Noel- 
 lets were seated in a semicircle. The father was 
 busy plaiting straw mats ready for the bread when 
 put to rise. He leaned forward in his chair, rolling 
 a twisted fringe of straw which was to form the 
 foundation, and tied the rings of this spiral to one 
 another with a green thong of some kind. Was it 
 rush, or reed, or willow? None of these, but a 
 bramble stem cut into four. It was Jacques who 
 had been to gather the long branches from the 
 hedges, and now they lay on the ground behind 
 his chair, twining round one another, and looking 
 like snakes. He took them up one by one, split 
 them with his knife, and handed them to his 
 father. Both were absorbed hi their work, which 
 was ill suited to their hard, stiff fingers. 
 
 Beside them, all bending forward toward the 
 fire, were the four women with their white caps, 
 which had little to distinguish them one from 
 another four white-capped women who hardly 
 
 62
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 63 
 
 spoke at all, and who worked on as steadily as 
 they could. First there was the mother, who 
 had grown rather thin and shrivelled; next to 
 her the eldest girl, Marie, darker, taller, and se- 
 verer of countenance; then Antoinette, fair and 
 rosy, wide awake and alert; and last of all, seated 
 at the farther corner of the hearth, Me"lie Rain- 
 ette, who had come to spend the evening at La 
 Geniviere. For some time she had been a fre- 
 quent visitor. Had she changed, then? Had she 
 grown fast and pleasure-loving, like so many girls 
 who spend their time going from one farm to an- 
 other, gossiping, dancing, and flirting? Hardly, 
 for look at them all as they sat there. Each held 
 a ball of thread on her lap, and a fine steel crochet 
 hook in one hand, while the other held a flat, 
 white, open-work rose, which grew in size more or 
 less quickly according to the age and skill of the 
 worker. Melie had the cleverest fingers, of course. 
 She had taught the others the design, and how to 
 work it. The thin pricked fingers of her wrinkled 
 workwoman's hand twisted the thread with a 
 quick, sure movement. Antoinette and Marie 
 got along as fast as they were able, but it was evi- 
 dent they were not accustomed to that kind of 
 work. The farmers' wives and daughters of Ven- 
 ded do not make lace crochet work. Why, and for 
 whom, therefore, were all these women working? 
 They hardly allowed themselves a moment even 
 for speech. Only now and again they lifted their 
 eyes and exchanged a glance, and one could see, 
 as they bent their heads again, that they had a 
 thought in common; their smiles were of the kind
 
 64 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 that rise from deeper thoughts and linger a while 
 upon the lips, like a flower that has its roots be- 
 neath the water. The truth was that they had 
 all the same secret, and were all preparing the 
 same surprise. Would you believe that there 
 were already fifty roses in the cupboard? Possibly 
 five hundred might be wanted. But before an- 
 other two years were over everything would be 
 finished, sewn, and ready to be delivered. What 
 a beautiful alb it would be! Soft and white as 
 snow. Would he be pleased when he received it 
 from their hands? They themselves would, in- 
 deed, be happy when the day should come to pre- 
 sent it to him, and they should see him mount the 
 steps of the altar hi his deacon's robe, clad in their 
 alb of white roses. And who should this be but 
 Pierre, the eldest son of La Geniviere. So hand- 
 some, so clever. Ail the hopes of the family cen- 
 tred in him. Eyes grew misty with the very 
 thought even of what was coming. Dear child! 
 how fondly he was loved, and how carefully his 
 place was kept for him. That evening there were 
 more than the usual number of smiles and looks of 
 intelligence between the women, for to-morrow 
 he would be with them. They had been living on 
 the thought of seeing him again for the last month, 
 and anticipated joy, as we know, is at least as 
 good as the joy when it comes. Laugh, then, An- 
 toinette, and you, Jacques, and you, Marie; laugh, 
 aged mother you who shared your youth with 
 your beautiful children, and lost it hi theirs. Be 
 proud! to-morrow you will have your son Pierre 
 with you for a whole day, as in the time gone by.
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 65 
 
 The father, also, as he sat twisting his straw, 
 was thinking over all these things. And now he 
 stretched his hand over Jacques' knees to where 
 his wife was sitting, and took up the rose she was 
 finishing. He weighed the work, delicate as a 
 spider's web, in his heavy hand, and even tried 
 to pass a finger through the larger holes in it, but, 
 finding this impossible, he gave an admiring 
 shrug of his shoulders. 
 
 "It's fine enough, at any rate!" he said. 
 
 A chorus of pleased murmurs from under the 
 white caps greeted his remarks, but neither of the 
 women left off working, and the wonderful alb 
 continued to grow in size amid the dreamful 
 silence of the evening hours.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THEY had had good reason for their rejoicing. 
 Pierre proved himself the gayest and pleasantest 
 of companions from the early morning hour when 
 he arrived. It was one of his good days, there 
 was no doubt about that. His mother found him, 
 if anything, even more affectionate than usual, 
 and when he came up to her and kissed her, for 
 no apparent reason, at the close of the mid-day 
 meal, she threw her arms round her tall and 
 twenty-year-old son, saying: 
 
 "My Noellet, you are as much of a coax to-day 
 as when you were a child. What has happened to 
 you?" 
 
 His two sisters, hi their Sunday attire, had 
 accompanied their handsome brother into the 
 town, proud of his broad, farmer-like shoulders 
 and gentlemanly get up, or at least what they 
 considered such, for he was dressed in his best long 
 holiday coat, and wore a silver watch chain, left 
 him by an old uncle at Montrevault. What a run- 
 ning from door to door! What a clacking of 
 wooden shoes over the frozen ground! What a 
 shaking of hands and greetings! What a chatter- 
 ing of tongues on every side ! 
 
 It was a most enjoyable morning. It was a pity 
 that during the afternoon the snow began to fall 
 at first only in a few scattered flakes, which 
 
 66
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 67 
 
 seemed to hesitate before choosing on what spot 
 of earth to alight, then in heavier and more hur- 
 ried masses, which were hurled together, and 
 again scattered in white sheaves by the wind, that 
 blew a perfect hurricane, one hardly knew from 
 which quarter, and lashed against the trees and 
 banks and roofs, where it silently collected into 
 heaps. And so for many hours the snow continued 
 to fall. Evening came on, and all the family were 
 again indoors. Marie had taken off her Sunday 
 clothes, and could be heard at work in the adjoin- 
 ing room, where she was folding up the linen. 
 Pierre was playing cards with Antoinette at the 
 corner of the cherry-wood table. His cheerfulness 
 had left him, and Antoinette could see that he 
 took no pleasure in the game. As she was only 
 fifteen, her hours did not number any gloomy 
 ones among them, and he roused himself now and 
 then to respond as gayly as possible to his sister's 
 talk, but it was evidently an effort, and he soon 
 relapsed into gloomy silence. Antoinette, at first 
 only surprised at her brother, gradually became 
 concerned, not understanding how any one could 
 feel dull when with her, even during a snow-storm. 
 She rose as they finished the game, and taking her 
 brother's hand gently between her own, and look- 
 ing into his eyes with her honest ones: 
 
 "You are in trouble about something," she said. 
 
 "What makes you think so, little sister? What 
 have I done the whole morning but laugh with 
 you?" 
 
 "Then why are you so sad now?" 
 
 "It is such shocking weather."
 
 68 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 "You know well enough it is not that, Pierre." 
 
 He drew her to him and kissed her white fore- 
 head. "You foolish little dear," he said. "One 
 can hide nothing from you. I am thinking of 
 what is going to happen at the end of this year. 
 Suppose I did not get my bachelor's degree?" 
 
 "Well, in the first place, you are sure to get it. 
 And what is the next great trouble, Monsieur 
 1'Abbe"?" 
 
 "Don't call me that, Antoinette; it is absurd." 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 "Simply because I am not an abbe", and that I 
 consider it ridiculous to give people titles that are 
 not theirs." 
 
 She unclasped her arms, and looked at him 
 with a little pout on her face, and in the comer of 
 her eye there was something very like a tear, 
 which she with difficulty kept from falling. 
 
 "You are not kind and nice this evening." 
 
 At that moment Jacques' head appeared at the 
 window. 
 
 "La Roussette is harnessed, Pierre," he called 
 from outside, in a musical voice that set the win- 
 dow-pane quivering. 
 
 An instant after the father was heard calling 
 out to Jacques to go and take off his things. 
 
 "I am going to drive," he added; "the roads 
 are too bad for you." 
 
 At these words, which were the signal for de- 
 parture, Pierre's mother and sisters quickly gath- 
 ered round him to say good-by. 
 
 " Bon soir, my Noellet. Au revoir. You will be 
 sure to write to us." They kissed him one after
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 69 
 
 the other, and looked at him with eyes that 
 seemed to long to fix his image upon them ere 
 they drew them away. He, on his side, quickly 
 disengaged himself from them, and went toward 
 the door; but before crossing the threshold he 
 turned, and going up to his mother, took her 
 again in his arms, holding her in so close an em- 
 brace that he frightened her. She followed him 
 out with anxious eyes. The girls walked beside 
 the cart for a few yards, then went back to the 
 house, while the two men continued their way to 
 Beaupre"au. 
 
 The snow had ceased to fall, but it lay on all 
 around on the road that stretched thin and 
 white before them, on the furrows, the grass 
 meadows, the glebe pastures looking all alike 
 under their spotless covering; it climbed the 
 slopes, it rose in dome-like heaps on the tops of 
 the gates, and on the bramble leaves, of which it 
 took the form; wherever the eye turned it lost 
 itself in the thick, downy whiteness. The ground 
 shone as if irradiated by some half melancholy 
 light, and one might have thought that the earth 
 was the luminary of the sky a sky of pearly 
 gray, of nearly the same soft hue all over, but 
 encircled, by a livid rim above the horizon where 
 the sun was setting. The trees stood out against 
 it like pencil strokes on a dull background. The 
 little birds, their heads under their wing, were 
 asleep in flocks on the outer branches of the trees; 
 from afar they could be seen like black dots scat- 
 tered round the trunks of the young elms. Not 
 one could be seen flying, not one heard singing;
 
 70 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 only a few crows hovered somewhere over their 
 timid prey. There was no other sign of life about 
 the fields as far as the eye could reach. Even the 
 sound of the wheels and of the horse's hoofs was 
 deadened by the thick carpet beneath. The air 
 itself seemed dead, and could be scarcely felt upon 
 the face. It was hardly even cold. 
 
 La Roussette carried the cart and the travellers 
 along at a good pace. The latter spoke but little, 
 the father occupied with holding in the mare, the 
 son sitting forward plunged in thought, with an 
 absent look in the eyes. As they were climbing 
 one of the hills, however, Julien, leaning forward 
 and lifting up the old coat thrown over his knees, 
 said: 
 
 "Are you cold, little one?" 
 
 "No, father." 
 
 " You look so pale. Pull the cover over you. I 
 am warm enough without it." 
 
 And they fell again into silence, while La Rous- 
 sette still trotted along at full speed on her slen- 
 der legs, which awoke no echo as she covered the 
 ground. 
 
 It was no cold that drove the colour from Pierre's 
 face, but an emotion which grew every moment 
 more unbearable as they drew nearer the town. 
 And now they had reached the first outlying 
 houses. Looking out inquisitively from the win- 
 dow there could be seen the heads of children, to 
 whom the snow and the passers-by were a source 
 of much amusement, and of worthy people who 
 congratulated themselves on being within the 
 shelter of their walls. Pierre Noellet nodded to
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 71 
 
 no one. The cart drew up in front of the college 
 gate the father got down to stretch and warm 
 himself and walked half-way across the entrance 
 court. He did this every time he came. Then 
 standing still in the middle of the swept path, 
 which made great notches in the snow: 
 
 "Well, my boy," he said, holding out his wide 
 open hand to his son, "I shall not bring you back 
 here many more times. It will be a long drive to 
 your new house next year." 
 
 He referred to the large seminary at Angers. 
 But Pierre, who had not let go his hand, drew his 
 father toward him, and letting his head fall on 
 his shoulder, said in a low, stifled voice : 
 
 "I am not going to be a priest." 
 
 Then he rushed along the path, and disap- 
 peared within the college gates. 
 
 The farmer was struck motionless by the blow. 
 His whole body trembled. Could it be possible? 
 Had he heard his son rightly? "I am not going 
 to be a priest." Surely Pierre could not have 
 uttered these words. But where was he? Gone, 
 fled like a culprit. And then his silence while they 
 were driving, and still more his pallour. " Are you 
 cold, little one?" And the stifled voice just now. 
 He was ashamed of himself it was true, then. 
 
 "Oh, Pierre! Pierre!" 
 
 Still he stood there motionless, his eyes fixed 
 on the door through which Pierre had disap- 
 peared, the life-long peace of soul of this fifty-year 
 old peasant so troubled that he was unconscious 
 of the half-dozen students who had come up to 
 him, and were looking at him with curiosity.
 
 72 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 The snow began to fall again, and to sprinkle 
 his rough coat. A professor who was crossing the 
 court paused to speak to him. 
 
 " Are you waiting for some one, Maitre Noellet?" 
 
 The sight of this priest's cassock produced such 
 a strange impression upon Julien Noellet that the 
 sobs rose in his throat, and he was unable to re- 
 ply, and he turned away, hardly knowing what 
 he was doing, following the instinct of pride that 
 drives the wild animal to hide itself when wounded. 
 
 "Hue! Hue!" he called to La Roussette, al- 
 most before he had mounted into the cart; and 
 La Roussette darted off like a flash of lightning, 
 while those who knew the fanner of La Geniviere 
 were astonished to see him put the mare to a gal- 
 lop up the rough, steep road. He continued to 
 drive at the same break-neck pace round corners, 
 uphill and downhill, not slacking for a single mo- 
 ment. Leaning forward, his hat drawn low over 
 his brows, he let the mare go her own way, taking 
 no care to avoid ditches, or the few vehicles that 
 had got stuck along the road. The reins hung 
 loose. The snow whirled round him, but he did 
 not even trouble to cover himself with the cloak 
 that lay at the bottom of the cart. "I am not go- 
 ing to be a priest, I am not going to be a priest!" 
 He could think of nothing but that; he heard 
 nothing but that. So many ruined hopes lay in 
 those few words! So many recollections came 
 back to him of Pierre as a child, things he had not 
 forgotten which had augured well for the little 
 son! And then the struggle, the hesitation, before 
 allowing him to learn Latin, and the heavy sums
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 73 
 
 of money that had gone for his keeping alone! 
 All that to be wasted ! And then the shame of it, 
 for all the country knew for what profession he 
 had been training. Poor Noellet! he had never 
 carried such a heavy weight at his heart before. 
 
 And La Roussette was still galloping, galloping 
 over the thick snow. 
 
 Not till he had driven into the courtyard of the 
 farm did he draw rein, and there he left his sweat- 
 ing animal with the icy snow falling upon it, and 
 abruptly opening the door of the room where in 
 quiet and shelter the family were awaiting him in 
 the warm nest that he loved so well, he walked to 
 his accustomed place at the corner of the hearth, 
 and for more than an hour sat there and wept 
 without speaking. 
 
 The children, in pained astonishment, retired 
 one by one, their hearts ready to break at seeing 
 their father in tears. 
 
 His wife remained with him, and endeavoured 
 timidly to find out the cause of his trouble, but 
 he only answered her with a look which made her 
 understand that he wished to keep it to himself. 
 She trusted that it was only a passing distress, 
 and that a night would suffice to heal a trouble 
 that had come upon him so suddenly. But the 
 blow that had fallen on him had struck to the 
 very roots of his happiness, and he continued to 
 grieve. It had always been his custom, afler din- 
 ner or supper, to remain seated at the table, look- 
 ing round on his children, full of a quiet and ten- 
 der joy as his eyes fell on them one by one. But 
 now, the meal was hardly finished, before he rose
 
 74 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 under the pretext that he was busy in the barn or 
 in the cow-sheds, and he would escape from the 
 house, while his wife, in her ignorance, would say 
 sometimes: 
 
 "If only Pierre were here, he would soon cheer 
 him up."
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AFTER some time had elapsed, however, Julien 
 Noellet, unable to bear his secret unhappiness 
 any longer, and at the same time anxious to take 
 the advice of some wise person before he with- 
 drew his son from the college for of what use was 
 it to keep him there now? It would be better 
 surely to let him take his place again behind the 
 plough determined to go and consult with Abbe 
 Heurtebise. 
 
 One evening in spring, after dark for he was 
 afraid of being recognized he made his way to 
 the presbytery. For some little while past he had 
 been growing more timid of his fellow-creatures, 
 imagining that he read on their faces thoughts of 
 which they had no suspicion. So instead of tak- 
 ing the high road, he went along the footpath that 
 skirted M61ie Rainette's garden, walking with his 
 slow measured tread, that was not unlike that of 
 his oxen. Sweet scents arose from the farther 
 side of the brook; the buds, beginning to swell, 
 looked like small dark fruits on the branches. 
 There was a shy beginning of spring. Noellet had 
 no senses for it, but Me*lie Rainette, being younger, 
 heard within her heart the song of this renewal of 
 life. She had been busy all day washing, and was 
 at this moment gathering up the linen spread out 
 upon the hedge shirts, table-napkins, caps 
 
 75
 
 76 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 which she piled up on her left arm till they foamed 
 over like a white nosegay. She heard the farmer 
 passing along the path beneath, and, recognizing 
 his step, she paused in her work, and called out 
 over the hedge : 
 
 "Good-evening. Where are you going at this 
 time of day, Maitre Noellet?" 
 
 In spite of the growing darkness he recognized 
 her, partly by her refined voice and partly by the 
 outline of her face and figure, which he could still 
 discern in the lingering light. 
 
 "One has business at all hours," he answered 
 sententiously. "How are you, Melie?" 
 
 "As happy as a chaffinch," she replied, "on ac- 
 count of the fine weather I have had for my wash- 
 ing. There are days when I feel it is a pleasure 
 to live." 
 
 "So much the better for you, but everybody 
 does not feel as you do." 
 
 The farmer hurried forward, and was soon at 
 Villeneuve. 
 
 The abbe* took him into his field, and for an 
 hour they walked up and down in front of the 
 beehives which were so dear to that austere man. 
 Neither of the two was a great talker. Their con- 
 versation consisted in the interchange of a few 
 serious words, broken by long pauses which served 
 as commentaries on what had already been said, 
 or as preparation for the next sentence. Never- 
 theless they had no difficulty in understanding 
 one another. Each knew the other's thoughts, 
 for they were both men of Vendee, more given to 
 reflection than to speech.
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 77 
 
 "It is a serious matter," was the substance 
 of what the abbe said. "I feared for your boy 
 Pierre when he was only a child on account of his 
 pride later on I even asked myself but we shall 
 see. Believe me, it is better not to take him from 
 college. Leave him alone for six months; six 
 months may make a great difference in a man. 
 I still have some hopes. At any rate, remember 
 that he can never again be put to the plough. 
 Those who have lived among books, my poor 
 Noellet, are never content to return to farm life." 
 
 A few more words and the interview came to 
 an end. 
 
 "Your two sons were born the same year, were 
 they not?" asked the abbe". 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And they drew bad numbers for the con- 
 scription?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When are they going before the board of 
 examination?" 
 
 "The day after to-morrow." 
 
 "Pierre will be chosen for the service." 
 
 "As well, perhaps, that it should be so." 
 
 "And if he does not go to the seminary, it will 
 exempt Jacques." 
 
 "That will be some slight consolation to me, 
 Monsieur le Cure"." 
 
 And so, with the darkness of night surrounding 
 them, they parted. 
 
 Unfortunately, things did not turn out as the 
 master of La Geniviere had hoped. There was no 
 doubt as to Pierre's robustness, but the close work
 
 78 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 during his five years of college life, and the strain 
 it had entailed on his eyes accustomed as a peas- 
 ant to the reposeful contemplation of the clear 
 country landscape had weakened his sight. He 
 was invalided by the board of examination then 
 sitting at Beaupre"au, while Jacques, though a 
 puny youth, was declared fit for service. 
 
 It was a terrible blow for his family. The farm 
 would now lose both its sons that autumn. As 
 far as Pierre was concerned, this had been an ac- 
 cepted fact for long past; but here was Jacques 
 going to be a soldier, he who was so unfitted to 
 become one ; he who had greater need than others 
 of care and tenderness and of liberty, if he were 
 to live. Poor Mere Noellet wept often at the 
 thought of what was coming; there seemed noth- 
 ing for her but trouble. A feeling of dull irrita- 
 tion toward Pierre had taken possession of the 
 farmer, who considered that he was responsible 
 for his younger brother being forced to leave 
 them. He went through the same argument with 
 himself over and over again. "It is his fault; if 
 he had remained at La Geniviere he would have 
 preserved his fine Noellet eyesight, and would 
 now have been able to exempt Jacques from 
 service. It is he who is sending Jacques away." 
 He kept his anger to himself, however, and gave 
 no outward sign of it. On the rare occasions 
 when Pierre was at home, there was a certain stiff- 
 ness between father and son, but they came to no 
 explanation with each other. "Leave him alone 
 for six months," had been Abbe Heurtebise's ad- 
 vice. And so the farmer waited till the end of the
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 79 
 
 year, with the same peasant-bred patience with 
 which he waited for the right hour for hay-mak- 
 ing, for gathering the harvest, or for the vintage. 
 During the course of the summer, as he knew, 
 Pierre would either become more confirmed in his 
 resolution, or it would pass away like a dream. 
 He would keep silence, therefore, till it was over, 
 while, mingled with his anger and anxiety, there 
 was still a lingering hope. "Supposing his old 
 idea returns," he thought to himself, "I should 
 still have to part with both of them, but it would 
 no longer be the same trouble to me." He was 
 accustomed to long periods of hopeful expec- 
 tancy. Moreover, when he talked with his wife 
 about Jacques they both cried; when they talked 
 of Pierre her face would brighten, and she would 
 smile with the same perfect confidence as hereto- 
 fore, no doubt having entered to disturb her 
 mind, and even he would feel some slight softening 
 of the heart as he recalled the many storms, the 
 hail, and the drought, the ravages of which to his 
 fields had been repaired the following season.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IT was a month since Pierre had left the college. 
 The rain had fallen during the night, and the 
 earth, which had drunk thirstily of it after the 
 long dry spell of weather, lay soft and swollen 
 with moisture. On all sides around Fief-Sauvin 
 the early ploughing had begun. Across the hills 
 came, sung or whistled, the long-drawn-out cry of 
 the ploughman to his beasts, "Ohe, les vakts, 
 ohe!" It was almost noon. Jacques and his 
 father were returning to the farm. Before them, 
 walking in procession, La Huasse at their head, 
 were the cart-horses, followed by six large oxen 
 with silky coats that rose in folds across their 
 shoulders with each step they took. They were 
 dragging a plough after them, its teeth, still clogged 
 with earth, turned upward, as it jolted over the 
 grassy knolls along the road. 
 
 As they came in sight of the house, the farmer 
 asked: 
 
 "Do you know where he is? It is not a usual 
 thing for him to go off with La Roussette on 
 ploughing day without my leave." 
 
 He spoke with anger and frowning brows, for 
 it was the first time that a son of La Geniviere 
 had taken such a liberty. 
 
 Jacques turned his head toward the hedge that 
 
 80
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 81 
 
 his father might not notice his confusion, and 
 answered indifferently: 
 
 "I am sure I do not know." 
 
 But he was not speaking the truth. 
 
 On rising that morning at dawn, he had found 
 Pierre in the stable currying La Roussette, who 
 was standing still with her head buried in a 
 troughful of oats. The bridle with its red rosettes 
 was hanging on a post near. 
 
 "Where are you off to?" asked Jacques. 
 
 ' ' To the forest. They are hunting there to-day." 
 
 "To the forest! And you are going to take La 
 Roussette? Father will not be pleased, for he 
 wants her to-day for the ploughing of the large 
 Musse." 
 
 "Harness La Huasse in her place, Jacques," 
 replied Pierre, tapping his brother on the shoulder. 
 "I shall not be here long, and I want to satisfy 
 a whim of mine that has been tempting me for 
 ten years." 
 
 And before he had finished speaking, he had 
 thrown a cloth in place of a saddle over the back 
 of La Roussette, put on the girth, mounted, and 
 without stirrup, and only a piece of bread in his 
 pocket, started off for the forest of Leppo. 
 
 There was nothing extraordinary in this, there 
 in bold Vende*e, with its sense of equality. Those 
 who have hunted in the forests of Vezins, of 
 Leppo, or of La Foucaudiere, know how often, as 
 the hunt begins, either at the cross-roads or on the 
 heaths, may be met many country youths in 
 blouses or shirt jackets mounted on farm horses, 
 who cut across in front of carriages and of pink-
 
 82 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 coated huntsmen. The grandfathers of these 
 farmers' sons were the companions of nobles in 
 the time of the "Great War." They rode with 
 only an old bridle, or even a piece of rope, side by 
 side with officers wearing their white scarves, and 
 they shared with these the same life, and often 
 died the same death. From such intimacy spring 
 rights and traditions. The huntsmen know this, 
 and the farmers' sons know it better still. What 
 was unusual was to meet such a horse as La 
 Roussette. 
 
 She would not follow directly behind the 
 hounds, but some hundred yards to the left, ob- 
 stinately continuing in this parallel direction, and 
 always at the same long trot, never breaking into 
 a gallop. La Roussette and her rider had disap- 
 peared for an hour, trying to recover a lost scent. 
 They suddenly reappeared in the middle of a 
 clearing just as the buck, which had been started 
 again, was running straight for the outskirts of 
 the Leppo forest with the intention of making his 
 way from there to that of La Foucaudiere. Most 
 of the huntsmen were soon scattered, their horses 
 being foundered or out-distanced. Two only kept 
 in sight of the hounds, the whipper-in Leproux, 
 a stout man on a lean mare, with a heart-shaped 
 mouth and swollen cheeks, ready to sound his 
 horn, and Madeleine Laubriet, the most attractive 
 and most inveterate of huntresses. She was rav- 
 ishing in her short habit, with her brown hair 
 twisted in a knot under her little silk hat, with her 
 look of animation and her pink cheeks, and en- 
 tirely given up to the delight of the chase.
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 83 
 
 And what greater delight is there than galloping 
 at full speed with the wind lashing against one's 
 face, and feeling oneself borne along by an intelli- 
 gent and obedient power that requires only the 
 pressure of a finger to change its pace or its 
 course! A flood of sensations, the pride of mas- 
 tery, the intoxication of space, a kind of voluptu- 
 ous pleasure in danger, the primitive passion of 
 the blood, that old ferocity which ordinarily we 
 keep in check overflow our being. And how de- 
 licious it is to draw the air into one's lungs! And 
 how the hunting train of Landehue went sweeping 
 by! It was a vision passing before one's eyes, 
 a chorus of voices flying past. The whole forest 
 was alive. Madeleine Laubriet royally enjoyed 
 herself. She was a huntress by birth. The old 
 Leproux, who doted upon her, sounded many 
 extra bien aller for her sake, and the sonorous 
 notes of his horn were heard afar through the 
 moist woods, awakening terror afresh in the heart 
 of the deer poor frightened beast! that risked 
 a last effort to save his life, and made for the 
 open plain. 
 
 " He'll soon be at his last gasp, won't he, Le- 
 proux?" she asked, as she galloped on. 
 
 "Before another twenty minutes are over, at 
 the pace our dogs are keeping him at, Mademoi- 
 selle. Look at them; you can hardly see them 
 for the rate they go." 
 
 The whole pack in a body were hunting by 
 sight, looking like a moving patch among the 
 furrows and the stubble. 
 
 Mademoiselle Laubriet, passionately fond as
 
 84 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 she was of the chase, had yet not failed to notice 
 the horseman whose mare always kept at a cer- 
 tain distance ahead of hers, never altering its 
 pace. She had even fancied that he, on his side, 
 had not been unwilling to look at her. At least 
 she gathered as much from a certain respectful 
 retirement in his behaviour, for this strange 
 horseman, whenever he saw her turn her head, 
 leant forward over his horse's mane, and spurred 
 his horse as if to flee from her. And so, after a 
 wild chase that brought them to the first clear- 
 ings of the Foucaudiere, no longer seeing him 
 near, she said to the whipper-in : 
 
 "We seem to have lost our companion. Do 
 you know who it was?" 
 
 "I recognized the mare, Mademoiselle; it was 
 La Roussette; but who was riding her I cannot 
 say." 
 
 Then a moment later, with a knowing look : 
 "A capital little beast that for drawing a cart." 
 For old Leproux the honour of the Landehue 
 stables was almost one and the same thing as his 
 own. 
 
 Nevertheless, when a quarter of an hour later he 
 put his horn to his lips to sound the "Hallali!" he 
 found himself the second to arrive on the spot, for 
 Pierre Noellet was there before him, his coat torn 
 by the branches, and La Roussette was standing 
 in her favourite attitude, with one hind-foot half 
 lifted, her head down, and a general air about her 
 of being tired out. At his feet were the hounds 
 crowding round the buck, which, at the end of its 
 strength, had dragged itself into the shelter of a
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 85 
 
 briar bush. The poor animal, its breath exhausted 
 and its blood turned, hardly moved even when he 
 felt the fangs of his pursuers in his flesh; a faint 
 bleat alone cried for pity; the pink tongue hung 
 down; the turned-up eyes were beginning to 
 grow dim. 
 
 Mademoiselle Laubriet rode up in her turn, 
 looked at the dying animal without a shadow of 
 emotion disturbing her smile of triumph, re- 
 arranged her habit, patted her mare's neck, and 
 then, looking at Pierre Noellet: 
 
 " Bravo, Pierre!" she cried. "As usual, the 
 first in the field." 
 
 For the first time she addressed him without 
 that shade of haughtiness in her voice which had 
 so deeply wounded Pierre. He was conscious of 
 it, and it gave him courage to reply: 
 
 "Just a chance, Mademoiselle; it is the first 
 time I have followed the hounds, and probably 
 the last." 
 
 "Your animal is perfect. Will you sell it to me 
 now," she asked, smiling. 
 
 "I would certainly, if it only depended on me." 
 
 The conversation would have continued, but 
 a voice suddenly called out: 
 
 "Well, now, this is amusing!" 
 
 And at the same moment there appeared 
 emerging from one of the forest roads, mounted on 
 a thoroughbred that was badly lamed, an athletic- 
 looking young man in pink coat, blue spotted 
 waistcoat, white trousers fastened below the 
 knees with buckles, and top-boots; his silk hat, 
 perched on the back of his head, was fastened to
 
 86 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 his coat collar by a little blue ribbon. He was 
 laughing with all his might, and nodding his head 
 up and down with a rapidity that made his brown 
 moustache dance, and disturbed the white cravat, 
 which was ornamented with the traditional stag's 
 tooth mounted in gold. 
 
 "I say, though, isn't it a joke! I never ex- 
 pected to meet little Noellet at a hunt." 
 
 Pierre turned red. 
 
 "In this country," he said quickly, "the hunt 
 is open to everybody. I, too, as little expected to 
 see you here, Ponthual." 
 
 He made a point of addressing him with the 
 familiar tutoiement, knowing that it would not be 
 quite to the taste of his old school-fellow. 
 
 "I thought you were employed chanting your 
 oremus," replied the other. 
 
 "Not yet, cousin," put in Mademoiselle Lau- 
 briet. "Pierre Noellet has not finished his holi- 
 days, and I think he was very wise to come and 
 join the hunt if he wished to. You come hi only 
 third, my poor Jules, with a limping horse, and 
 that puts you out." 
 
 "What nonsense!" 
 
 "It's truth," she said, drawing herself up. "I 
 know you well; you are put out about it." 
 
 Half a dozen pink coats now came riding out of 
 an adjoining wood. Leproux dismounted for the 
 quarry, and Noellet, who did not care to prolong 
 the conversation with Jules de Ponthual, nor to 
 stay to see the cutting up of the buck, profited by 
 the occasion to take his departure. He bowed to 
 Mademoiselle Laubriet, turned La Roussette
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 87 
 
 round, and went off down one of the green forest 
 paths. 
 
 The haughty Madeleine had smiled at him; 
 what was more, she had stood up for him. He 
 was surprised and delighted. "Always first in the 
 field!" What did PonthuaPs scornful remarks 
 matter after that? 
 
 According to the natural course followed by all 
 human reverie, his thoughts reverted quickly to 
 the past, that Divine source from which we begin 
 to draw so early. When he himself and the ladies 
 of Landehue had all been children, he had begun 
 to feel a timid admiration for them Madeleine 
 particularly, with her queen-like airs, had in- 
 spired him with awe. Her least words had seemed 
 to him like sovereign commands. In those days 
 the Laubriet returned to Landehue at the begin- 
 ning of April. And then what days of birds'-nest- 
 ing there had been! What days spent in the fields 
 searching for primroses, for daffodils, for wild 
 hyacinths, and for the little ranunculus, the 
 colour of wine-lees, in the melancholy nosegays of 
 which Madame Laubriet took especial pleasure! 
 As soon as Madeleine and Marthe caught sight of 
 Pierre returning from one of his marauding excur- 
 sions, holding up a fold of his smock-frock in 
 which the booty lay hid, they would break away 
 from their nurses: "What have you got to-day, 
 Pierre jays, magpies? Magpies are mischievous 
 birds, aren't they? Oh, no, starlings! Oh, what 
 pretty things! Where is the cage we had last 
 year? You ought to know, Pierre?" 
 
 He always did know where last year's cage was.
 
 88 ''THIS, MY SON" 
 
 The poor birds were shut up in it. For three days 
 the little girls looked after them with too great 
 assiduity; on the fourth their pensioners began 
 to droop. Toward the end of the week Pierre 
 dug a grave for them under one of the trees. An- 
 other pleasure in the hay-making time had been 
 to watch the little pink aprons and wind-blown 
 hair of the children as they flew in and out among 
 the heaps of freshly piled grass. Madeleine was 
 such a capital runner; even then she showed her 
 taste for the chase. Had she not once harnessed 
 Pierre to a wheelbarrow, in which she sat en- 
 throned in a flowered dress, with a whip in her 
 hand tied with riband? "I am Diana; you are 
 the horse; there are the deer, off now at a gallop! 
 Quicker, quicker! At full speed!" And the 
 frightened sheep scattered in every direction 
 about the field, leaping over the hedges, while she 
 sat and laughed her clear, light laugh, like the song 
 of a blackbird. Ah, those times were far away! 
 
 When the rider dreams, the horse takes its 
 leisure. La Roussette had insensibly dropped 
 from her trot into an easier pace. The sun was 
 sinking, and the shadows of the bare trees were 
 lying here and there across the road as Pierre en- 
 tered the courtyard of the farm. 
 
 His father was standing upright at the stable 
 door. 
 
 ''Have you just returned from the hunt?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And since when are the horses taken out 
 without my permission?"
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 89 
 
 Pierre tried to open the door, but the fanner 
 flung it to with a blow of his fist. 
 
 "Since when, I ask you?" he repeated in a 
 voice of thunder. 
 
 "I thought," stammered the young man, "that 
 as it was the first time " 
 
 "Quite so, and it will have to be the last, my 
 boy. When I am dead, you can dispose as you 
 like of my property. Until then I am master 
 here; do you understand?" 
 
 Then seizing the bridle from his son's hands, he 
 added: 
 
 "Give La Roussette to me; gentlemen who go 
 hunting do not look after their horses." 
 
 And with a shrug of his shoulders, he went into 
 the stable, pulling the beast after him. 
 
 Pierre, angry and humiliated, did not dare re- 
 sist, nor answer his father aloud. He turned on 
 his heel, muttering, as if speaking to himself: "I 
 see I am one too many here. Have no fear, 
 father; you will have no occasion to repeat what 
 you have said to me."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ON the morrow Pierre Noellet, who had spent the 
 whole day away from the farm with a friend who 
 lived in a neighbouring village, was returning 
 home through Fief-Sauvin. As he passed old 
 Joberie's tavern, which was situated near the 
 church at the top of the hill, he was surprised to 
 hear a considerable noise going on within. At 
 this time of the year, when the early ploughing 
 and the late threshing were going on simultane- 
 ously a time of excessive fatigue for the labourers 
 it was not unusual, as night fell, for the tavern 
 to be full of drinkers, mostly farm hands white 
 with dust from the threshing-floor. To-day, how- 
 ever, there was an exceptional influx of men. 
 With the reapers were weavers, farmers, and shop- 
 keepers, the latter recognizable among the thin 
 job-hands from their pleased and comfortable 
 appearance. The sudden burst of sound, the 
 cheers, the continual clicking of glasses, drew sev- 
 eral of the old people from their quiet homes in 
 the neighbourhood to the tavern door, and these 
 added their smiles as applause, when the men in- 
 side, with the full power of their lungs, reiterated 
 the cry of, "To the health of the boy Louis!" 
 "To the 2nd Light Infantry!" 
 
 They were celebrating the return of Louis 
 Fauvepre, the blacksmith's son, who had served 
 
 90
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 91 
 
 his time, and was just back from Tunis, with a 
 corporal's stripes on his sleeve. The father, once 
 more in possession of his son, had done nothing 
 since the previous evening but parade him up and 
 down the town, never tired of showing him off, 
 still less of gazing at him himself, while he spoke 
 of the Kroumirs as if he had seen them himself, 
 and caught his son up if the latter varied in his 
 recitals. The smithy took a holiday. Just think 
 of having a son safely back after four years of 
 misery a son who, after the following day, would 
 have no right ever again to put on a uniform! 
 The host went up and down between his cellar 
 and the room that was full to overflowing with 
 his guests, joking and beaming with delight at 
 this second Sunday which the week had brought 
 him. 
 
 As to the hero himself, he was a handsome, 
 thin, bronzed young soldier, of masculine coun- 
 tenance, who was as little intoxicated by his ova- 
 tion as he was by old Joberie's Nantes muscadet. 
 Leaning upright against the wall, between a por- 
 trait of MacMahon and a printed notice of the 
 penalty incurred by being seen drunk in public, 
 he shook hands with the newcomers, who at 
 every minute were swelling the number of the 
 drinkers, exchanged good-days with them, touched 
 glasses with friends to right and left, without paus- 
 ing in the narrative of his campaigns, to which a 
 crowd of youths, seated near him, listened open- 
 mouthed. 
 
 "You understand," he said, "it was a ravine 
 between two mountains, with a sun overhead to
 
 92 'THIS, MY SON" 
 
 melt a cannon, and not a drop of water. There the 
 fight began. All of a sudden, pit, pat, and two of 
 our men fell beside me, and the balls go whistling 
 round us, lifting our hair. It was the Ouled-Ayas 
 shooting from above at us from a plateau of rock, 
 embattled like a fort. The colonel ordered our 
 squadron to dismount. We silently turned to the 
 left round the swell of the hill, and entered the 
 thick of the wood. Then came the order that we 
 were to advance another two hundred yards or so, 
 and then open fire. Ah, if only you had been 
 there, my boys! All our shots told. At the end 
 of another twenty minutes there was not a single 
 white burnoose to be seen on the plateau; nothing 
 but dead nothing but men, women, and chil- 
 dren, and two thousand frightened, bleating 
 sheep." 
 
 And all those present, carried away by the 
 thought of his victory at which Fief-Sauvin had 
 figured, cheered loudly at the defeat of the Krou- 
 mirs, "Health to young Louis! To the 2nd Light 
 Infantry! To the corporal!" 
 
 The light white wine had begun to muddle 
 several of the heads by the time Pierre Noellet 
 reached the tavern. 
 
 "Ah, Noellet," cried a voice, "come in!" 
 
 Several of the drinkers appeared at the door, 
 repeating the invitation: 
 
 "Noellet! Noellet!" 
 
 He hesitated a moment, but finally decided to 
 turn back. 
 
 His entrance was greeted by a surprised mur- 
 mur. All eyes turned toward him. But in the
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 93 
 
 midst of these men, who yet belonged to his own 
 world, he felt himself ill at ease. He was conscious 
 of an atmosphere around him of silent hostility. 
 His face was a little pale as he walked up to 
 Louis Fauvepre. 
 
 "Why, it is Noellet from La Geniviere! Little 
 Noellet, whom I knew when he was no higher 
 than that," exclaimed the corporal, grasping his 
 hand. 
 
 "Yes, it is he himself," replied Pierre. 
 
 "You don't look, my boy, as if you had done 
 much ploughing, ' ' continued the corporal. ' ' What 
 are you doing here?" 
 
 He had no malicious intention in asking the 
 question, but the old school-fellows whom Pierre 
 had neglected, and who were jealous of him as well 
 as angry at his scornful behaviour, seeing their 
 opportunity for revenge, began laughing and jok- 
 ing in a coarse sort of way. They were at the 
 moment in full force. One of them, impossible to 
 distinguish among the numbers crowcUng round 
 the tables, was bold enough to call out in reply: 
 
 "What is he doing? Nothing. He is a gentle- 
 man; salute him, corporal." 
 
 A second followed his example, and insulting 
 words, greeted by the majority present with evi- 
 dent satisfaction, began to pour down on Pierre. 
 Taken back at first by this sudden attack, he tried 
 at first to stand out against his assailants. He 
 was standing among the drinkers a few steps off 
 from Fauvepre, and at each fresh insult hurled at 
 him he turned first to one side and then to another, 
 but it was impossible to catch the culprit, who
 
 94 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 hid himself behind the others, and Pierre's ris- 
 ing anger only served to increase the hilarity. 
 Finally, he crossed his arms, and, looking toward 
 the farther end of the room, cried out : 
 
 "You are cowards, every one of you; not one 
 dares say anything to my face." 
 
 "I will dare it with pleasure, my little dear," 
 answered a voice. 
 
 The "little" one addressed was at least five 
 feet three in height, and had the build of a man, 
 but the other man was of colossal stature. A 
 regular giant, a fniller's servant, red in hair and 
 face, now crossed the room swinging his enormous 
 shoulders, and came and planted himself in front 
 of Pierre. 
 
 "Here I am," he said. "It's with me you have 
 to deal. What's your complaint?" 
 
 "Why do you insult me?" asked Noellet. 
 
 "Because you treat us with contempt." 
 
 "That's it. Bravo, miller! Well spoken!" 
 cried several of the men. 
 
 "Because," continued the miller, "you were 
 not born any better than we were, and you ape 
 the gentleman; because we were all together at 
 school, and now you will know none of us." 
 
 "Is it my fault that my studies have separated 
 me from you?" 
 
 " No ; but I consider it your fault that you forget 
 to nod to us down in the town, and are ashamed to 
 drink a glass of wine with us, or to j oin our company. ' ' 
 
 "Last Sunday you pretended not to see me," 
 added another of those present. 
 
 "Or me either," put in a second.
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 95 
 
 "Your brother is a ploughman like ourselves," 
 said a third. 
 
 "See now," exclaimed Pierre, who was growing 
 more nervous every minute, "you are all jealous 
 of me." 
 
 Half of the drinkers rose at this, and, thumping 
 their fists on the table, cried : 
 
 "Jealous of what? Turn him out! Jump upon 
 him, miller!" 
 
 The miller turned back his cuffs, sneering as he 
 did so; he then brought his two fists close to 
 Pierre's chest. 
 
 The latter did not appear in the least discon- 
 certed, but throwing up his head, and looking 
 straight at all the mocking, menacing faces and 
 the raised fists, only cried: 
 
 "Jealous of the teaching that places me above 
 you, that is what you are." 
 
 A burst of anger greeted this bravado, and the 
 clamour did not soon subside. Even those who 
 had taken no part in the quarrel began to grow 
 angry and protest. Pierre meanwhile, threatened 
 and insulted on all sides, at last understood what 
 he had till then but feebly recognized that he 
 was an alien among his own people, disowned and 
 driven away by them. 
 
 The child had disdained the land, and the land, 
 in its turn, had rejected the man. 
 
 He hesitated no longer, but exclaimed proudly: 
 
 "Adieu, boys of Fief! It will be long before 
 you see me again." 
 
 And forcing a way for himself, he reached the 
 door amid cries and hoots.
 
 96 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 In vain Louis Fauvepre, who was quite in the 
 dark as to the cause of this outbreak of anger, 
 endeavoured to stop him, and to soothe the ex- 
 citement of these men of Vendee. 
 
 "Come back, Noellet! Come back!" he called; 
 "they are only in fun." 
 
 But Pierre was already out on the road, on his 
 way to La Geniviere. 
 
 As he neared the barn, before turning into the 
 courtyard, he caught sight of Jacques busy set- 
 ting a trap for the blackbirds under a gooseberry 
 tree laden with ripe red fruits. 
 
 "Where is father?" he asked, without pausing. 
 
 "In the granary turning the grain." 
 
 Pierre sprang up the flat runged ladder which 
 served as a staircase. He paused when he reached 
 the top before approaching his father, which was 
 always rather a formidable affair. Moreover, he 
 was so overcome and out of breath that he could 
 not at first have spoken. 
 
 The farmer, with a wooden spade in his hand, 
 was at the right-hand end of the granary, digging 
 into an immense pile of the last year's wheat, 
 bringing the underlying grain to the top that it 
 might dry better. He never allowed any one to 
 do this work for him. The streams of red gold, 
 as they poured down the sides of the heap from his 
 spade, with the rustling sound of falling sand, or 
 of coins, were a delight to the old peasant. The 
 grain represented the life and the profit of the 
 year. No doubt, as he turned it over, he recalled 
 the needless fears he had suffered, the storms that 
 had swamped his fields, the droughts that had
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 97 
 
 burnt them up, the fear-giving days of threshing, 
 and knowing all these troubles past, he smiled at 
 his acquired riches. 
 
 Although occupied with his task, and working 
 with his face turned to the end wall, he became 
 quickly aware, by the lessening of the light, that 
 someone was standing between him and the door. 
 He turned and saw his son, who was hesitating to 
 accost him, pausing just within the entrance, 
 dressed, as he hated to see him, in the clothes of 
 the better class. His quiet, sunburnt face grew 
 serious, and, leaning on his spade, he waited, 
 while the white dust he had raised hung all around 
 him, and danced in the rays of the sun. 
 
 "Father," said the young man, "I have some- 
 thing I wish to say to you." 
 
 " Speak on," replied his father; "we can talk 
 as we like here, for the women are in the town." 
 
 "Father, you treated me roughly yesterday 
 when I returned with La Roussette." 
 
 "You deserved it, my boy; you were wanting 
 in respect to me." 
 
 "What is more, you think that for the last 
 month I have been doing nothing, that as yet 
 I am nothing, and that displeases you; is it not 
 so?" 
 
 "Most certainly you cannot continue to live 
 and do nothing here, where everybody has their 
 work." 
 
 "They have told me that often enough, those 
 Fief boys, and have insulted me in every possible 
 way." 
 
 "When was that?"
 
 98 "T HIS, MY SON 77 
 
 "Just now, down at Joberie's; and I can see 
 plainly from what you and they have said to me 
 that I am one too many here." 
 
 " Pierre, I never said that!" 
 
 "No; but I felt it, and that is enough I shall 
 go away." 
 
 "Where do you intend going?" 
 
 "Somewhere a long way off." 
 
 "And when?" 
 
 "To-morrow." 
 
 There was an interval of silence. The moment 
 had come. The question which had been tor- 
 menting Julien for months past was now to be 
 answered. And how? The answer, as yet un- 
 known, hung in suspense between them. Would 
 it be joy, pride in a resumed vocation, or the 
 repetition of one already spoken? 
 
 Master of himself as was Julien Noellet, his 
 voice was feeble, and trembled as he continued : 
 
 "What place, then, are you thinking of?" 
 
 "Paris." 
 
 "There may be a seminary at Paris say, my 
 dear son, is it to that you are going ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What then?" asked the father, his face turn- 
 ing white with anguish as he spoke. 
 
 "I told you that I could not be a priest; it is 
 useless to speak of it any further." 
 
 It was all over, then! The farmer began to 
 shake all over, as on the day when his son's deci- 
 sion had first broken in upon the peace of his soul. 
 To hide his trembling he turned round and began 
 again to dig up the grain in large spadefuls. But
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 99 
 
 his eyes must have grown dim, for the wheat 
 rolled on to the floor. When at last he paused, he 
 wiped his forehead, stuck his spade into the mid- 
 dle of the heap, and went and leant against the 
 wall at the end, as if the last few minutes' work 
 had exhausted him. 
 
 "Pierre," he said, and his voice rang with a 
 poignant sadness, "when you were small, and up 
 to the time you were fifteen, I thought that you 
 were going to be my help, and that you would 
 carry on the farm after my death. The thought 
 gave me joy and peace of heart." 
 
 "It was natural that you should think so," re- 
 plied Pierre. 
 
 "Then you told us that you wished to be a 
 priest. I made you wait a year. Then you went 
 to college, and I turned my hopes to Jacques. 
 I did not think they would take him from me to 
 serve. I was mistaken. They did take him. 
 And now you are going from me, and I shall be 
 left at La Geniviere alone with farm servants, as 
 if I were a man without sons!" 
 
 "It is hard for you, father; but what can I do?" 
 
 "No, Pierre, that is not the saddest part of it. 
 Then I said yes to you; I let you finish your 
 training; I did not go back from my word. And 
 you, why have you changed your mind?" 
 
 The young man hung his head without an- 
 swering. 
 
 "Yes, a great change has come over you. Why 
 is it? If God wished for you yesterday, why does 
 He no longer wish for you to-day?" 
 
 Still Pierre did not speak.
 
 100 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 "I have been troubled in mind for a long time 
 now about it. Have I in any way set you a bad 
 example?" 
 
 "Oh no!" exclaimed Pierre hastily. 
 
 "Have you noticed anything in my speech or 
 manner of over-much regret at not having you 
 for the farm? Ah, dear son, there have been days 
 when it has been so with me, but I know I was 
 wrong. Is that the reason?" 
 
 "No, father, it is no fault of yours at all." 
 
 "Then it has to do with you. What have you 
 done? Tell me. Your mother shall know noth- 
 ing of it, I promise you. Tell me, for it is as great 
 a trouble to me to be kept in ignorance of that as 
 to see you go from me." 
 
 There was something so touching about the old 
 father in his self-accusation, in his humble con- 
 fession of a passing weakness, while he had no 
 word of reproach for his son, that Pierre decided 
 to tell him all. But there was no humility in his 
 confession. He raised his head and looked at his 
 father, and the farmer saw the dark red light 
 come into the eyes which he had noticed with 
 anxiety in Pierre as a child when he was angry or 
 obstinate. 
 
 "I have not changed," said Pierre, "any more 
 than I shall change. There is no need to accuse 
 yourself or any one else. When I asked you to let 
 me go to college, it was with the desire to raise 
 myself I had no other distinct aim in view. Of 
 what use is it to dissimulate any longer? When 
 I was ten years old the thought of being a priest 
 no doubt crossed my mind. But in my total
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 101 
 
 ignorance of the world it meant chiefly to me the 
 getting away from the land. Farm-life did not 
 suit my tastes. I aspired to rise above the sur- 
 roundings into which I had been born; to gain 
 a position, as others had; to grow happy, rich, 
 and powerful, by help of the intellect that I felt 
 I possessed. When I said to you at fifteen, 'I 
 wish to be a priest/ I took the only means in my 
 power to escape from the conditions of my birth." 
 
 The father, still leaning against the wall, did 
 not seem to understand. 
 
 "What other way was open to me to get away 
 from here?" continued Pierre. "Would you 
 have let me go if I had proposed to you to be a 
 lawyer, doctor, notary, or any other thing what- 
 soever? You know you would not; and I knew 
 it also. Ah! the land keeps tight hold on those 
 she has once in her grasp. I was obliged to pre- 
 tend I felt a vocation that I did not, in order that 
 I might learn Latin, and be taught like the rich 
 people's children, so as to become their equal, 
 since I was born beneath them. I do not regret 
 what I did; I accomplished what I wished, for 
 here I am free!" 
 
 "Then you deceived me!" cried the farmer, 
 leaning forward with clenched fists, as if to spring 
 on his son and punish the insolence of his words. 
 
 "Do you think it cost me nothing? I needed 
 all the determination that you have transmitted 
 to me with your blood to leave you so long in 
 error. You thought me strange and whimsical; 
 I was only tortured by the lie that stood between 
 us. I saw you indulging in a dream that had been
 
 102 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 but an unformed, flitting fancy for me, and one 
 which I knew I must myself some day dispel. 
 I suffered, believe me, in seeing you rejoicing in 
 a false hope, so much so that I had not the cour- 
 age to carry out my resolution to the end. I ought 
 to have held my tongue for five whole years, 
 instead of which I gave in at the fourth year, 
 telling you that I could never be a priest. You 
 know the rest." 
 
 "And you were not ashamed," said the father, 
 whose anger was now rising and threatening, 
 "to deceive us all me, your mother, your mas- 
 ters, the whole country?" 
 
 "I was obliged to." 
 
 "You have allowed us to deprive ourselves for 
 five years in order to send you to college, and to 
 pay for your gentleman's clothes and your books. 
 You have stolen three thousand francs of my 
 money." 
 
 "Stolen, father?" 
 
 "Yes, stolen, for I should never have given 
 them to you if you had not lied to me, and you 
 have had the face to come and tell me this, and 
 to excuse yourself by insulting the land. Wretched 
 boy! Do you realize who it is you scorn? It is 
 I; it is your mother " 
 
 "No, no." 
 
 "It is all those from whom you have sprung, 
 and who tilled the land before me. Ah, you are 
 ashamed of us! Ah, you disown La Geniviere! 
 Begone from it, then, ungrateful son!" 
 
 The peasant had seized his spade again. He 
 was white and trembling with rage.
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 103 
 
 "Go, I say," he repeated, drawing near to 
 Pierre; "not to-morrow to-day. It is I who 
 drive you away." 
 
 Pierre stood without moving, clenching his 
 teeth, and let the old man come within two paces 
 of him to show he was not afraid. 
 
 Then he walked backward toward the door, 
 saying: 
 
 "I was right in thinking that you would not 
 understand a man's ambition. I have risen in 
 spite of you, and I shall arrive in spite of you in 
 spite of you." 
 
 At this last affront the farmer flung the spade 
 up over his head. 
 
 "Be ofif with you!" he cried; "be off with 
 you!" 
 
 Pierre obeyed, and slowly descended the lad- 
 der, disturbed and frightened at the recollection 
 of his own boldness, but not in any degree shaken 
 in mind. His lips moved, and he spoke aloud, con- 
 tinuing the conversation that had been inter- 
 rupted. There was no one in the court-yard; 
 Pierre crossed it. All the doors were shut. The 
 windows of the house flashed in the sun. Around 
 the pools of liquid manure, scattered with straws 
 that shone like blades of gold, the ducks sat fast 
 asleep, their heads under their wings. Evidently 
 the women-folk had not returned. He turned as 
 he reached the stable, but his father was no longer 
 visible through the granary window. He went 
 quietly in, and seeing a fresh pile of straw for the 
 horses, threw himself upon it face downward like 
 an angry child.
 
 104 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 There he could give full vent to his feelings by 
 uttering imprecations to which the only response 
 was the laboured breathing of La Huasse, now old 
 and broken-winded, in front of her empty manger. 
 This state of angry feeling lasted a long time. 
 Finally, however, the solitude began to sober 
 him. Having, as he felt, exhausted his re- 
 proaches, he sat up. 
 
 At that moment a young voice near him ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 "My poor Pierre!" 
 
 He turned his head. 
 
 "My poor Pierre! Are you again in trouble?" 
 
 It was Antoinette leaning over him with her 
 pretty face, looking at him with the clear bright 
 eyes of her fifteen years, into which had come an 
 expression of astonishment. What trouble could 
 have so upset her brother? What had he to com- 
 plain about? She had no idea. But, feeling a joy 
 and tenderness within her sufficient for two, she 
 took hold of her brother's hand very gently and 
 full of self-confidence. Sisters have these mater- 
 nal ways with them when still very young. 
 
 "Come, my Pierre," she said, "and let me com- 
 fort you," and Pierre obeyed her call, and together 
 they went to a spot well known to them, and 
 favourable for confidences, behind an immense 
 heap of straw, near the ravine. 
 
 There, in readiness for future gates, the father 
 kept his reserve of the cherry trees and elms that 
 had been cut down. Pierre in a few words told 
 her abruptly, almost roughly, the decision he had 
 come to, and how his father had driven him
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 105 
 
 away. Then almost without a pause, and in self- 
 defence, he began to tell of the future. He did it 
 cleverly, avoiding all reproaches. 
 
 "My father has never understood me," he 
 said; " he is not educated. It was natural that it 
 should be so." 
 
 The future for Pierre meant only dreams and 
 ambitions a sort of brilliant rainbow which he 
 took for a pathway. Men, events, time every- 
 thing was to serve his aims, and he disposed of 
 them as if they were his own property. Every- 
 thing had been foreseen, even certain objections: 
 the difficulty, for example, of making a name or of 
 simply finding a place in the literary world. But 
 was not literature the indisputably right vocation 
 for Pierre Noellet with his degree, with his first 
 prize for French lecturing at Beaupre*au? 
 
 " Yes," he went on, "I shall grow rich, and then 
 I shall be able to help you all. Father will forgive 
 me, and all these fools who were laughing at me 
 down there, you will see how they will take off 
 their hats to me! We shall be happy; you, An- 
 toinette, will be proud of me, and then, you 
 know," he added, turning to her, "I shall perhaps 
 be thought a good match. What do you say to 
 that?" 
 
 Poor Antoinette! The more excited Pierre 
 became the more she felt her own spirits failing. 
 What, no abbe"! no white alb! Where was the 
 retiring, simple-hearted brother of the old days ? 
 She was overcome, and unable to speak. Pierre, 
 growing aware of this, exclaimed: 
 
 "Well, Antoinette, are you going to start cry-
 
 106 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 ing? I see nothing sad in what I have just been 
 telling you." 
 
 She could hold out no longer, and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 "Ah, yes, Pierre, it is sad! And I am very un- 
 happy, very!" 
 
 And she threw her arms around his neck as if to 
 keep him from running away from La Geniviere, 
 and to hold him to the past. Her sisterly affec- 
 tion was all the argument her child's heart could 
 oppose to his confession and plans. 
 
 It might have sufficed with another, but Pierre 
 thrust her from him. 
 
 "I see," he said, rising, "you do not understand 
 me any better than the others." 
 
 And while she kept on repeating amid her tears, 
 "Oh! indeed, I love you, Pierre I assure you I 
 do understand a little," he went forward a few 
 paces to where the ravine ran along beside the 
 threshing-floor, and, turning under the trees into 
 a path made by the goats, he disappeared. 
 
 Antoinette went back toward the house. 
 Pierre, having reached the bottom of the ravine, 
 wandered a while about the meadows of La Geni- 
 viere , and it was here that the frenzy of pride that 
 had been excited by his father's reproaches, and 
 in part by his sister's distress, began to be mingled 
 with feelings aroused by the thought of his de- 
 parture. The shadow of the high wall upon which 
 La Geniviere was built was thrown far across the 
 valley. The mist, which rose as night came on, by 
 degrees hid the more distant points of the familiar 
 landscape. The thought arose in Pierre that there
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 107 
 
 were already many things that had disappeared 
 for him, and which he would never see again. He 
 looked around him at the narrowing horizon, at 
 the darkening water, at the rocks which were 
 growing indistinguishable from the bushes that 
 clothed the slope. How often had he sat guarding 
 the cattle by the curved banks of the river, where 
 for hardly a day in the course of the year did the 
 aspens cease quivering in the breeze. How often 
 he and Jacques had sung and whistled and played 
 together there! 
 
 Here was the hollow where they sheltered from 
 the sudden storm, and the old chestnut tree with 
 the hut of rushes still to be seen supported by its 
 forked trunk, and beyond, again, the ploughed 
 lands stretching to the summit of the rising ground 
 on the farther side of the ravine. What long, ex- 
 quisite hours had been spent in this little corner 
 of the world! How they seemed now to call to 
 him from the inanimate objects around, with 
 voices that shook the soul! It is a sweet and a 
 hard lesson that the child teaches to the man who 
 is leaving home, and Pierre was not deaf to it. 
 Other recollections led him on. In the darkness 
 that was now complete he climbed again up to 
 the farm, and crept along beside the stable wall 
 like a thief; then, hearing no sound, the desire 
 seized him to have a last look at the beasts. There 
 they were, standing in a row in front of their 
 mangers, which were filled with maize, only just 
 distinguishable in the faint light that still re- 
 mained. He recognized them all, notwithstand- 
 ing, and called them each by name Vermais,
 
 108 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 Fauveau, Chauvin, Rougeais, Caille, and Kobiais. 
 He passed along behind them, and the gentle 
 beasts turned their heads to follow him with their 
 melancholy eyes. La Roussette was also there. 
 He gave her a little slap on her hind-quarters: 
 "Adieu, my Roussette," he called. Farther on he 
 came to the shed with the ploughs and harrows, 
 to the large heap of straw, the barn, and the roost- 
 ing chickens, which woke up and bent their 
 crests. He walked hi and out of the buildings, now 
 wrapped in shadow, as among ruins, led by the 
 old habit, and surprised that he was no longer 
 able to feel indifferent about anything. All these 
 dead and living things, to which he was about to 
 say good-by, held him back with some strange 
 power; and yet it was the least painful of his 
 farewells. On the farther side of the windows, 
 through which shone the warm blaze of the fire, 
 his mother and Jacques and his sisters were sitting 
 together. They all knew of the sorrow that had 
 fallen on La Geniviere. They were expecting him. 
 Pierre went up the steps. They all knew his 
 footstep. 
 
 When he appeared on the threshold, Marie, 
 who was clearing away the supper that no one 
 had touched, drew back as if seized with terror, 
 and with the air of exclaiming: "See the evil you 
 have wrought!" Then she went and sat down by 
 her mother. But was that indeed his mother, that 
 woman seated in a low chair at the back of the 
 room, bending forward, with her gray hair escap- 
 ing from her cap, and her face dull and distorted 
 with sorrow! Her eyes, although staring in the
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 109 
 
 direction of her son, seemed not to see him when 
 he entered. Not a feature of the face usually so 
 mobile now stirred. 
 
 Poor Mere Noellet, who till then had been so 
 fond of her child, so happy in giving him to God, 
 whose maternal love had thereby acquired a touch 
 of religious respect, so far had she been from any 
 doubt on the subject of his vocation, which had 
 been the fulfilment of long-cherished dreams. 
 And then all at once to be precipitated from 
 this height, to be struck by a blow for which 
 she was so totally unprepared! Two hours had 
 sufficed to exhaust her tears and the strength 
 and energy of her life. She now sat like one 
 stupefied. 
 
 Pierre went up to her. 
 
 "Mother!" he said. 
 
 But she did not hold out her arms, generally so 
 ready to embrace him at the first word of affec- 
 tion. The hands which had rocked him lay inert 
 in her lap. 
 
 " Mother," he said again, as he leant over her. 
 "Why do you sit like that? I assure you that it 
 is far better for me to go I shall return I shall 
 
 Rich, happy he could not add these two 
 words. There was a weight at his heart, and a 
 tear, the first he had shed, rolled down his cheek 
 as he kissed the poor face of the mother who had 
 made the years at La Geniviere so happy and 
 peaceful. She gave him one feeble kiss. Her lips 
 were quite cold. Their touch sent a shock as of 
 pain through Pierre.
 
 110 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 He stood upright again, and saw that his 
 mother's eyes were no longer looking at him; he 
 turned in the direction of their gaze. 
 
 His father was leaning against one of the up- 
 rights of the fireplace, his forehead drawn into a 
 deep line, and looking as fierce as when a short 
 time before in the granary he had cried: "Go! It 
 is I who drive you away." The old Vendean was 
 there to see his word carried into execution. The 
 mother might plead, and he himself might suffer, 
 but nothing would prevail against the outraged 
 honour of the family. 
 
 Pierre, however, went up to him and held out 
 his hand. 
 
 "Good-by, father," he said. 
 
 The farmer, unmoved, did not stir from his 
 position, but with his hands still behind his back 
 replied: 
 
 "Put your things together and make haste; 
 Jacques will help you to carry them." 
 
 Pierre turned away. He felt that everything 
 was over. He looked round for Jacques and saw 
 him kneeling in one corner with Antoinette, beside 
 the old oilskin trunk, just finishing the packing of 
 some clothes and linen, and a few small things 
 wrapped in paper. More things certainly than 
 Pierre possessed. He staggered across the room; 
 he felt that at last his strength was going from 
 him. 
 
 "Good-by, Marie," he said weakly. "Good- 
 by, Antoinette; come, Jacques." 
 
 He seized one side of the trunk and Jacques 
 the other, and they slipped out together through
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 111 
 
 the open door, leaving the women weeping 
 afresh. 
 
 It was dark outside and the air was sharp. The 
 brothers hastened along the road in order to 
 catch the coach that ran from Beaupre*au to 
 Cholet. They hardly spoke at all, each being full 
 of his own thoughts, and even when they paused 
 and put the box down to take breath, it was done 
 of tacit accord and almost without a word. 
 
 At the end of three-quarters of an hour they 
 reached Beaupre*au. 
 
 When they came to Breteaudeau's Inn, they 
 found the coach ready to start, the awning fast- 
 ened, the door open, and the innkeeper giving 
 a final inspection of the harness. 
 
 Pierre and Jacques embraced one another. 
 
 "Have you enough money to take you to 
 Paris?" asked Jacques. 
 
 "I have not much," replied Pierre "just 
 enough for the journey. But once there I shall 
 find Loutrel, who will give me some. I foresaw 
 all this, you see, some time ago." 
 
 "Mother has been worrying about it," said the 
 younger, "and she has put forty francs in the 
 trunk, to the left among the handkerchiefs. We 
 shall see each other again, shall we not, Pierre?" 
 
 "I don't know, Jacques. Be a good soldier, 
 since you are obliged to serve. Keep well thank 
 mother for me " 
 
 A moment later the diligence had started, and 
 was already climbing the hill. Jacques, running 
 as hard as he could, followed for a little while in 
 the dense shadow.
 
 112 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 When he reached the last houses of the little 
 town, he was obliged to stop, exhausted, and the 
 red rays from the two lanterns which had been 
 keeping him company gradually disappeared in 
 the fog and the darkness.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 IT was late, long after midnight. Jacques was 
 back from Beaupre*au. The farmer, his wife, and 
 Marie, were asleep in the chambre, but Antoinette 
 could not close her eyes; agitated in mind, all 
 kinds of curious and disturbing thoughts kept 
 sleep away from her. 
 
 When from the steady breathing that came 
 from the adjoining beds she was sure that every- 
 body was sleep, she rose, felt for the key of the 
 cupboard, kept under one of the candlesticks on 
 the mantelpiece, and noiselessly opened the pol- 
 ished folding doors of the immense piece of furni- 
 ture on which the light from the moon was still 
 resting. An odour of lavender stole into the room. 
 
 The large cupboard was not opened every day. 
 On each shelf were layers of linen, arranged in the 
 most beautiful order, without a fold awry, with- 
 out a spot, or a hole to mend; sheets, table-nap- 
 kins, handkerchiefs, shirts, and here and there, 
 in the niches formed by the inequalities of height 
 of these white piles, an orange from the Landehue 
 hot-houses, a bundle of receipts, images, pots of 
 grain, a bottle of arquebusade water with a little 
 twig in soak in short, all kinds of precious things. 
 Antoinette, with the unhesitatingness that comes 
 with habit, put her hand to the left, and from the 
 back of their hiding-place drew forth the worked 
 
 113
 
 114 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 roses which had been intended for the alb. One 
 by one she took them up, and looked at them from 
 the first, which had been such a trouble to get 
 right to the last, so regular in its blossoming. 
 And to think of all the evenings they had worked 
 at them of all the enthusiasm and happiness 
 they had felt of all the hours that had been full 
 of the thought of him. She seemed to live them 
 all over again as she counted the dozens of roses 
 which she carefully placed one beside the other. 
 There were more roses than she had thought 
 eight, nine, twelve, twenty whole piles. How 
 quickly they had got on with the work ! 
 
 Then she took the roses and wrapped them in 
 a napkin, fastening the four corners together with 
 a pin. After that she gave a last look at the little 
 packet that contained so many lost hopes, both 
 of her own and others, lifted it tenderly to her 
 lips, kissed it, and then quickly shut the door of 
 the cupboard. 
 
 She could hardly breathe; she felt as if she had 
 just interred something precious.
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 TOWARD the end of the summer Melie Rainette's 
 father died. 
 
 It was no great loss to her, but still she was 
 grieved at his death. Brutal as he was, Rainette 
 had not been without his good moments. And 
 then, even though drunk, or asleep, there had 
 been a consciousness of his presence a rough wit- 
 ness, it is true, but still a witness to, and a reason 
 for, her labourious life. "Thanks to me," she had 
 often said to herself, "he will never want for any- 
 thing." And the thought had given her a courage 
 and cheerfulness beyond belief. 
 
 After his death, the days seemed longer in this 
 house where nothing moved or spoke except her- 
 self. She continued working in the evening, lighted 
 by a petroleum lamp hung against the wall. For 
 her father had left debts behind him which would 
 require active service on the part of pedals and 
 shuttles to pay off. Supper over and this meal 
 did not take long Melie went back to her loom, 
 and late into the night she might be seen still sit- 
 ting on her weaver's stool. 
 
 This explained why lately she had become more 
 
 115
 
 116 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 dreamy. That which she could no longer speak, 
 she dreamed about, as well as about a good many 
 other things, of which she never would have 
 spoken. But this did not prevent her sticking val- 
 iantly to her work, or from being good-humoured 
 whenever she chanced to go out and meet her 
 neighbours. Solitude had, however, developed a 
 taste in her for these long meditations which 
 delude and soothe the unoccupied heart. 
 
 Like every one else there were certain things 
 about which she liked to sit and think better than 
 others. And, possibly, without acknowledging it 
 to herself, it was of Pierre Noellet she thought the 
 most. 
 
 How could it have been otherwise? Every one 
 was talking about him. His sudden departure for 
 Paris had been quite an event at Fief-Sauvin. 
 Some of the kinder-hearted people pitied the 
 Noellets. The greater number talked scandal 
 about the matter and drew a warning from it for 
 others. All the petty jealousies were let loose, 
 and everybody gave reins to their imagination. 
 Each had his own story, and every story was taken 
 up and discussed to satiety among this rural pop- 
 ulation, that was full of curiosity and seldom en- 
 joyed the chance of having anything new to talk 
 about. 
 
 "You know that he has not yet written ?" said 
 one woman, a weaver; "and he gone a month! 
 It's enough to make Mere Noellet ill." 
 
 "Well, to think of a blow like that!" replied 
 Mere Huet, the grocer's wife, as she sat spinning 
 on her doorstep. "A boy who has cost them him-
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 117 
 
 dreds and thousands in order that he might one 
 day be a priest, and he has never even set his foot 
 inside a seminary. I hear that he and his father 
 came to blows." 
 
 "Yes, on the threshing-floor the miller saw 
 them. The father had a fork in his hand." 
 
 "A fork!" 
 
 "And the boy a stick." 
 
 "Did they hurt each other?" 
 
 "No, for the mother ran out and separated 
 them. But it is a sad affair; better to be without 
 children altogether, like you, Madame Huet, than 
 to have such a son as Pierre Noellet." 
 
 "Let the boy be," cried out the elder Fauvepre 
 from the back of his shop, for he had overheard 
 the women talking. "I dare say he was in the 
 wrong, but I shall always like him." 
 
 And Melie Rainette's feeling about the matter 
 was similar. She was surprised herself at having 
 been so ready to side with him in his change of 
 vocation, which seemed to others so sad and 
 blameworthy a matter; for she, like the rest of 
 the town, still believed that Pierre had really felt 
 himself called to be a priest. When at the close 
 of service on Sundays she saw the Noellets, no 
 longer looking proud and willingly stopping to 
 return the greetings of the many who came up to 
 shake hands with them, but hurrying home by the 
 shortest way to La Geniviere, she questioned her- 
 self as to the reason of her indulgence toward the 
 friend of her youth. She found none, except in 
 the number and violence of the attacks that were 
 made upon him by others. Who was there to
 
 118 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 stand up for him, if she did not? And what more 
 natural than that she should make excuses for the 
 brother, seeing that she was his sister's most inti- 
 mate friend? At the same time, she did not al- 
 ways dare say what she thought. The world is so 
 evil, so ready to suppose that there is self-interest 
 a something of egoism, where there is nothing 
 but pure pity. 
 
 It happened that one afternoon in October, as 
 she was meditatively pursuing the same train of 
 thought, feeling somewhat anxious at the lack of 
 news, and at not being able even in imagination 
 to follow the absent one about that Paris she had 
 never seen, that she fell asleep. The heat was 
 overpowering. Huge thunder clouds, curling over 
 at the edges like waves, were rising from every 
 quarter. In the street, even in the cellar, where 
 the square of sunlight fell through the window, 
 the demented flies were flying in and out among 
 each other, exhausting the miserable remainder of 
 their lives in the intoxication of noise and move- 
 ment. Everything human, on the contrary, was 
 keeping silence, and if it had not been for a few 
 distant sounds of work, the spinning-wheel of 
 Mere Mitard, and the shears of a neighbour who 
 was cutting his hedge, one might have taken it 
 for a deserted town. 
 
 Melie, therefore, was sleeping, with her head 
 fallen back against the wall. Her arms were 
 hanging down, while her hand, even in sleep, still 
 held a bit of thread, even as her head still held a 
 bit of thought. 
 
 A girl's face appeared, looking through the
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 119 
 
 window from the outside, smiled, and vanished. 
 A minute later the trap-door leading to the cellar 
 was opened, and Antoinette carefully climbed 
 down the ladder. She went up to Melie, drew a 
 letter from her pocket, while her smile became 
 more pronounced as she thought of the surprise 
 she was going to give her friend, and then leaning 
 over the sleeping girl, she said : 
 
 "Melie, I have a letter from Pierre, in which he 
 speaks of you." 
 
 The sleeper slowly opened her eyes, without 
 moving; gradually a light came into them a 
 look of intense joy. She threw her arms round 
 Antoinette, and in the low-veiled voice of one 
 still dreaming, murmured: 
 
 "Ah, let me embrace you." 
 
 Pierre's letter was neither long nor very affec- 
 tionate ; it was addressed to his mother. 
 
 "I was forced to leave La Geniviere under cir- 
 cumstances which prevented me from speaking to 
 my father on a matter upon which it is necessary 
 for me now to enter. I am driven from home 
 that is understood; I am reduced to earning an 
 independent living for myself, without any help 
 or assistance from you, and I accept the fact, and 
 acknowledge that I brought it upon myself; but 
 I have a right which my father cannot deny me, 
 that of asking for the money which was left me 
 four years ago as a legacy by my uncle of Mon- 
 tre vault. I am lodging with Loutrel, on the Quai 
 du Louvre, and am living on money which he has 
 advanced me; but this state of things cannot 
 continue.
 
 120 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 "As regards other matters, I am in good health, 
 and I hope shortly to get employment which will 
 be sufficient to keep me while I wait for what the 
 future will bring me. 
 
 "If there are any at Fief-Sauvin whom I may 
 still consider as friends, remember me to them. 
 Tell Me"lie, who was always kind to me, that I 
 have not forgotten her." 
 
 There was nothing more in the letter beyond 
 a commonplace expression of affection to his 
 mother. 
 
 When Me*lie had finished her perusal of the let- 
 ter, reading the last words over a second time, she 
 said: 
 
 "I am the only person he mentions by name." 
 And the smile that had lighted them before rose 
 again to her eyes, but, unwilling to let the younger 
 girl see her happiness, which she would not have 
 understood, she added quickly: "Your mother 
 will feel easier in her mind now." 
 
 "A little; she was quite ill with the suspense of 
 the long silence." 
 
 "And your father?" 
 
 "Oh, my father." 
 
 "What has he said in answer to Pierre's de- 
 mand?" 
 
 "He said: 'I will send him neither the money 
 he asks for nor any other. I have already spent 
 more upon him than I ought; we are now quits. 
 What is more, the money left by his uncle of Mon- 
 trevault is vested in my land, in my cattle, in the 
 wheat that I sow and reap. Let him come, then, 
 and fetch it!'"
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 121 
 
 "He always irritated Maitre Noellet a good deal, 
 was it not so?" 
 
 "Yes. And the house is not very lively, I can 
 tell you, Melie. Father hardly speaks at all now. 
 Mother cries when we are alone with her. Jacques 
 is off to be a soldier. Sister Marie is still the cheer- 
 fullest of us all." 
 
 "And why is that?" 
 
 "I think on account of Louis Fauvepre." 
 
 "How, Louis Fauvepre?" 
 
 "Yes. He has been a great many times to La 
 Geniviere to ask if we have not any ploughs that 
 want mending. First of all, as you may know, it 
 is not the custom for blacksmiths to frequent the 
 farms like that; and then, whenever he does 
 come, Marie is sure to be there." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "And I need not say that it is not the ploughs 
 he looks at. He does not even throw a glance 
 toward me. It's all for Marie. And I suppose she 
 finds it consoling, for she is always in a good 
 humour the days that he has been here." 
 
 "Just hark to the child!" said M41ie, laughing. 
 
 "So I was right to bring you the letter?" 
 
 "Yes, darling." 
 
 "And you are happy?" 
 
 "Yes, quite." 
 
 "Good-by, Melie." 
 
 And Antoinette went back up the ladder. Yes, 
 she was happy, was Melie Rainette, and had no 
 wish now to sleep. She repeated the sentence in 
 Pierre's letter about herself. Far off in the great 
 city, where there were so many new things to dis-
 
 122 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 tract him, to have preserved the remembrance of a 
 poor girl like herself, and to have sent her word of 
 it, was that not something wonderful, something 
 well fitted to give pleasure? Her heart beat joy- 
 ously. She felt buoyant. She was seized with a 
 longing to go out and walk in the sun, in the light. 
 The weaving seemed harder work to her than 
 usual, and the thread broke. A light breeze that 
 had stolen in through the open trap-door blew 
 round her caressingly. 
 
 At the same moment Melie remembered that 
 there was a cap belonging to Mere Mitard, of 
 which she had been mending the lace, that ought 
 to have been taken back to her before. The ex- 
 cuse was enough, and it was no time before Melie 
 was out in the street and had reached her destina- 
 tion. On Mere Mitard's window-sill stood a pot 
 of the old-fashioned flower known as " pyramids," 
 now only grown by good peasant women. This 
 one was of a beautiful violet colour, as was most 
 suitable for a widow, and in full blossom from top 
 to bottom of the stem; it swayed backward and 
 forward in the wind, in spite of the stick to which 
 it was fastened by bands of rush. "There are the 
 flowers saying good-day to me now!" thought 
 Melie, and she went in, smiling gayly. 
 
 "Good-day, pretty one!" said Mere Mitard, 
 "you do look cheerful! One would think the 
 spring was coming. What's happened to you?" 
 
 "I have brought back your cap," answered the 
 weaver's prudent daughter. 
 
 "There was no such hurry about it; but you 
 wanted to stretch your legs a bit, wasn't that it?"
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 123 
 
 As she spoke Mere Mitard, whose rheumatism 
 seldom allowed her to leave the easy-chair of 
 straw in which she was now sitting, was fingering 
 the lace and examining it through her whitehorn- 
 rimmed spectacles. It had to be well looked at 
 where it had been mended, turned over, held up 
 to the light, to see if every thread was right, and 
 that took time. When she raised her head in the 
 slow manner peculiar to old people, she perceived 
 that Me*lie was standing in front of her looking 
 toward the garden window, her eyes lost in the 
 distance. For some minutes she watched her, 
 while the girl continued to gaze at something far 
 away in the landscape, or in life, with the same 
 entranced look on her face. Then a kind, grand- 
 motherly smile passed over Mere Mitard's face. 
 
 "Melie, dear girl," she said, "there is surely 
 something the matter with you?" 
 
 "With me, Mere Mitard?" 
 
 "Yes, something with the heart. You will not 
 tell me, but I know it for all that." 
 
 Melie turned her eyes, so clear, so bright, that 
 a warm light seemed to shoot from them toward 
 the old woman. 
 
 "What makes you think so?" she said. 
 
 "Ah, my dear girl, I have been young myself." 
 
 At these words Melie broke into her sweet, 
 ringing laugh, there in that room into which so 
 much youth and happiness seldom entered. There 
 was no mockery in it; it was just Melie's way of 
 saying neither no nor yes, and of making her 
 escape. The neighbours wondered what could 
 make so serious a young woman show her white
 
 124 "THIS, MY SON' 1 
 
 teeth like that as she ran out of the house, while 
 Mere Mitard dragged herself to the door and 
 looked after her, giving queer, sympathetic little 
 shakes and nods of her head. 

 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 PIERRE'S mother undertook to answer his letter, 
 Antoinette being the actual scribe. It was full of 
 tenderness and affectionate words, and of little 
 maternal counsels regarding his manner of life. 
 Mere Noellet also sent her ungrateful son an ac- 
 count of anything new and interesting to herself 
 that she knew about, showing that she still looked 
 upon him as a child of La Geniviere, and that she 
 forgave, although no forgiveness had been asked. 
 She did not touch on the question of money, hav- 
 ing neither the authority nor the warrant to do so. 
 She wound up her letter with the words : 
 
 "Do not leave us long without a line to let us 
 know at least how you are. Perhaps we should 
 not understand what you wish to do, and you are 
 right to hide it from us. But to be assured you 
 are in health, and to see your handwriting, be- 
 lieve me, my Noellet, is some little consolation." 
 
 Letters, in fact, from Pierre did reach La 
 Geniviere during the late autumn and following 
 winter. Short and commonplace as they were, 
 full only of vague hopes which proved that he 
 was still in the same condition of discomfort and 
 uncertainty as at first, they were eagerly looked 
 for by his mother and sisters, and, after being 
 
 125
 
 126 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 read till they were nearly known by heart, were 
 put with their envelopes among other precious 
 objects in the cubboard. 
 
 The father never read them, although he was 
 able to some extent to decipher handwriting; he 
 learned the contents of them from the others, with- 
 out giving any sign of either pleasure or disap- 
 proval. The name of the son who had lost his 
 place at the hearth, by insulting his own race and 
 the land that had fed it, never passed his lips. 
 Only when he saw the women whispering to- 
 gether he would ask, " What are you talking about 
 there? Has there been another letter?" And 
 then, in a few words, they would communicate 
 the meagre intelligence they had received. He 
 pretended not to be aware that one or other of 
 them always answered Pierre's letters, which they 
 hid as far as they could, confiding them to some 
 school-boy to post, in fear that the father might be 
 angry at their taking them to the town themselves 
 and then forbid all correspondence. 
 
 This deep-seated resentment on the part of the 
 master of the house had introduced a feeling of 
 constraint between the members of the family 
 which had been before unknown. The days 
 passed sadly, and the evenings were gloomy; out- 
 side the winter was melancholy also. It rained 
 incessantly. The same cold, cutting wind blew 
 unceasingly, driving endless mists over the dead 
 trees and the ploughed-up fields. At times the 
 mad, tumbling masses of cloud rushed together, 
 and became mingled and confused as they rolled 
 and wheeled; at others the whole sky was covered
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 127 
 
 with one uniform sheet of gray, an immense ex- 
 panse of mists that had gathered from the distant 
 seas, and from which the rain fell uninterruptedly 
 for weeks at a time. The wheat, just appearing 
 above the ground, turned yellow. The roads, 
 soaked with wet, made traffic of all kinds difficult. 
 The Evre overflowed its banks, and, turned into 
 a torrent, destroyed or carried away whole corners 
 of the fields. 
 
 The lugubrious winter brought a double anxiety 
 to the Noellets anxiety for their threatened har- 
 vests, anxiety on account of Jacques, their second 
 son, who had been carried off from them by con- 
 scription. The separation, so much dreaded by 
 all concerned, had taken place in November. The 
 whole family, assembled at the gate of a field 
 along the high road of Fief-Sauvin, had seen 
 Jacques, a tricoloured ribbon in his hat, drive off 
 in a covered cart full of singing, tipsy recruits. 
 
 Since that day his mother had hardly known 
 how to live, knowing her boy far away from her 
 at Angers, in a strange town. She thought of 
 him day and night, wondering that this child, who 
 had always seemed to hold a lesser place than his 
 elder brother at La Geniviere, had yet left such 
 a void by his departure. The truth was that 
 Jacques, besides being good, was also weakly, and 
 a very little knocked the strength out of him. 
 He had had a large share of pity. And now that 
 she could no longer spend herself upon him, the 
 mother was troubled, and worried herself inces- 
 santly. She thought with uneasiness of the long 
 marches, for he so soon got out of breath; of the
 
 128 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 drill he would be put through, of his having to fag 
 for his companions, and, above all, of the bad 
 language and bad example that might be the ruin 
 of her Jacques. Hideous dreams tormented her 
 at night; of the hospital, or the fighting at Ton- 
 quin, of which there was so much talk; some- 
 times she thought she saw a soldier like her son 
 fall wounded with a little red spot near his heart. 
 She tried to lift him in her arms, so as to carry 
 him to the wood, where there was an ambulance; 
 but he was too heavy and fell back, the bright 
 blood, derived from her, flowing from him in 
 streams. Then she cried aloud, imagining that she 
 heard the moan of the dying man. And her hus- 
 band, waking, would say, "Our boy, wife, has not 
 yet taken the field ; he is in his bed, sleeping more 
 soundly than you are." Although less nervously 
 constituted than his wife, and slower and soberer 
 in thought, at bottom his heart was troubled with 
 the same anxiety, and he felt a keen resentment 
 against those who immediately and indirectly had 
 caused Jacques to be taken from them; he bore 
 a grudge against Napoleon whose legendary name 
 meant for him conscription; against the Govern- 
 ment, against the army doctor who had declared 
 his son fit for service, and a deeper grudge still 
 against Pierre, whose ambition had been the ruin 
 of everybody, including his brother, whose ex- 
 emption he might have procured. 
 
 Yes, it was a long and unhappy winter for the 
 whole family. 
 
 It was toward its close that Marie one morning 
 was busy heating the oven in the bakehouse which
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 129 
 
 stood at the end of the house close on the road. 
 She had left the door open. She stood, her figure 
 lit up by the flame that was licking the door of the 
 oven, waiting until the last fagot should be con- 
 sumed before dividing the coals and drawing them 
 to the front, preparatory to placing the bread hi 
 the oven. A large white apron covered her from 
 her shoulders downward. Suddenly a shadow 
 fell across the floor of the bakehouse. Marie 
 turned round. She showed no surprise at the 
 sight of Louis Fauvepre, who stood not daring to 
 enter, nor manifested any shame at her attire, 
 which was her livery of labour, and said: 
 
 "Oh, it is you." 
 
 "Yes, Mademoiselle Marie," replied the black- 
 smith, "I came because I had business, you 
 see " 
 
 "Another plough?" 
 
 "Oh no!" 
 
 He appeared preoccupied, which she was quick 
 to perceive. 
 
 "Was your business to do with me?" she asked. 
 
 "No, Mademoiselle Marie; but I saw you in 
 here heating the oven, so I just looked in to say 
 good-morning." 
 
 "Well, you have said it now, Monsieur Fau- 
 vepre, and I thank you. For whom are you 
 looking?" 
 
 "Maitre Noellet." 
 
 "You will find him near the stables." 
 
 The farmer was not far off. He was, as his 
 daughter had said, at the farther end of the court- 
 yard near the stables, emptying a cart of cabbages
 
 130 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 for the cattle. His blouse was streaming with wet 
 from the water that ran off the fleshy, ribbed, 
 violet-hued leaves, as he seized large armfuls of 
 them and threw them into an empty stall. He 
 dried his hand on the back of his blouse, and held 
 it out with a friendly gesture to the young man. 
 
 " Good-morning, Louis Fauvepre," he said. 
 "What brings you here?" 
 
 "A piece of news I have for you." 
 
 "About whom?" 
 
 "About Jacques." 
 
 Never being idle, Julien Noellet had from force 
 of habit returned to his work, but he now stopped 
 short in what he was doing. 
 
 "I was at Angers yesterday," continued Louis, 
 "and I saw him. He has suffered terribly at 
 leaving you, poor boy." 
 
 "It was unjust of them, was it not, Louis Fau- 
 ve"pre, to take him from me?" 
 
 "I think so, indeed, and he will never make 
 a soldier." 
 
 "They treat him harshly, is that it?" 
 
 "Rather." 
 
 "And he is ill, maybe?" 
 
 "Yes, Mattre Noellet." 
 
 "I thought so at once. In bed?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I am glad of that, for with us if we take to our 
 beds Is he very ill, Louis Fauvepre? Hide 
 nothing from me; tell me all. His mother will 
 not overhear us here." 
 
 He trembled, waiting for the reply. 
 
 "Why, no," said the young man, affecting to
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 131 
 
 think that the farmer was over anxious; "I do 
 not think that it is anything serious. A neglected 
 cold, fatigue, and chiefly his trouble of mind 
 that is what is the matter with him. He has a 
 slight cough. The best cure for him would be to 
 have his mother with him. I promised that she 
 should go and see him." 
 "You did well, my boy; she shall go." 
 Then they both became silent, each trying to 
 hide from the other the end to which their sad 
 thoughts were tending. The farmer sighed deeply 
 and pressed Louis' hand in his. As the black- 
 smith's son went across the courtyard to regain 
 the footpath the farmer followed him with his 
 eyes, thinking how handsome and loyal he was; 
 and how tell of that other thought from which he 
 turned away as from a temptation? He envied 
 the blacksmith Fauvepre.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 IT was decided, therefore, that Perrine Noellet 
 should go to Angers. 
 
 She started after dark, Antoinette and Marie 
 accompanying her, while the farm-servant drove 
 them across the sleeping Mauges. Each with her 
 head wrapped in a handkerchief tied under the 
 chin, they jolted along in the tilted cart, be- 
 numbed, and falling asleep during the slow ascents 
 of the hills, and waking up in the fresher current 
 of air when La Roussette resumed her trot; and 
 so the three women arrived at last before day- 
 break at Chemille along the Yallais road, and 
 thence started by the first train to Angers. 
 
 The moment they alighted at the station, and 
 while looking round them at their unknown sur- 
 roundings, they took the handkerchiefs off their 
 heads and arranged the strings of their caps as 
 they were in the habit of doing on Sundays when 
 they reached the town. Then they made their 
 way to the infantry barracks, the two girls, in 
 their countrified alpaca dresses of yellow brown, 
 in front, and the mother, as usual in black, a few 
 steps behind, carrying on her arm a large basket 
 of provisions which she intended to take back full 
 of haberdashery, remnants of stuff, and a host of 
 other things that she had been coveting for 
 months past. It did not take them long to reach 
 
 132
 
 ''THIS, MY SON" 133 
 
 the barracks. It was close to the station, situated 
 in a square where five streets met, which was 
 crowded with groups of inquisitive loafers. On 
 either side of the gate there was an assemblage of 
 boys, of forwarding agents stopping to look on, of 
 men out of work, and old soldiers with medals on 
 their breasts; while within the regiment, in full 
 uniform, was drawn up in three columns, the men 
 with their arms grounded, standing immovable. 
 Evidently something or somebody was expected. 
 
 But Mere Noellet, who knew nothing of military 
 orders, found her way through the crowd up to the 
 sergeant of the guard, and, addressing him, said : 
 
 "Monsieur le Sergeant, I wish to see my son 
 who is ill." 
 
 "What is his name?" asked the sergeant, whose 
 mouth stretched to his chin-strap. 
 
 "Jacques Jacques Noellet." 
 
 "Second of the third. He is in his place. When 
 the review is over. The company is already rid- 
 ing in, as you see. Clear the way! Clear the 
 way!" 
 
 And, indeed, as he spoke a detachment of 
 troops, headed by their band, was seen turning 
 the corner of the street ; they were bringing in the 
 regimental colours. The tri-coloured silk banner, 
 taken from its usual covering, was advancing 
 half unfurled, shining in the morning sun. A flash 
 of light gleamed from its gold fringes. It passed 
 in a whirlwind of dust and shouting. The escort 
 poured into the barrack-yard, and took up the 
 position to the right appointed for them, while 
 the sub-lieutenant, who carried the colours, sup-
 
 134 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 ported by two sergeants, remained with his back 
 to the troops, facing the Colonel. His gloved 
 hand grasped the staff. All tongues were hushed ; 
 all eyes were turned toward him. 
 
 The Colonel's voice of command broke the si- 
 lence: "Baionnette au canon!" The command- 
 ing officers repeated, "Baionnette on!" 
 
 There was a wheeling about of glittering steel 
 on a level with the men's heads. Again the Colo- 
 nel's voice was heard, "Shoulder arms! Present 
 arms!" The commanding officers once more re- 
 peated, ' ' Shoulder arms ! Present arms ! " A far- 
 ther shifting of arms, and then each man stood 
 with a gray barrel barring his chest. The regiment 
 saluted. Then the Colonel cried, "The flag!" as 
 he at the same time lowered his sword, and the 
 music broke into a loud flourish bugles, flutes, 
 brass basses, nickel-silver bomb- vessels all hymn- 
 ing the glory of the flag which floated gently in 
 the air, as if stirred by the thrill of pride that ran 
 through the crowd. 
 
 Pierre's mother and sisters had stationed them- 
 selves in the front row beside the gate, and as the 
 regiment filed past on its way to the field of man- 
 oeuvres they sought eagerly for Jacques. But the 
 soldiers were all so much alike, dressed in their 
 red and blue, and they marched too quickly. 
 There was hardly time to scan the faces in a single 
 line. How was it possible to recognize one's dear- 
 est friend in this moving mass? Marie and Mere 
 Noellet soon gave up trying, dazzled by the fa- 
 tiguing succession of bright colours; but An- 
 toinette never turned her eyes away for a mo*
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 135 
 
 ment. She loved her brothers with a deep, sweet 
 affection; she was their favourite sister. She was 
 determined to see Jacques. And now, just as 
 about half the men had marched past, she heard 
 an adjutant close to her say in a low voice: 
 
 "No. 7, do you want three days' confinement 
 in the barracks to teach you how to carry your 
 rifle?" 
 
 She looked in the direction indicated by the 
 adjutant's gesture and by the movement of the 
 men's heads, and saw the man thus addressed. 
 
 Her heart sank within her. No. 7, with the 
 pink colour still on his face, although it had 
 grown much thinner, with large hollow blue eyes, 
 bent shoulders, and a general look of suffering, 
 with nothing of the soldier about him but his 
 uniform and his obedience, was Jacques, the 
 brother, the dearly-loved son, he whom the 
 father was still looking forward to have as his 
 help in the future. 
 
 How he had changed! 
 
 "Poor lad!" said a boy near her. "He won't 
 last much longer." 
 
 She turned quickly aside. Her eyes overflowed 
 with tears. Her mother and Marie had not seen 
 or heard anything. They were talking to each 
 other. Soon the three women were being borne 
 along by the crowd that followed in the wake of 
 the regiments. Along the roads, along the boule- 
 vards planted with trees, they were pushed for- 
 ward, in spite of themselves, to the beat of the 
 music that was still playing ahead of them. Now 
 and again Mere Noellet would say: "It's funny
 
 136 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 that my Jacques should be there and I not see 
 him! But I want to see him very much!" 
 
 Marie replied with an absent-minded smile, 
 seemingly lost in thought of something far away, 
 and of purely personal interest. 
 
 And Antoinette, generally the gayest of the 
 party, remained a little in the rear, grieved to the 
 bottom of her soul, keeping her eyes fixed on the 
 rank where No. 7, whom she knew by the sun- 
 burnt nape of his neck, was marching. 
 
 It was not until two hours after the close of the 
 review that Mere Noellet was able to see and em- 
 brace her child. She took him with her to a little 
 restaurant near the barracks, made him sit down 
 facing her, ordered the best of everything for him, 
 or to be more correct, everything that he liked. 
 She watched him eat without touching a thing 
 herself, absorbed in her contemplation of him, 
 from which she only roused heself to ask : 
 
 "Will you have anything else? Nuts? You 
 used to like them. Coffee? You must take ad- 
 vantage of my being here, my Jacques, it's a 
 holiday to-day." 
 
 She thought him looking sadly pale, and was 
 even more painfully struck by the dull hollow 
 sound of his voice. And how prettily he used to 
 sing when at La Geniviere. From time to time, 
 too, he paused in his talking or eating to give 
 a hoarse cough, and she felt her own chest racked 
 by the mere echo of it. After each fit of coughing 
 he looked at her and smiled, with the same smile 
 and the same soft blue eyes that she knew so well. 
 For as regarded his thoughts and feelings, barrack
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 137 
 
 life had made no change in him; he was just as 
 artless and simple as of old, just as anxious not 
 to give trouble to others, just as brave in face of 
 misfortune. He did not complain, did not even 
 speak about himself. All his talk was turned to 
 La Geniviere, to Pierre, of whom he wanted to 
 know as much as possible; he inquired after the 
 sowing, after the short clover that the rain might 
 have spoiled; after his pet oxen, Vermais and 
 Fauveau; and after La Roussette. Was she still 
 as good a trotter? Did the man look after her 
 properly? Did he, above all, see that a cloth was 
 thrown over her when she came home hot from 
 ploughing or from market. It would be a terrible 
 pity if she were to be ill. 
 
 He also asked for news of Louis Fauv6pre, 
 turning as he spoke toward Marie, who was sit- 
 ting beside him, and adding : 
 
 "I saw him one day; he spoke to me about 
 certain things." 
 
 The things were evidently not of a very mys- 
 terious nature, for Marie understood and blushed, 
 and then was overcome with shyness at hav- 
 ing shown her feelings before the assembled 
 company. 
 
 "He is a fine, handsome lad," continued 
 Jacques, still banteringly; "if there was any girl 
 among my acquaintances wishing for a husband, 
 I should advise her to take him." 
 
 Marie turned a little redder, and Jacques, not 
 quite knowing how to carry on the subject, fin- 
 ished up with: 
 
 "Then he is quite well?"
 
 138 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 "Yes," replied Mere Noellet. "And you, my 
 Jacques? You have a cough, I hear." 
 
 "Yes, only a slight one. I think I have a cold 
 on my chest." 
 
 "And when did you get that?" 
 
 "I think it began in December, after one of our 
 marches. We were wet to the skin, and I was 
 very cold, but there was no means of warming 
 myself. I get feverish sometimes at nights." 
 
 "Is it often so?" 
 
 "No, not every night only when they work 
 us too hard." 
 
 "Why don't you go and see a doctor?" 
 
 "The Major? No!" replied the soldier, shaking 
 his head; "if we go to him with any complaint 
 he puts us under lock and key I would rather 
 keep away from him." 
 
 "I should like to know what it is, all the same," 
 said his mother, whose wrinkled lids fluttered 
 more rapidly than usual. "But perhaps you will 
 get better when the weather turns a little warmer." 
 
 "Yes, mother, I am sure I shall," he said with 
 a weakly smile as he pressed her hand. "I feel 
 better already for having seen you." 
 
 "And it has done me good, too, my dear boy 
 only," she continued after a moment's silence, 
 "if the fever gets worse you must write to me." 
 
 Jacques turned aside, looking a little ashamed, 
 and, half laughing, he replied : 
 
 "I have tried to, but I have forgotten how to 
 write." 
 
 They left the restaurant, and spent the after- 
 noon walking about together. The weather had
 
 "THIS, MY SON' 3 139 
 
 turned mild for them. Jacques walked between 
 his mother and Marie and continued without 
 ceasing to talk of his home. He had left off 
 coughing. The evening was sweet and fine. 
 Mere Noellet parted from her son feeling some- 
 what less anxious than when she had arrived.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A FEW weeks after Mere Noellet's visit Jacques 
 was sent home on sick leave. He was let off duty 
 at last, but it was late in the day. Death had 
 him already in his grip, as every one, except his 
 mother, who still cherished some hope, sadly be- 
 lieved. She was determined to save him by any 
 manner of means and at any cost. With a re- 
 newal of the activity and tenderness of the young 
 mother, she nursed him untiringly, fighting from 
 hour to hour of the day and night to keep him 
 from the terrible enemy that was continually ly- 
 ing in wait. She might be seen every afternoon 
 in the roads near the farm with her son's arm in 
 hers, supporting the tall, stooping figure of her 
 boy, who wheezed with every breath. They gen- 
 erally chose the hill, whence across the wooded 
 slopes could be seen the fields lying along the 
 Evre, and the expanse of sky, so blue at this sea- 
 son of the year, and feel the warm, soft breezes 
 that swayed and bent the long grass. 
 
 "We will sit down here awhile, my Jacques," 
 she would say. "You are feeling a little better, 
 I think. Try and breathe the air; see, it is nice 
 and sunny." And the poor boy would do his best 
 to inhale the invigorating breezes which had 
 formerly seemed to give him fresh life. But the 
 lungs refused to expand ; the little air that he was 
 
 140
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 141 
 
 able to draw in caused him acute pain, and the 
 cough returned, nearly suffocating him, while his 
 forehead became bathed in sweat. Then the 
 mother, drawing the sufferer to her bosom, would 
 comfort him, saying: "Never mind, my Jacques, 
 you are better all the same; you have only had 
 three fits of coughing this morning." 
 
 He was not a difficult patient to nurse, and he 
 never complained. At times, when he was a little 
 easier, the gentle, innocent smile of old days 
 would return to his blue eyes, which were now 
 paler, and always held tears which never fell. 
 Then he would talk a little, in broken sentences, 
 as short as his breathing, in which recollections of 
 the past were mingled with plans for the future, 
 when he should be well again, and of warm ex- 
 pressions of love for those belonging to him, and 
 for the home which he had found again. Pierre's 
 name was often on his lips at such moments, and 
 if his father chanced to be absent he would get 
 some one to read him one of the letters kept in the 
 large cupboard, or would himself recall things 
 that had happened in the past, tales of old school- 
 boy pranks, which always ended with the same 
 words: "I was so fond of my Pierre!" 
 
 Soon, however, the walk on the hillside had to 
 be given up. Too weak to bear the fatigue of 
 even so slight an effort, the invalid now only left 
 his room for the courtyard of the farm. It was 
 an immense court, full of life. His father passed 
 through it with his horses and carts, his cartloads 
 of green fodder. The spring sun was shining on the 
 tiles. Chickens, pigeons, and ducks pecked and
 
 142 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 cooed and squabbled in every corner. His mother 
 had had a little bench, with arms and back, put 
 up for him beneath the vine along the sunny wall 
 beside the house-door. Whenever the day prom- 
 ised to be fine she brought out pillows, and there 
 Jacques would lie, surrounded with the sounds of 
 home, watched over by those belonging to him, 
 and almost happy. 
 
 Antoinette, as often as she could, brought a 
 chair and sat to do her sewing or crochet-work 
 beside him. Those were his most enjoyable hours. 
 
 "Antoinette," said Jacques one day toward 
 the end of April, "Antoinette, I am dying." 
 
 "What are you talking about?" replied the 
 girl, leaving off her work in her distress. "You 
 know how miserable you make me when you say 
 such dreadful things! See what beautiful weather 
 we are having now. Little by little you will get 
 better." 
 
 "No, I am going to die," repeated Jacques. ' ' You 
 must not say so to mother, but I am sure of it." 
 
 "Do you want to make me cry and send me 
 away, Jacques?" 
 
 "Of course not. I should not have said this to 
 you if I had not had a request to make." 
 
 "What is it you want?" 
 
 Jacques lifted his head with difficulty, looking 
 to see that no one was listening from the window 
 above. 
 
 "I want to see Pierre once more," he said in a 
 low voice. 
 
 "It is impossible; what would father say? 
 You know how he drove him away!"
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 143 
 
 "I want to see him all the same/' continued the 
 sick boy, growing excited. 
 
 The pink patch on his cheek turned purple; 
 a fit of coughing seized him, and for some minutes 
 he could not speak. He leaned his head down 
 away from his sister, and murmured, exhausted, 
 his eyes half-closed: 
 
 "Let me die, then. It was the only thing I 
 wished for, and you will not help me!" 
 
 " Jacques," said Antoinette, who had risen and 
 was leaning over him, "I would ask for nothing 
 better myself, as you know well. But would 
 Pierre himself be able to come, and would he 
 wish to do so?" 
 
 "He will come!" replied Jacques, again greatly 
 agitated. "I tell you he will come!" 
 
 "Well, do not distress yourself any more, my 
 Jacques," said Antoinette, as she passed her hands 
 over his moist forehead; "I promise you I will 
 write." 
 
 He raised himself a little, and looked his 
 thanks with his large eyes that were now quiet 
 and shining. 
 
 "It is a secret," he said, with a faint smile. 
 
 "Only known to us two," responded Antoinette. 
 Then she went into the house. 
 
 And he, left outside, seemed not to be aware of 
 being alone, but lay quietly during the remainder 
 of the afternoon, under the vine and the shade of 
 the tiled roof, not once coughing, as if in a rapture 
 of thought. 
 
 His mother, as she passed, thought he was better.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 MELIE RAINETTE had awakened early that morn- 
 ing in her large white bed. It was still dark when 
 she opened her eyes, and the rain was falling 
 heavily on the roof, which had been the cause no 
 doubt of her waking with a start. "What a 
 pity," she thought to herself; "I was having such 
 a beautiful dream." In it she had seen. resplend- 
 ent skies, transparent dawns, flowery landscapes, 
 roses, palm trees, ferns, with rays of light for 
 leaves, prodigious and luminous vegetation, and 
 angels moving in its midst. They seemed to be 
 in some far distant and infinite space. And One 
 like a flame separated himself from the others 
 and grew visibly larger. Melie could distinguish 
 his wide-spread immovable wings, his golden hair, 
 and his face. He came close to her, and as he 
 stood by the bed he suddenly smiled, like a flower 
 that opens all at once. "He reminded me rather 
 of Pierre," she murmured to herself; "what curi- 
 ous things these dreams are!" 
 
 The warm, heavy rain was running down the 
 roof with a monotonous murmur that more than 
 a louder sound disturbed the silence of the night, 
 making its way between the mosses, and the other 
 parasitic plants that grew in clumps among the 
 slates, till it separated into two channels, one of 
 which fell into a jar, and the other on to a slanting 
 
 144
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 145 
 
 stone stuck into the earth. Each had a voice of 
 its kind, but the tones of the two were different. 
 The voice of the first seemed to say, "Jesus, my 
 God, how they have drunk! How they have 
 drunk!" while the other replied: "They will 
 flower better! They will flower better." 
 
 "Yes," she thought, "the house-leeks are 
 drinking on the roof; they were almost dried up 
 yesterday. It is so long since it rained. They 
 must have grown green again by this time plants 
 without even a sprinkling of earth round their 
 roots and they only want a shower of rain ; and 
 there they are full of flower, and the roof scented 
 with them. I am somewhat like them; I have 
 days of dryness, when I think I am going to fade 
 and die away; and then there are others " 
 
 The violence of the rain increased, beating 
 against the walls, the roof, and the ground round 
 the house, while the two streams kept up their 
 incessant trill. "How they have drunk," said the 
 earthen jar. "They will flower better," replied 
 the stone. 
 
 In the midst of this deluge Melie fancied that 
 she caught the sound of a footstep on the road. 
 The thought occurred to her, "supposing it was 
 he." She sat up, leaning on her hands, listening. 
 But no, there was no one passing. A few solitary 
 sparrows, perched in the holes of the wall, were 
 chirping in spite of the downpour. A streak of 
 daylight stole through the cracks of the shutters 
 and through the keyhole. Melie rose and opened 
 the window and began to dress. 
 
 Then gentle knocks against the garden-door
 
 146 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 were heard through the silence of the house, and 
 a voice that Melie would have known among a 
 thousand others a voice she often heard in 
 memory called: 
 
 "Melie, Me-lie!" 
 
 She made haste to fasten her dress, and, with- 
 out waiting even to put on her shoes, ran out of 
 the room. 
 
 "Me"lie, open the door!" called the voice again. 
 "I am wet through." 
 
 The girl drew the bolt, and stood aside against 
 the wall as Pierre Noellet entered, passing in front 
 of her. 
 
 "Excuse me for begging shelter of you at this 
 hour of the morning," he said, "but I saw from 
 the road that your window was open, and I thought 
 you would take me in. It is impossible to stay 
 outside." 
 
 Melie had remained standing at the door as 
 Pierre walked into the middle of the room, where, 
 after taking off his waterproof, which was stream- 
 ing with wet, he threw it on a chair, and then went 
 up to a mirror over the mantelpiece, in which he 
 gazed at himself a second or two, passed his hand 
 through his hair, which was cut short over his 
 head, before turning and speaking to Melie, who 
 up to that moment had not uttered a word. She 
 looked at him in mute astonishment. His free- 
 and-easy manners, his elegantly cut coat, the pin 
 stuck in his cravat, the look of confidence and 
 cleverness on his face, were all revelations to her 
 of the complete transformation that had taken 
 place in the old friend of her youth. He was a
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 147 
 
 different man altogether; and as she looked at 
 him, she was moved by a mingled feeling of ad- 
 miration, pleasure, and fear. Whence had he 
 come, and whither was he going at this hour 
 through the rain? She stood without moving, 
 leaning against the side of the door, while he 
 stood also looking at her in the gray light of the 
 early morning. 
 
 "Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed at last, "How you 
 have " and then she broke off, for he smiled 
 kindly, aware of what she wished to say. 
 
 "How I have changed, you mean?" 
 
 Without answering she went up to him as he 
 stood by the fireplace, and kneeling down, began 
 to light the fire. She waited till the heather and 
 wood, which had been drying there for a long time, 
 had sent a bright flame up the chimney, and then 
 rose, and telling Pierre Noellet to take a chair, she 
 sat down herself beside him on a lower one. She 
 did not dare lift her eyes to his face. 
 
 "You are changed, too," he said. 
 
 "For the worse, perhaps? I have grown old 
 these last eight months." 
 
 "Not for the worse; quite the contrary." 
 
 She felt his gaze upon her, and modestly drew 
 back her naked foot under the cover of her skirt. 
 
 "I have had great trouble, you know, and it 
 would be strange if my face showed no traces of 
 it." 
 
 "What farther trouble? Has work been slack?" 
 
 "No; but my father is dead." 
 
 "Yes, I heard about that from Antoinette." 
 
 "I nursed him for five weeks; it cost a great
 
 148 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 deal of money. After his death I had his debts to 
 pay off. You would hardly believe how I have 
 had to work." 
 
 "My poor Melie, your life has always been a 
 hard one." 
 
 "I do not grumble about the work; far from it, 
 I am strong, fortunately. The unhappiness to me 
 is the being all alone, with no one to see or speak 
 to, and no sound of any kind but what one makes 
 oneself. At times, do you know, I even feel 
 afraid. But I do not know what makes me always 
 talk about myself one ought not to do that. 
 The truth is, I have not yet got over my surprise, 
 so you must forgive me. Why are you here? 
 where have you been travelling from through the 
 night?" 
 
 "I have come from Paris to see Jacques." 
 
 "He is very ill," said Melie. 
 
 "I know it, and that is why I have hurried to 
 get here. I got as far as Chalonnes last evening 
 by the train, and there I found a miller's cart, 
 which carried me to Poiteviniere. Sooner than 
 put up for the night at the inn, I decided I 
 would rather do the remainder of the journey on 
 foot. It was beautifully fine when I started, but 
 it began to pour in torrents before I reached 
 the hill up to Villeneuve. What a storm it 
 has been!" 
 
 He was squeezing the water out of the legs of 
 his trousers, which smoked as they neared the 
 flame. 
 
 "Your father let you in, then?" said Melie. 
 
 "He let me in!" said Pierre, rising from his
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 149 
 
 stooping posture and looking at Me*lie with an 
 ironic expression on his face which distressed her. 
 "You do not know him! I am proscribed, ban- 
 ished! He drove me from the house, and I must 
 ask pardon from him before I shall ever be al- 
 lowed to enter it again." 
 
 "Well, and why not?" 
 
 "One only asks pardon when one has been in 
 the wrong!" replied Pierre stiffly. "No, I have 
 had no permission from my father. It was An- 
 toinette who secretly sent me word." Then, sud- 
 denly resuming his accustomed amiability, and 
 smiling like the pupil of old days under Abbe* 
 Heurtebise, he continued: "It was even ar- 
 ranged, Melie, that you should help us." 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "As I said, I cannot present myself at La Geni- 
 viere; and so we thought, Antoinette and I, that 
 you would not mind going and telling her when 
 I had arrived, and then I will linger in a field, or 
 road near, it does not matter where, and you two 
 can bring Jacques to me, as if you were helping 
 him out for a walk." 
 
 "Is he strong enough, poor boy?" said Me*lie. 
 
 She had drawn back and turned to the window, 
 reddening a little as she spoke. It was growing 
 lighter; there was a sound of shutters being 
 opened along the neighbouring street, and the 
 distant rumble of carts, and Melie was beginning 
 to feel uncomfortable at the thought of having 
 taken Pierre under her roof at this early hour. 
 
 She had not thought of that at first in the sur- 
 prise and pleasure of seeing him again, and some
 
 150 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 pity had mingled with her feelings at the thought 
 of him in the pouring rain. 
 
 ''Listen!" she said. The rivulet to the right 
 was singing again, "They will flower the better!" 
 but the tones were more broken, a sign that the 
 storm was passing away. Before Pierre had had 
 time to notice her discomfiture, Melie, having 
 made up her mind, said in her pleasant way: 
 "We cannot go out just yet; but in ten minutes' 
 time the rain will be over, and then I will help 
 you as you wish." 
 
 "I knew you would say, 'Yes.' I know you so 
 well! When we talk about you in Paris, we have 
 never any ill to say; for we do speak about you, 
 Melie." 
 
 "With whom do you speak?" 
 
 "With the Laubriets." 
 
 "You see them, then?" 
 
 "Of course I do. I did not dare go and call on 
 them, as you understand; but one day I met 
 Monsieur Hubert in the street, and he held out 
 his hand. 'Where are you lodging,' he asked, 'and 
 what are you doing? Why have you given no sign 
 of life? It is very wrong of you. Come and see 
 me to-morrow." 3 
 
 "See what it is to be learned!" she exclaimed, 
 with an admiring glance. "And you went as invi- 
 vited?" 
 
 "Certainly. I went more than once, and now 
 little Pierre Noellet is received by the lords of 
 Landehue, of whom he stood formerly in such 
 awe. He dares to speak to them. He is greeted 
 as a friend. And this last month, since I have
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 151 
 
 been on a paper, I have often spent the evenings 
 with them." 
 
 "You are a journalist?" 
 
 "Yes, I am on the Don Juan" 
 
 "You must be growing rich!" 
 
 "Not yet, Melie, I am very poor as yet." 
 
 The girl looked at him with some surprise, and 
 without speaking. How could he be poor as he 
 said and yet be so well dressed? 
 
 "My words astonish you. Because I write for 
 a paper and no longer dress as I used when at 
 Fief-Sauvin, you think I must be well off." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "If you knew the extreme poverty I was in at 
 first!" 
 
 "You, in great poverty?" 
 
 "I was for more than six months without any 
 employment at all, trying in vain to find even the 
 humblest post in some office, or teaching work of 
 some kind, without any success. No one knew 
 me, and no one wanted me. The start was a 
 rough one, I can assure you." 
 
 "And I, here, without the slightest idea of such 
 a thing!" 
 
 "Fortunately some one had pity on me, and 
 took me under his protection, and restored my 
 confidence in life which had nearly forsaken me." 
 
 "I guess it was Monsieur Laubriet!" 
 
 "No an old professor who was lodging in the 
 same house as myself Monsieur Chabersot. Bear 
 his name in mind, Melie, for it is that of a most 
 excellent man. When my own family deserted 
 me, he helped and delivered me. Thanks to him,
 
 152 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 I got on the staff of the Don Juan. But do not 
 run away with the idea that I am making a fort- 
 une. I hardly earn enough to cover my expenses, 
 and I have urgent debts to the amount of fifteen 
 hundred francs." 
 
 ''Fifteen hundred francs!" said Melie, who had 
 never in her life owned such a sum. 
 
 "I was obliged to borrow." 
 
 "How shall you be able to pay them?" 
 
 "My father owes me as much." 
 
 "That is true. You wrote to your father for 
 the money last October." 
 
 "Will you believe that I have never had a word 
 of reply from him? But he must give me answer 
 of some kind, for Loutrel, who lent the sum to me, 
 will not wait any longer. So much the worse, and 
 I shall let him do what he advised me long ago." 
 
 "Are you going to bring farther trouble on your 
 father, Pierre?" 
 
 "Oh no, Melie, it is nothing. Do not disturb 
 yourself." 
 
 "If I had the money," she said, "I would give 
 it to you at once!" 
 
 Tears had started to Melie's eyes. All that she 
 had heard, and all that she guessed, made her 
 heart sink within her. And how much more there 
 must be of which she could know nothing, and 
 what a stranger she had become to the life of the 
 old companion of her childhood! Pierre guessed 
 her thoughts, and said, smiling : 
 
 "You are a brave girl, Melie; I have always 
 known you kind and ready to help." 
 
 "You say that to please me!"
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 153 
 
 "No, I say it sincerely, and I am glad to see 
 you again." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "Really!" 
 
 It was Melie's turn to smile. 
 
 "And I too, Pierre, am glad," she said. 
 
 "Do you remember the time when I was a 
 child?" 
 
 "Yes, of course I remember it." 
 
 "We were like brother and sister together." 
 
 "I used to see you go by every day." 
 
 "That was the best time after all, perhaps, 
 Melie." 
 
 She longed to say "yes," but contented herself 
 with only thinking it, and letting him read the 
 thought in her eyes, which now were bright with 
 happiness and showed no tears. She rose and put 
 aside the window curtain. Not a cloud left ! Here 
 and there the blue sky was still veiled by the light 
 mists that were floating slowly away. 
 
 "The rain is quite over," she said. "Come!" 
 
 She put on her Sunday wooden shoes on ac- 
 count of the rain-soaked ground, and followed 
 Pierre, who went out first and opened the garden- 
 door. He paused a moment, struck with the 
 beauty of the outside world. The flowers and 
 grasses, the tiniest and humblest plant, everything 
 seemed to be filled with renewed life afterHhe rain, 
 expanding and lifting their heads, and scattering 
 such a variety of scents that it was intoxicating 
 merely to inhale the air. The great rosemary 
 bush seemed to have grown bigger still, and in the 
 exuberance of its rejoicing sap, to wish to crush
 
 154 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 the two hedges that supported its flowered 
 branches. On the farther side the young yellow 
 shoots of the oak tree were turning red in the 
 morning sun. All the accustomed sounds were 
 beginning to be heard as the country awoke to a 
 feeling of youth again. Pierre listened to the 
 voices that had been his lullabies as a child. Light 
 and happiness reigned on every side. 
 
 "What will the people in the town think," said 
 Melie, "when they see us walking together?" 
 
 "That we are as good friends as ever," re- 
 sponded Pierre, "which is true." 
 
 They crossed the garden. At the farther end 
 was a footpath which ran behind the town and led 
 to La Geniviere. Melie and Pierre walked side by 
 side, bathed in the morning freshness, and in si- 
 lence. Melie was happy. She walked slowly, so 
 as not to arrive too quickly at their destination, 
 secretly looking at their mingled shadows which 
 were thrown against the bank of the road as they 
 passed along. She hardly gave a thought to the 
 sad meeting for which she was going to prepare 
 the way. A song of triumph, longing to burst 
 forth, was singing within her. Would not a day 
 come when she would be walking thus, side by 
 side with him, in a bride's dress, followed by a 
 train of friends? To herself she acknowledged that 
 he perhaps loved her. How handsome and tall 
 and proud he was! She did not dare lift her eyes 
 to look at him, but she had a divine consciousness 
 of it. 
 
 At the turn of the path Pierre caught her by 
 the arm. They had reached La Geniviere. Mlie
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 155 
 
 looked at him, suddenly aroused from her dreams. 
 Ah, assuredly Pierre's thoughts had been very 
 different ones to hers. His face looked hard and 
 careworn. The sight of the barn, which hid the 
 house from them, had awakened in him no feeling 
 but one of bitter resentment. He was uneasy at 
 the thought of this surreptitious return to the 
 paternal farm, and his eyes went wandering awhile 
 over the adjourning fields. 
 
 "Melie," he said, leaning toward her, his voice 
 choked with emotion, "you said Jacques was not 
 able to walk far." 
 
 "He can no longer walk alone." 
 
 "Then I will wait for him here." 
 
 He pointed to the door of the barn which 
 opened on to the road that crossed the footpath. 
 
 "Here?" replied Melie, hesitating. "So near 
 the house?" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I don't know but supposing your father 
 were to meet you?" 
 
 "My father is willing to let beggars sleep in his 
 barn!" replied Pierre. "Do not be afraid: I will 
 not set a foot under his roof. Go now, Melie." 
 
 "And your mother?" she said inquiringly. 
 
 "Do not let her know I am here. Of what use 
 are farther scenes and tears, since I will not give in 
 and do not intend to stay. And, besides, I have 
 not come to see the living ones. Go and fetch 
 Jacques, that I may be off again as soon as pos- 
 sible." ' 
 
 They emerged from the footpath, and, turning 
 to the left, went as far as the end of the barn.
 
 156 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 Pierre went inside and took his place among the 
 beams, and poles, and barrel-hoops, which were 
 there kept in store. A little farther on stood a rick 
 of last year's hay, forming a precipitous wall 
 where it had been cut away. Melie turned the 
 corner of the wall and gave a low cry. 
 
 On the threshold of the house, standing under 
 the spreading branches of the vine, that looked as 
 if cut out of emerald as they glistened with rain 
 and sun, was the farmer himself. He was looking 
 toward the open valley, where everything was 
 bursting forth with joy and youth, taking count 
 of the weather as was his daily morning custom. 
 As he turned away his gaze, a farm-servant with a 
 sickle passed before him. The farmer followed 
 him with his eyes with a look of dejection, sighed, 
 and stepped into the courtyard. Melie saw him 
 get over a cross-barred gate which stood at the 
 end of the stable, and walk away past some trees 
 bordering a field. 
 
 She ran toward the house. When she reap- 
 peared a few minutes later she was supporting 
 Jacques on one side, while Antoinette held him up 
 on the other. The poor boy, bent and shrunk 
 with illness, looked quite small beside them. 
 Fever was slowly consuming his strength, but the 
 delight at seeing Pierre again had, for the mo- 
 ment, revived his energy. He took long steps as 
 if he were running, although utterly unable even 
 to stand upright without support; a painful smile 
 for he was never now free from pain but still 
 a smile, was on his swollen lips. His feet slipped 
 and stumbled, growing weaker with every step,
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 157 
 
 but still he smiled as if health and life were await- 
 ing him at the end of this journey of a hundred 
 paces. 
 
 "My Pierre!" he exclaimed, when he reached 
 the barn. 
 
 Pierre embraced him without speaking. He 
 could not at first master his feelings, so overcome 
 was he at the sight of his brother's terrible condi- 
 tion, and he held him for some minutes clasped to 
 his breast, while he struggled to drive back his 
 tears. 
 
 "Thank you for coming all this distance." 
 
 "If it had been any one else, they would have 
 sent for me in vain," replied Pierre. "The others 
 have driven me, or allowed me to be driven away. 
 But you, you are my very youth; you were the 
 only one who went with me when I had to leave." 
 
 "And I, too," said Jacques feebly, "am leaving 
 for a long journey, and for a long time. You 
 think me looking ill, do you not?" 
 
 "A little weak and thin," said Pierre. 
 
 "Do not try then I know it is all over for 
 me. All I want you to tell me is what you, who 
 will continue to live, are going to do ; what is go- 
 ing to become of you? It makes me uneasy, do 
 you understand? It was in great part for that 
 reason that I begged Antoinette " 
 
 His harsh, rattling cough checked his further 
 words. At last it ceased, and Pierre sat down be- 
 side him, and began talking to him in a low voice. 
 Jacques listened, responding with a nod, a look, 
 a word. They had so often talked together like 
 this over their plans, under the shadow of the
 
 158 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 caves beside the Evre, as they watched the cows. 
 The sweet remembrance of those past days haunted 
 the poor invalid. A look of peace came into his 
 eyes, turned toward the raftered roof of the bam, 
 followed by an expression of admiration, of child- 
 ish astonishment, which was replaced again by 
 one of dissatisfaction and of passing anxiety. 
 
 "No," he said, at one point of the conversation, 
 "you must ask pardon of them; I do not say to- 
 day, since you do not wish it, but when I am " 
 
 Pierre's answer, whatever it may have been, was 
 inaudible to Melie and Antoinette, who were stand- 
 ing on either side of the door. A murmur of voices, 
 a few disjointed words, was all the sound that 
 reached them. They were on guard, agitated by 
 their mingled feelings, distress at the thought of 
 the sad farewells that were taking place behind 
 them, and fear that the farmer should appear. 
 But not a soul was to be seen in the fields around. 
 Not a sound issued from the farm. By which way 
 would he be likely to come? From the farther 
 side of the barn? By the garden way, where the 
 sound of his step would be deadened in the soft 
 newly turned earth? But, no, he had passed and 
 had seen nothing, and must be now at some distant 
 point of the domains, for Pierre and Jacques had 
 been talking for a full quarter of an hour, unheed- 
 ing of the time. They never paused in their talk, 
 for the two brothers, after months of separation 
 and on the eve of being parted for ever, had many 
 things to say. 
 
 Me"lie, however, began to get uneasy, but felt 
 that it would be cruel to interrupt them. Antoi-
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 159 
 
 nette, feeling equally anxious, was beginning to 
 regret that she had not taken her mother into their 
 confidence. And, since everything seemed quiet, 
 should she not go and tell her that Pierre was here 
 before he went off again? It would not take a 
 minute to run to the house and say to her: 
 
 "Come, come, Pierre is here; it is he. I tell 
 you, he himself. Come!" 
 
 Just as she was on the point of darting off, 
 Jacques became suddenly more excited, and began 
 speaking in a louder voice. His poor weak body 
 was quivering all over. He tried to raise himself 
 on his hands, while his eyes dilated with anguish. 
 
 "No, no, my Pierre," he cried; "you cannot 
 think of doing such a thing. You are deceiving 
 me; you cannot " 
 
 "But I do think of doing so," replied Pierre; 
 "I have done so for years past " 
 
 "Then give up the idea; say that you will give 
 it up. It will bring trouble upon you. For my 
 sake who am about to die " 
 
 "I cannot." 
 
 "It is madness!" 
 
 "It is my life, Jacques!" 
 
 The sick man uttered a cry of suffering, which 
 seemed to set the old barn itself shuddering. 
 
 "Ah," he cried, "it is all such pain to me!" 
 
 His strength gave way, his hands failed to sup- 
 port him any longer, and he fell back stretched at 
 full length upon the ground with closed eyes and 
 clenched teeth. 
 
 At that moment Antoinette called out: 
 
 ' ' Father is coming ! Father is coming ! "
 
 160 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 And she fled, out of her mind with fear. 
 
 It was indeed the farmer. He had run to the 
 spot on hearing Jacques' cry and now suddenly 
 rose up before them in full daylight. Melie drew 
 back to let him pass. 
 
 Frowning in his effort to pierce the semi- 
 twilight of the barn, he caught sight of Pierre rising 
 from his seat with Jacques lying stretched at his 
 feet. The muscles of his face stiffened. He looked 
 like an old Chouan in the midst of fight. He 
 walked to the farther end of the barn with such 
 a terrible expression of countenance that Pierre 
 drew back into the shadow of the wall and rushed 
 out. 
 
 "Come, Melie," he cried, "or he will kill us." 
 
 Julien Noellet made no effort to stop him. He 
 looked down on his unfortunate son lying in the 
 dust, fearing that he was dead. He knelt and put 
 his hand to the boy's heart; it was still beating; 
 Jacques had only fainted. Then this strong, 
 violent-tempered man lifted him up in his arms 
 as gently as if he were a woman and carried him 
 out of the barn. 
 
 Melie and Pierre had stopped in their flight at 
 the entrance to the footpath, which was some 
 twenty paces off, and they now stood motionless, 
 half hidden by the angle of the hedge. They did 
 not know what to do, and had sought shelter there 
 in their first moment of fright to await what might 
 happen. 
 
 The father saw them, and held out the body of 
 his son that they might have full view of his poor 
 face, his dangling legs, and hanging lifeless hands.
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 161 
 
 "Look!" he called to Pierre, "look and see what 
 you have done to your brother!" 
 
 And his anguish was so keen and undisguised 
 that Pierre was unable to bear the sight of it. He 
 turned and strode back down the path, hanging 
 his head. 
 
 "And you, Me*lie you came with him, then!" 
 continued Julien Noellet. "You, too, have be- 
 trayed me! Ah, now I understand; it is you who 
 put all those ideas into his head you who have 
 taken him from me! Go and rejoin your friend!" 
 
 She had remained near the hedge, unable to 
 speak or move. As she heard the farmer address 
 her in this way, she felt as if her heart had received 
 a blow. To be driven away from La Geniviere! 
 To be accused like this ! No, she had not betrayed 
 him ! She would defend herself. She had been a 
 little weak, but there was nothing else of which 
 she could accuse herself. 
 
 But she was so taken aback that at first she 
 could not open her mouth, and when at last she 
 recovered her self-possession, the farmer had dis- 
 appeared. He had carried his still unconscious 
 son back to the house. She might still follow him, 
 explain her conduct to him, and obtain his pardon. 
 And at first she thought of doing so. But then 
 that would be to desert Pierre, to let him go away 
 alone after having brought him here. Pierre must 
 already have gone some distance. 
 
 For a second or two she hesitated between Pierre 
 and La Geniviere, between all her old friendships 
 and the man she loved. It was a heart-rending 
 struggle, but love gained the mastery, and, turning
 
 162 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 her back on the farm, she ran to overtake Pierre. 
 When the two found themselves together again, 
 on a level with the house behind Melie's garden, 
 no word of reproach escaped her lips. She had 
 already ceased to think of herself. 
 
 "My poor friend," she said, "it has been a sad 
 time for you." 
 
 Pierre had been waiting for her where the path 
 was hidden between its deep banks. As Melie 
 spoke he lifted his head, too proud to let her see 
 how greatly he was affected, and replied in the 
 haughty and ironical tone which was familiar to 
 him: 
 
 "You see now what my father is unjust and 
 violent." 
 
 "What are you going to do?" 
 
 "Go at once, and this time for ever." 
 
 "Forever, Pierre?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I shall never return again as 
 long as I live, unless " 
 
 He left his sentence unfinished and turned to 
 where, through an opening in the hedge, the roof 
 and shuttered windows of Landehue were visible. 
 Then he added: 
 
 "I thank you, Melie, for what you have done. 
 I am only afraid that my father will now hate you 
 as he hates me." 
 
 "I will bear that for your sake," she said softly. 
 
 She put her foot on the step of beaten earth, 
 on to which the garden-gate opened, with the in- 
 tention of returning to the house, but as she pushed 
 open the little wicket, she half turned, and said 
 sadly:
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 163 
 
 "Since I shall never see you again, tell me at 
 least what made your brother faint? What had 
 you said to cause him so much excitement?" 
 
 "In the condition he is in, it does not require 
 much to upset him." 
 
 "No; answer me. I shall have no peace of 
 mind when you are gone, trying to find out your 
 secret; it will be a trouble to me for a long time 
 to come." 
 
 "I have a secret, it is true, Melie; I told it to 
 Jacques: I am in love with some one." 
 
 "Well," she said and a passing light flashed 
 into her eyes "what did he see in that to trouble 
 him?" 
 
 "The one I love does not love me; that is the 
 trouble." 
 
 She gave her head a wise shake, and answered: 
 
 "How do you know that?" 
 
 "I am afraid it is so." 
 
 "Is she a princess, then?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Do I know her?" 
 
 "Yes, very well." 
 
 "Well, then," she said, smiling in spite of her- 
 self, though she would have wished to hide the 
 smile that was like a confession, "if you love her 
 well, and were to tell her so, there is a chance, you 
 may be sure, that you would find she loved you in 
 return." 
 
 "Do you really think so, Melie?" 
 
 "Yes, I do." ' 
 
 He went up to her quickly and took her by the 
 hand, carried away by the overpowering thought
 
 164 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 even of this possibility of hope, looking as hand- 
 some as a youth can look. 
 
 ' ' You really think so ? Perhaps you have already 
 guessed? It is the whole secret, the whole strength 
 of my life, a love of so long standing that I think 
 I must have been born with it. All I do is in the 
 hope of rising to her level, of making myself 
 worthy of her. The mere thought that she might 
 be able to love me, as you say, intoxicates me, 
 and compensates me for everything else. You 
 are right, Melie, I will tell you her name." 
 
 "Yes, do so!" 
 
 "But you will help me, for it is in your power to 
 do so?" 
 
 She smiled again by way of answer, as if to say : 
 I shall indeed be able to help you, since the woman 
 you love is not a princess. I know her very well, 
 and she whom you loved so long time back is 
 
 He drew her, happy and trembling, to him, 
 leaned his head toward hers till the two nearly 
 touched, so that none but she might hear the 
 whispered name, and said: 
 
 ' ' Madeleine Laubriet ! ' ' 
 
 Then he tore himself away, and ninning down 
 the footpath, disappeared.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 MELIE, after a night spent in tears, had risen 
 rather later than usual. She had just finished 
 putting her room in order when a man-servant 
 from Landehue thrust his frizzled head and a 
 yellow-striped velvet waistcoat through the open 
 window. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Me*lie," he said, "the master and 
 his family returned to Landehue last evening, and 
 Mademoiselle Marthe begs that you will come up 
 this afternoon to help her arrange her flower- 
 baskets." 
 
 He went off without waiting for Melie's answer, 
 for she always accepted her invitations. It was 
 a regular thing for her, and in general a great 
 pleasure to go and spend an afternoon at Lande- 
 hue during the fine weather. She was clever with 
 her fingers, and skilled in delicate needlework, and 
 possessed a natural quickness of eye and refinement 
 of taste which rendered her an invaluable auxiliary 
 on many occasions. Whether it was to make 
 a ruche, to mount a ribbon-bow, or even to im- 
 provise a dress for a charade, Melie was as ready 
 at these tasks as at arranging flowers for the dinner 
 table or bouquets to wear. The Mesdemoiselles 
 Laubriet had only to send her word and she obeyed 
 their summons with alacrity, delighted at the 
 thought of a few hours of elegance and liberty. 
 
 165
 
 166 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 But to-day she had no heart for such things. 
 She sat down near the window, and, letting her 
 head fall on her hands, began to cry again. She 
 had so many peaceful, happy hours, so much lost 
 courage, so much departed affection to weep for! 
 Poor little dream of love ! She had lived on it for 
 so long past, and had hardly been conscious of 
 the place it held in her heart. It had grown with 
 a wild rapidity, like seeds that fall into a deep 
 cave and there take root in the midst of the 
 vacant spaces, and creep and grow to an inordi- 
 nate height, till at last they reach the light; a 
 bud, a pale flower, is all we see of the plant from 
 outside, but within the darkness is full of luxu- 
 riant vegetation. Everything was destroyed, 
 everything was dead, for Pierre did not love her; 
 he loved another. No, she would certainly not go 
 to Landehue. To see the one whom Pierre loved 
 no, indeed, to let something of her suffering be 
 guessed! This Madeleine Laubriet, why should 
 she want to take away the happiness of the poor? 
 She had so much of her own without interfering 
 with that of others. But it was the way of the 
 world all the happiness for some, all the misery 
 for others. Up, slave, and get to your work. 
 There is no time for tears. Go and take your seat 
 on the old stool with its ragged straw edges, work 
 the frame, tire your feet on the pedals, let body 
 and soul become one with the machine, and stay 
 there in the damp atmosphere of the cellar till you 
 begin to fall asleep from exhaustion, till your eyes 
 can no longer distinguish the threads, and on the 
 morrow go to work again, and the day after, and
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 167 
 
 so continue till the day of your death always 
 poor, always alone. 
 
 What an irony of fate! 
 
 And agitated in mind and body, the weaver left 
 her room and went down into the cellar. The ma- 
 chine began to creak, and to move at an irregular 
 pace. How often she had sat working in this same 
 place! The wood was quite polished with the 
 friction of her hand. As she now came in contact 
 with it she became more painfully alive still to the 
 bondage of her hard-worked life, and her first 
 feeling was of a disgust of life, a suppressed anger 
 at not being able to throw off her yoke of poverty. 
 
 For a long time she struggled helplessly against 
 the trouble that assailed her. A quick and in- 
 voluntary glance toward the old plaster crucifix, 
 which showed white amid the surrounding gloom 
 of the cellar as it hung on the wall above the bar- 
 rels filled with skeins of thread, brought the col- 
 our into her cheeks. What had become of the 
 quiet, steady maiden that had been held up as a 
 model of courage and patience? The Melie of old 
 days so strong, so self-confident? The remem- 
 brance filled her with shame. 
 
 And then after a while is there some hidden 
 virtue in these tools of daily labour? Has some- 
 thing from our hours of calm passed into them to 
 be given back to us one day? she was conscious 
 of feeling better. The machine, as it was worked 
 with less unwillingness, began to move with its 
 habitual rhythm. It began to argue with Melie, 
 and to represent to her with its little daily clack- 
 ing, that she was wrong, and to remind her how
 
 168 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 patient, merry, and happy it had known her, even 
 in her poverty, before this love trouble had come 
 upon her. 
 
 By degrees she came round to its way of think- 
 ing, and, as if to bestow a caress on her faithful 
 servitor, she began to handle it with a willing ser- 
 vility, while it grew more and more docile under 
 her supple hand. And as she drew the edge of the 
 frame, that had grown white with wax and fric- 
 tion, it caught the thread of light that fell through 
 the window and emitted a pale ray. 
 
 Melie recognized this humble smile of her com- 
 panion in labour, and all at once a fresh strength 
 came to her, her will seemed to recover itself and 
 to be able to throw off the weight of oppression 
 and cowardice. She paused an instant in her 
 work, and said half aloud and slowly, as if the 
 machine could hear her words: 
 
 "I will go up to Landehue after all." 
 
 And the brave girl did in fact leave the house 
 at the accustomed hour, and started across the 
 park. The weather was superb, the grass already 
 high, the whole land bright with springing verdure. 
 But Melie found no pleasure in it all. On reach- 
 ing Landehue she found Marthe in one of the 
 rooms seated in front of a table covered with heaps 
 of flowers and leaves. Madeleine was not there, 
 and Melie experienced the feeling of relief of which 
 we are conscious when the occasion for self-sacri- 
 fice becomes less immediate. Marthe greeted her 
 with her usual abrupt good temper. 
 
 "Take a seat," she said. "It is Providence that 
 has sent you. Here have I been trying over and
 
 'THIS, MY SON" 169 
 
 over again to arrange my basket of daisies; I can 
 never do anything with these wild flowers. You 
 must see to them here, take them. There, there, 
 you may have them all." 
 
 And as she spoke she threw armfuls of daisies 
 over Melie, till the latter's beautiful black apron 
 and shoulders and cap were covered with them. 
 The latter gathered them up into bunches, and 
 then, with a taste and decision that bespoke the 
 skilled worker, after cutting the stalks with a 
 knife to the required length, she quickly stuck 
 them one by one in the sand of a flower-stand. It 
 did not take long to arrange the white and gold 
 blossoms till they curved prettily down to an en- 
 circling border of dark green. Marthe on her side, 
 now occupied with flowers from the hot-houses or 
 from the garden shrubs, was succeeding wonder- 
 fully, the effect of her clusters being heavier and 
 richer, with less of quiet grace about them. She 
 was happy in her grouping. Here the flowers 
 drooped in elegant abandonment, here an aigrette 
 rose above a dome of blossoms, and all the while, 
 as she stepped backward and forward to examine 
 the effect of her handiwork, she was calling upon 
 Melie to give her opinion. There was, therefore, 
 not much opportunity for conversation between 
 the girls, of which Melie was glad. She had just 
 summoned up courage enough to be there, and 
 to arrange the flowers, without talking, for all the 
 while she was thinking of him. She could not all 
 at once rid herself of that importunate sense of 
 recent trouble, of which we are all in turn the vic- 
 tims, and which invades the very thoughts by
 
 170 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 which we had hoped to escape it, turning and 
 quickening them in some unexpected manner, so 
 as to add to our torture. The most commonplace 
 remarks renewed her sorrow. If Marthe said: 
 "We had a storm while we were travelling, did 
 you have one here?" Melie recalled her beautiful 
 dream, her awakening from it, the haunting song 
 of the rain as it ran down the roof "They will 
 flower the better." Lies! lies! 
 
 A bright, ringing voice threw an order to a serv- 
 ant outside, and when Me"lie heard this voice and 
 the sound of an alert foot coming up the garden- 
 steps, she turned as white as her daisies. Made- 
 leine Laubriet entered the room. As Melie watched 
 her walk up to the table she felt too dazed to give 
 a word or sign of recognition. What queenly ele- 
 gance! How well the sailor-blue dress suited her! 
 How proudly the head rose above the soft round 
 of the collar! Unhappy Melie, the weaver! What 
 is your attraction in comparison to hers? Come 
 what may, do what you will, the man who has 
 loved her can never love you. See now how she 
 advances toward you with that patronizing air 
 which she assumed the moment she saw you, 
 obeying an instinct of birth and of superior edu- 
 cation. 
 
 "Why, your basket is quite a work of art, Mlie! 
 And I am so clumsy at this kind of thing! How 
 do you do it?" 
 
 Me"lie conquered her agitation, and only a slight 
 unsteadiness of voice betrayed the conflict that 
 was taking place within her. She answered with 
 a word or two without leaving off her work.
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 171 
 
 Madeleine, with her delicate fingers, began feeling 
 about among the scattered flowers, seeking for 
 a piece of Spanish jasmine, which was her fa- 
 vourite blossom. After a minute or two she 
 said: 
 
 " What dress are you going to put on this even- 
 ing, Marthe?" 
 
 Marthe understood that this question meant, 
 "What do you advise me to put on? I want to 
 look my best," and answered accordingly: " Your 
 pink dress." 
 
 " You think so?" 
 
 "It suits you well." 
 
 "But there will not be many at dinner." 
 
 "What does that matter. Is it not a dress 
 celebrated by the poets?" 
 
 "Marthe!" 
 
 "It is truly sung by the poets, by Monsieur 
 Noellet of Fief-Sauvin, now contributor to the 
 Don Juan. You must know, Melie, that my father 
 has invited him several times to his house. He is 
 not the same Pierre Noellet that you used to know. 
 He is really very clever, is he not, Madeleine?" 
 
 "Yes, tolerably so." 
 
 "I think him very clever. Anyhow, he can 
 write pretty good poetry, and his last sonnet, 
 printed in a little magazine for beginners, was 
 'On a Pink Dress/ 'The material it was made of 
 was as soft as a cloud/ and so on, and so on. I 
 fancy, Madeleine, that he went on to compare it 
 with the dawn." 
 
 "Very likely." 
 
 "Which was a novel idea, anyhow," continued
 
 172 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 Marthe, laughing, "and that is why I advise you 
 to put it on." 
 
 "If it pleases Pierre Noellet," said Madeleine 
 haughtily, somewhat piqued, "to express his 
 gratitude for the hospitality of our house in rhyme, 
 I certainly cannot prevent him. By-the-by, what 
 did I hear this morning about his coming here to 
 see Jacques, and that there was a further scene 
 between him and his father? You ought to know 
 something about it, Melie." 
 
 She threw aside the branch of jasmine she had 
 been pulling to pieces as she talked, and turned 
 toward Melie; then, with an exclamation of alarm, 
 she cried: 
 
 "What is the matter?" 
 
 The weaver was lying back in her chair almost 
 unconscious, her eyes fixed on Madeleine with an 
 expression on her face of agonized suffering. 
 
 "I cut myself," she said in a weak voice. 
 
 A thin stream of blood was, in fact, trickling 
 from her hand, which hung limply beside her, and 
 the dark stain against the hand, which was whiter 
 than marble, looked alarming. 
 
 Madeleine ran into the adjoining room, and 
 came back with a surgical case and some lint; 
 and, having staunched the blood, she bandaged 
 the wounded finger, Melie meanwhile not stirring. 
 The wound was not a deep one, and Melie did not 
 generally lose her courage and spirit in this way. 
 What could have come over her? Madeleine 
 now a woman, and seeking a woman's reason to 
 account for things, drew back and looking scru- 
 tinizingly at Melie asked herself why the girl,
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 173 
 
 who was always so gentle and respectful, had that 
 fixed look on her face of mutinous and agitated 
 feeling. 
 
 Melie -soon recovered, and a slight colour re- 
 turned to her cheeks. 
 
 "Why, how sensitive we are," said Marthe, "to 
 fall into a state of collapse like that for a cut fin- 
 ger! Well, let us go on with our work; there is 
 nothing to make a fuss about." 
 
 But Madeleine immediately took her up: 
 
 "On the contrary, do you not see that she is in 
 need of rest. Go, Melie, go, you are not in a condi- 
 tion to help us any more to-day." 
 
 Melie rose, and left the room like one bewil- 
 dered. 
 
 She made haste across the park, eager to reach 
 her home, and once inside, instead of waiting to 
 take off the fine apron, which she, poor girl, had 
 put on to go to Landehue, she went straight down 
 to the cellar, to be near her weaving-machine, the 
 only friend she had left. "Pierre Noellet, Pierre 
 Noellet," she kept on saying to herself, "for whom 
 have you forsaken me? You suspected that she 
 did not love you; I am certain of it from her look, 
 her manner, her words. Will she ever love you? 
 Will you succeed in rising to her level? Will you 
 be able to cross the immense distance which sepa- 
 rates you? What delusions, what dangers are 
 you, may be, running to meet? Pierre Noellet, 
 Pierre Noellet, if you had only wished!" and so 
 great was her love for him that she ended by pity- 
 ing him. The old, maternal affectionate pity that 
 she had had for Abbe Heurtebise's pupil was re-
 
 174 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 awakened and troubled as she now thought of him ; 
 all other feeling was dead. Dead the dreams of 
 love, dead the selfish desire for happiness! Melie 
 was no longer crying; all her anger and envy had 
 passed away. All that she was conscious of at 
 present was of an extreme lassitude and a hideous 
 sense of loneliness, such as the survivors on a field 
 of battle feel when the remains of what were once 
 men, horses, arms, and harvest-fields lie sleeping 
 round them in the light of the moon. Everything 
 was over for ever. She had understood that when 
 she saw Madeleine Laubriet. 
 
 And a second time her energetic will called to 
 her, and Melie answered: "I will forgive. I will 
 try to forget. I must not go any more to Lande- 
 hue, or among my friends, for they will see that 
 I am in trouble. I will remain here. I will be 
 very gentle with every one, but I will not again 
 open my heart to another. I shall never marry. 
 I shall behave as if I were a widow."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 IT is, alas! a common fault with humanity to mis- 
 take misfortune for crime, and Melie Rainette 
 experienced the truth of this. The imprudence of 
 which she had been guilty in taking Pierre Noel- 
 let into her house, their walk back together from 
 Fief-Sauvin to La Geniviere, the farmer's anger, 
 and Jacques' unaccountable fainting-fit, were all 
 matters discussed and commented upon under 
 every roof in Fief-Sauvin. Powerless to defend 
 herself, and not even fully aware of all the calum- 
 nies directed against her, she was yet conscious of 
 being surrounded by an insulting and mocking 
 curiosity. Many of the town matrons cried out 
 at the scandal and shut their doors against her, 
 and the girls of her own age, weavers like herself 
 and old friends, ostentatiously avoided her. It 
 did not take many days before Melie, who had 
 been forsaken by Pierre, knew also what it was to 
 be forsaken by the world. 
 
 It was a cruel trial for her, the attitude of the 
 Noellets being the hardest thing she had to bear. 
 When she met them, they would appear not even 
 to see her. They walked on, sad of countenance, 
 the farmer without lifting his hat, the mother and 
 daughters without a sign of recognition to this 
 girl, who but so lately had been like one of the 
 family at La Geniviere. Accomplice of the un- 
 
 175
 
 176 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 grateful and rebellious son, she, like him, had lost 
 her place by their fireside. She was not even 
 treated like a stranger. The old friendship, which 
 had for so long protected and sustained her, was 
 now turned against her, and by its very silence, 
 left her a victim to the evil tongues of the neigh- 
 bourhood. 
 
 It cost her an effort to have to ask for news of 
 La Geniviere from those who cared little about the 
 farmer and his family, and to have to gather from 
 them particulars which she could have given them 
 in other days. She inquired daily after Jacques, 
 and heard that he was growing worse. She longed 
 to run and sit by his bedside, and to help Antoi- 
 nette and Marie in their care of Pierre's best friend. 
 But even this act of devotion was forbidden her. 
 
 One day on her way home from church she met 
 Abbe Heurtebise, who stopped her. 
 
 "Melie," he said, "I have just come from him; 
 he cannot live through the day." 
 
 "Monsieur le Cure"," she answered, "it is not 
 possible for me to go, I suppose?" 
 
 He shook his head, and she continued on her 
 way humiliated and in tears. After reaching 
 home, she remained for an hour in the garden 
 looking toward the distant oaks of La Geniviere. 
 
 In the room just quitted by Abbe Heurtebise, 
 and on the bed where the farmer and his wife 
 usually slept, Jacques indeed lay dying. 
 
 His interview with the priest had brought him 
 a momentary calmness, and one knows not what 
 grandeur of understanding to his soul. Some con- 
 ception of that which was a waiting him on the
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 177 
 
 farther side of life had come to him, for his face 
 had been illuminated and as it were transfigured 
 by the nobility of its expression. What did his 
 eyes see as he gazed toward the open window? 
 His kneeling sisters, his mother drooping with fa- 
 tigue, but still holding his hand in hers? The vine- 
 tendrils that hung down over the opening from 
 the trellis above, against the blue light beyond? 
 The white curtains that swayed in the wind with 
 the sound of a bird taking flight? The little tree 
 in front of it, from which still fluttered the re- 
 mains of a kite, a relic of long past days? No. 
 His vision travelled far beyond these things. He 
 saw death, but he saw it without fear, for he 
 smiled. Peace, a certainty of hope, a joy in which 
 the soul alone had part, something apart from and 
 superior to life, these could be read upon his face 
 on which death also had written, "I am here." 
 
 A terrible oppression overcame him, and the 
 anguish of it gave him strength to raise himself in 
 bed. His mother had already risen, and was sup- 
 porting him, gently laying him down again as the 
 fit subsided. And now he lay with his eyes shut, 
 once more conscious only of his suffering. And so 
 the hours went by, slowly, slowly, the seconds 
 marked by the heavy breathing, which grew more 
 and more laboured. 
 
 Some neighbours of the town had come to 
 watch with the Noellets. There were at least fif- 
 teen persons in the room all on their knees round 
 the bed, as round an altar, watching for the com- 
 ing of the one who holds universal and sovereign 
 command over men, with a commiseration that
 
 178 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 was mingled with self-pity, as their thoughts re- 
 verted to themselves. When one among them 
 rose, the others followed her with their eyes, and 
 there was a rattling of rosaries through the silent 
 room. At intervals, Julien Noellet, who stood like 
 a gray granite figure at the head of the bed, opened 
 an old book with a warped cover, the same that 
 he had regularly opened every evening for forty 
 years, and without any preliminary, read aloud 
 a psalm or a prayer, his voice only slightly less 
 firm than usual. A murmur of voices of all ages 
 made response; then suddenly one of the voices 
 would cease, choked with tears, and only two or 
 three were able to finish the responses in which 
 they had all at first joined. 
 
 It was toward four o'clock when Jacques lifted 
 his hand, now quite cold, which had been lying 
 stretched out beside him on the sheet; as he did 
 so he half opened his eyes, and looked round with 
 an expression of deep and questioning anxiety in 
 them as if seeking for some one, a look as from 
 one beyond the grave who sees before him the 
 spaces of infinity. 
 
 "What is it, my Jacques?" asked his mother. 
 
 He seemed to hear her, for his lips moved, and 
 he whispered: 
 
 "My brother, the abbe*, where is he?" 
 
 Jacques drew another breath. Then, all at 
 once, the breathing ceased, the sheet rose with his 
 last struggling effort, the spark of life died out of 
 the face, and a bluish pallor overspread the body 
 from head to foot. 
 
 Tears and lamentation now arose from the neigh-
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 179 
 
 bours and from Jacques' sisters. The mingled 
 sound of their shrill cries was carried through the 
 windows and announced to those afar that Jacques 
 was dead, while the father and mother, silent and 
 immovable, watched their son's face growing dig- 
 nified in death, as it gradually reassumed the 
 supernatural expression they had already seen 
 upon it that morning.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Two days after the neighbours from the sur- 
 rounding farms repaired again at an early hour to 
 La Geniviere. The women, clad in their black 
 hoods and looking like nuns, passed through the 
 first room, which was left open, into the second 
 room, generally so light and bright, but now 
 closed and filled with their sombre figures, and 
 there knelt in prayer. In the centre, resting on 
 two chairs, was the coffin, covered with a white 
 cloth, on which had been placed a bunch of flowers 
 gathered that morning by Antoinette, and a sprig 
 of rosemary lying in a saucer filled with holy 
 water. The draught from the door blew aside the 
 flames of the two candles placed on the floor to 
 right and left of the coffin, and the light from these 
 hardly served to show the way through the gloom, 
 so dimly they seemed to burn amid these dark 
 dresses and cloaks. The relations from Montre- 
 vault and from other towns of Vendee were also 
 there, numbering among them some of the female 
 cousins that one sees only at weddings and funer- 
 als. They were all weeping, some with such heavy 
 sighs and sobs that they could be heard by the 
 men who were waiting outside in the courtyard. 
 
 The latter, more self-contained, as became the 
 heads of families, were grouped in front of the 
 house, chatting about the wheat, the silvery gray 
 
 180
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 181 
 
 ears of which could be seen near the mill of Haute- 
 Brune. They foretold what the weather would be 
 at the end of the summer, not all of them being of 
 the same mind about it, and talked of other similar 
 subjects, but with the gravity due to the thought 
 of the mourning which had brought them together. 
 
 Death was held in respect by these peasants, 
 and Jacques, only a poor little soldier and the 
 least among them, had true mourners among these 
 distant relatives. They gave him tears, and gen- 
 uine grief and the pity whose weeping is a prayer. 
 
 With them, standing nearest to the threshold, 
 was the farmer. From time to time a fresh vehi- 
 cle arrived filled with relatives in mourning attire. 
 Some of the men went forward to shake hands, or 
 to unharness the horse and find it a place under 
 the shed, while the new-comers went up to the 
 head of the family and accosted him in the cere- 
 monious manner and with the stereotyped greet- 
 ings that are considered the polite thing among 
 the Vendeeans. 
 
 "Good-day, cousin, how are you?" 
 
 "Thank you, I am quite well." 
 
 "And, my cousin, your wife, how is she?" 
 
 "Quite well, also, thank God." 
 
 "And my cousins, your daughters, and the rest 
 of your household, how are they all?" 
 
 The farmer continued to answer, and went 
 through the same category of questions on his 
 side, inquiring after the health of his male and 
 female cousins, and "everybody at home." It 
 was only when this exchange of greetings was 
 over that the women retired into the house, the
 
 182 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 men joining one or other of the groups assembled 
 in the courtyard. 
 
 When eight o'clock sounded he made a sign to 
 two young farmer friends from Renaudiere and 
 the Grande Ecorciere, who went into the shed and 
 brought out a stout ash-pole. Going into the 
 room where the sobs of the women were growing 
 louder, they slung the coffin on it by means of 
 two cords. Then, lifting the burden to the level 
 of their shoulder, they carried it through the ad- 
 joining room, in which Jacques had slept all his 
 life, and out of the house and through the court- 
 yard toward the road. As they passed the stable 
 the horses grew excited and neighed. How often 
 he had driven them! The trees spread their 
 branches overhead as the procession passed along 
 oaks and elms, cherry-trees, their green fruit, 
 swollen with sap, glancing in the spring sunshine, 
 apple-trees in full blossom shedding a pink and 
 white foam on the path below. The fields of flax 
 bent to the mourners; the fields of wheat and bar- 
 ley shook their heads. Not a bird was to be seen. 
 
 Death was passing that way. The carriers 
 paused as they came to a cross-path, and put the 
 coffin down on the grass, which made the strained 
 cords creak over the ash-pole. The train of 
 mourners paused also, and one of the relatives, 
 who was carrying three or four little crosses of 
 thin chestnut-wood about a foot long, stuck one 
 in the ground at the angle formed by two banks, 
 among other crosses left by the dead of the year 
 before. They were there to say to the passers-by, 
 "You who come from the same corners of the
 
 183 
 
 Bocage, as you lead your beasts to pasture or 
 bring home your ploughs, pray, good people 
 whom I have known, pray for Jacques Noellet, 
 one of yourselves, who has travelled along the 
 road which you, too, will follow some day to his 
 last resting-place, borne on the shoulders of two 
 ploughmen of Fief-Sauvin. Good people, make 
 haste, and do not forget me as long as these two 
 slips of chestnut-wood, which are planted here in 
 memory of my last journey, remain undestroyed 
 by the earth and rain." 
 
 Then the procession went forward again, wind- 
 ing across the warm and agitated country. 
 
 fathers, fair-haired Kelts, it was thus you 
 carried your dead, slung from a branch of the 
 forest, to the green mound where they were to 
 take their rest. It was thus in a mournful band 
 that you bore them along your ways. The cries 
 of your women, covered with their veils ; the bold, 
 hard-featured heads and faces and long hair of your 
 men; your primitive natures, with their violent 
 passions wholly given up to pleasure or to grief. 
 Nothing has changed. Here were the same cus- 
 toms, the same appurtenances. You lived again 
 in these sons and daughters, even in the inanimate 
 things. Your bones were mingled with the dust 
 which they disturbed. Your blood that had be- 
 come sap was swelling the ears of corn. In the 
 full-blown periwinkles beside the ditches there 
 was seen something of the blue of your virgins' 
 eyes. There were eyes, too, in the clear drops that 
 hung from the tips of the branches. Shuddering 
 breaths of wind blew past like voices voices that
 
 184 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 could no longer speak, but still wept on. The 
 earth, the grass, the dew, the wayside flowers, all 
 this matter that had once had human form and 
 stirred the human heart gathered sorrowing 
 around Jacques' coffin and enveloped him with 
 its wailing. 
 
 The bell began to toll. At that moment Jacques 
 passed for the last time and forever over the 
 boundary of the land where he had been born ; La 
 Geniviere was lost to view; close by rose the new 
 church, with its open-work spire, where the silhou- 
 ette of the bell-ringer could be seen keeping time 
 with his swaying figure. 
 
 When at last, the long service in the church 
 being over, the body was carried into the church- 
 yard and let down into the grave, the yellow clay 
 from which lay around hiding the green grass, 
 and the final prayer of the priest had consigned it 
 to the grave-digger, fresh weeping arose, and for 
 a last time the thought of Jacques crossed the 
 minds of many there who had come out of civility 
 or sympathy. Then the crowd dispersed and be- 
 came scattered about the churchyard. Friends 
 sought one another among the tombs. The tie 
 that had temporarily bound these men and women 
 together was broken. Families reformed prepara- 
 tory to returning home, and gradually disap- 
 peared in different directions, already back again 
 in the world of life, and experiencing an inexpres- 
 sible pleasure in talking, in walking at a natural 
 pace, in forgetting the dead on whom the heavy 
 soft earth was now falling. 
 
 The Noellets were the last to leave the church-
 
 ''THIS, MY SON" 185 
 
 yard. The farmer and his wife kept side by side, 
 having no part in the murmur and rustle of talk 
 and movement around them. They were alone, 
 for their children had gone on in front, and so 
 deeply plunged in thought of the one from whom 
 they had just parted that they had no eyes or ears 
 for anybody or anything. Again the mother held 
 him as an infant in her arms, as in those first years 
 of married life that have such sweet burdens to 
 bear. He was really a beautiful child and very 
 strong; he was always ready to laugh. As for 
 Julien, he thought of the strong young plough- 
 man that he had grown into at first, and then of 
 the shrunken face of the little soldier who had 
 come home from the barracks in a coat that had 
 grown too large for him. In low voices, and in a 
 few quickly spoken words, the two resigned ones 
 exchanged their heart-broken thoughts. And 
 Pierre? Both of them perhaps were thinking of 
 him, but his name did not pass their lips.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE sun had hardly risen when Julien Noellet's 
 voice was heard calling to the farm-servant who 
 slept over the bakehouse, and ordering him to 
 make haste and yoke the large pair of oxen. The 
 man was astonished, for in the month of May the 
 ploughing is long over and the carting not begun, 
 and as for going to the fair, independent of the 
 fact that the farmer no longer attended them with 
 his former regularity, there had been no question 
 about it the night before. And the sale of a pair 
 of oxen especially of such a pair as that is a 
 grave matter, requiring long thought and delib- 
 eration. The farmer had never even spoken of 
 such a thing. Why, then, did he want them 
 yoked? So the farm-servant reasoned with him- 
 self as he hastily dressed, and still half asleep went 
 down the ladder which led up to his room. 
 
 He found the farmer standing with his arms 
 crossed on the paved footway which ran down 
 the middle of the cowshed, contemplating his six 
 plough-oxen, who were turning their heads toward 
 him with short impatient lowings, asking for their 
 morning meal. Julien Noellet looked gloomy, but 
 then that was not unusual in these days. The farm- 
 servant did not dare to question him. He took 
 down the yoke made of polished service wood, and 
 placed it on the necks of the two finest oxen, 
 
 186
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 187 
 
 Vermais and Fauveau, who were spotted white 
 and red, high hi the back and broad of flank, and 
 as he was strapping the wood to the horns, he 
 noticed a tear trickling down the fanner's hollow 
 cheek. When he had finished twining the leathern 
 strap he unhooked the goad, and stood waiting, 
 leaning against Vermais' immense shoulder. Julien 
 sighed : 
 
 "Look at them well, my good lad," he said. 
 "You will not often have such fine beasts as that 
 to yoke, live as long as you may." 
 
 "That is very likely," the man replied. 
 
 "They make a splendid pair," the farmer con- 
 tinued; "the same colour and the same age. 
 Vermais, perhaps, is a little the stronger of the 
 two. I have never known them refuse to draw, 
 never known them ill, although they have known 
 some very tough days' work." 
 
 "You may well say so, master." 
 
 "Not that I despise the others; Chauvin and 
 Rougeais are good beasts, too ; Caille and Nobiais 
 will do their work as well as the others when they 
 are older; but those two I was really fond of." 
 
 "Are you going to sell them, then," asked the 
 man, "as you speak of them with such regret?" 
 
 "I am going to do as I please," replied the 
 farmer curtly. "Lead them out on to the road." 
 
 The servant put a smock on over his clothes, 
 for it was drizzling, and drove out the oxen. 
 After all, what did it matter to him? To sell this 
 pair of oxen, or buy another, to be here or there, 
 follow along the road, or mow, it was all only a 
 matter pf obeying and earning one's living. His
 
 188 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 broad face, which had for a moment shown a look 
 of surprise, soon resumed its natural placidity of 
 expression. Without further word or thought he 
 began to keep pace with his beasts, whose heads 
 were above his own, whistling two little notes 
 which they knew well, to encourage them. 
 
 The farmer followed behind, leaning on his red 
 thorn stick, which was fastened to his wrist by a 
 thin leather thong. He kept his eyes down on the 
 ground, only lifting them occasionally, and then 
 as he looked at the tawny croups of his favourite 
 beasts, at their well-marked coats, their muzzles 
 swaying from right to left to the rhythm of their 
 gait, while their breaths rose like white smoke 
 in the frosty morning air, he heaved a deep sigh. 
 He recalled the hours of heavy ploughing he had 
 shared with Vermais and Fauveau, the day when 
 he had bought them, with Jacques, at the fair of 
 Sainte-Christine, and all the opportunities he had 
 been given of selling them at great profit. But he 
 had cared for them too much to part with them. 
 His great delight had been to see his full comple- 
 ment of oxen, the six of them, yoked together. 
 Perhaps he was being punished for the pride he had 
 felt in them. To sell them, and not buy others to 
 take their place, what a disgrace! What pain to 
 follow step by step like this, while the wealth of 
 La Geniviere was slowly departing! And what 
 had brought it about? The same cause, always 
 the same. 
 
 The farmers from Fief-Sauvin and the farther 
 districts greeted him as they trotted past on their 
 way to the fair at Beaupreau; the sellers of eggs
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 189 
 
 and poultry put their heads out from under the 
 cover of their carts, where they sat among their 
 baskets; messengers passing lifted their hats. 
 He made no response; did not even raise his eyes. 
 He continued to brood over his misfortune. 
 The very morning of Jacques' death, he had had a 
 letter from Paris. This time Pierre had not sent 
 a letter to either his mother or sisters. To his 
 father he wrote as follows: 
 
 "You owe me a sum of money which you are 
 unjustly keeping from me. Seven months ago I 
 sent to claim it. I have not received a word in 
 reply. I can wait no longer. My creditor knows 
 that you have money owing to me. And if I have 
 not paid him fifteen hundred francs before a week 
 is out, he will take proceedings against you. I 
 have no power to prevent him." 
 
 At first he had flown into a rage, and had de- 
 clared that he would pay nothing, that he had 
 spent more on his son than the money left by his 
 uncle was worth, and that he had nothing over 
 from it. Years before the fifteen hundred francs 
 had been invested in the farm, and to recover it he 
 would be forced to sell his beasts or his timber, 
 to become poorer, to still further deprive himself. 
 No, he would rather that the threat should be 
 carried out. He would see if this unworthy son 
 would dare to go as far as to proceed against him, 
 and to drag him into court. For twenty-four hours 
 Julien Noellet stuck to his resolution, but on 
 further reflection he had given in, for, after all, 
 he owed this part of the inheritance. He then
 
 190 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 made up his mind to part with Vermais and 
 Fauveau in order to pay Pierre's debts. And now 
 he was taking his good beasts to be sold. It was 
 a profound humiliation to him to feel himself 
 conquered by his son, to be constrained to obey 
 the law, a second-rate power in his eyes, which had 
 hitherto been subordinated to his domestic au- 
 thority. 
 
 They had reached the foot of a little hill that 
 rises near Beaupre*au. Vermais and Fauveau 
 mounted the incline with their same firm and even 
 gait. He looked at them again as the rising sun 
 shone upon them, superb creatures, ruddy as ripe 
 chestnuts, and thought to himself: "It is better 
 for Jacques to have died; he would have felt it 
 too much." 
 
 Then, aware that he was nearing Beaupre"au, he 
 drew his short pipe out of his pocket and lighted 
 it, as he was accustomed to do whenever he entered 
 the town, anxious to appear as usual. The farm- 
 servant, pleased to catch sight of the roofs against 
 the brightening sky, and being free from care of all 
 kind, began to sing. Noellet went forward, and 
 the two men entered BeauprSau walking on either 
 side of the oxen. 
 
 The streets were full of blue blouses and white 
 caps, all making their way to the market-place. 
 
 The crowds, with the regular flow of running 
 water, were streaming from all sides into the slop- 
 ing field, adding their numbers to the men and 
 animals already collected on the spot in such 
 swarms that the yellow clay of the soil was no 
 longer visible. The fresh arrivals joined the mass,
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 191 
 
 causing a momentary eddy, stood still, and became 
 lost among their fellows. 
 
 The farm-servant from La Geniviere did the 
 same when his turn came. Seizing Vermais by one 
 of its horns, he whistled softly to quiet the beasts 
 as he urged them forward. They had not gone 
 far before a stout dealer from La Villette made a 
 sign to Julien Noellet, and the servant, laying his 
 goad athwart, brought his beasts to a standstill. 
 It was not the first time that Julien Noellet had 
 sold his oxen for slaughter. As a rule he never 
 gave a thought to the fate that was awaiting them; 
 but to-day he saw in imagination the mallet of the 
 slaughterer fall on the white star which both 
 Vermais and Fauveau wore on their foreheads, and 
 just as the sale was being concluded, he hesitated, 
 and asked: 
 
 "Do you want them for killing?" 
 
 "Certainly not for anything else," said the 
 dealer, laughing. "Did you think I bought your 
 oxen to keep them in clover?" 
 
 There was nothing for it but to resign himself. 
 Julien clapped hands with the buyer, and turning 
 to the servant, said : 
 
 "You hear; in two hours' time you are to give 
 them up at the nearer end of the Route du Pin. 
 After that you can go about your own business, 
 if you have any. Here are forty sous for your 
 expenses." 
 
 The man could hardly believe that his master 
 had sold his two oxen without buying others, and 
 was astonished at being dismissed so early in the 
 day. He stood still, staring, as if expecting a
 
 192 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 sequel of some kind to this order, which was 
 evidently incomplete. 
 
 "Touch up your beasts, you confounded boy, 
 and don't .stand gaping at me like that!" exclaimed 
 the farmer, in a tone of voice which put an end to 
 all doubt on the part of the man. 
 
 And with this he turned abruptly out of the 
 field, taking the butcher with him, so that the bar- 
 gain might be concluded and the money handed 
 over in the public house, the while his two big 
 oxen, with lowered horns, were being driven 
 through the crowd in the opposite direction. 
 
 Julien Noellet was no drinker. As a rule he only 
 looked into the public houses for a minute or two. 
 To-day he lingered, first with the butcher who had 
 bought his oxen, then with the farmers, who came 
 from all the parishes of the Mauges, and with 
 whom, as a rule, he only exchanged nods on the 
 rare occasions of meeting. He treated them to 
 drinks, and, for no purpose of business, conversed 
 a good deal and in a loud voice with each in turn, 
 continuing to sit on in the same place after he had 
 breakfasted. The older men from Fief and 
 Villeneuve, seeing the farmer, who was generally 
 so taciturn and sober among those of his kind, thus 
 drinking and smoking without moving from his 
 seat, said to each other: "Can you believe it is 
 the same man? Since his son's death one would 
 scarcely know him again." 
 
 The master of La Geniviere had in truth much 
 to trouble him, and he drank to forget it. 
 
 It was nearing sunset before he left the public 
 house, and then, instead of taking the road to Fife-
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 193 
 
 Sauvin, he went to the notary, who had his house 
 in the centre of the town. He was not drunk, 
 but he began to feel a heaviness in his head and 
 an unsteadiness in his legs. 
 
 At the sight of the professional brass-plate, how- 
 ever, he drew himself together. 
 
 "I have brought some money," he said, the 
 moment he entered the office with its striped green 
 and black walls, through which so many of his kind 
 had passed during the day. 
 
 "Money, Maitre Noellet, and what for?" 
 
 "To send away." 
 
 "Why, now, I never knew you to have debts to 
 pay." 
 
 "It is the sons who make them," replied the 
 farmer. 
 
 Without vouchsafing further information, he 
 took out his leather purse and counted out the 
 louis d'or one by one, placing them on the desk in 
 piles of five, counting over each pile more than 
 once, as if mistrusting his calculation. When he 
 came to the seventh he paused, and said solemnly, 
 "That's for Vermais." 
 
 Then he started counting again. At the four- 
 teenth he said again, "That is for Fauveau." 
 
 When at last the fifteen hundred francs, slowly 
 drawn out of the old purse and slowly de- 
 posited by the farmer, were lying in fifteen little 
 piles of gold on the faded mahogany of the 
 desk: 
 
 "There is the whole sum left by Uncle Thomas 
 of Montrevault," he added, as a concluding 
 remark.
 
 194 ''THIS, MY SON" 
 
 "I remember that affair," said the notary; "the 
 legacy was left to your son." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And it is to him the money is to be sent?" 
 
 "Yes, but I wish you to write to him at the 
 same time." 
 
 "That will be quite easy, Noellet, quite easy. 
 What am I to say to him?" 
 
 "You will tell him from me that, now he is paid, 
 we have nothing more to do with each other 
 nothing, do you understand?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 "You will also tell him that I have forbidden his 
 mother and sisters to write to him, and that neither 
 I, nor any of my household, will henceforth receive 
 letters from him." 
 
 The notary, who was a conciliatory man, replied : 
 
 "You are giving me a commission, Maitre 
 Noellet, which is, I must say " 
 
 "You refuse to undertake it?" interrupted the 
 farmer. 
 
 "I know your son misled you " 
 
 "You refuse?" repeated Julien Noellet, putting 
 out his hand to take back the money. 
 
 "If you really insist upon it." 
 
 "Well, then, write as I wish: the reasons for so 
 doing are my business; I am the father, you under- 
 stand." 
 
 The notary knew his Vende*eans well. He ac- 
 companied his client to the door without attempt- 
 ing any more objections. 
 
 Julien Noellet wound the strap of his stick round 
 his wrist, passed through a few streets, and then
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 195 
 
 started to return home in the mild evening air 
 along the Fief-Sauvin road. 
 
 He walked quickly, with long strides. It was 
 just the hour when the last farmers and dealers 
 were driving home in their carts with their wives, 
 children and purchases. On seeing Julien they all 
 in turn slackened their horses' speed, and offered 
 to take him up. But he refused; his blood felt 
 on fire, and he hoped the walk would calm him. 
 
 "No," he said once more. 
 
 "Is it true that you have sold your big oxen?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you have not bought any others, I sup- 
 pose, as you are walking home like that?" 
 
 This question repeated over and over again 
 exasperated the peasant. 
 
 Just before he reached the mill at Haute-Brune, 
 he turned off the main road to avoid further 
 meetings. His intention was to return to La 
 Geniviere by way of the fields. It was growing 
 dark, and night had already invaded the valley. 
 The heights to the right and left still kept a point 
 of light here and there, and a last field of wheat, a 
 clump of trees, caught the rays of the sinking sun. 
 But soon the last spark had vanished, and the 
 mists from the neighbouring ponds added to the 
 darkness that surrounded the peasant. 
 
 He had hardly left the mill a hundred yards or 
 so behind him, and was still within hearing of the 
 plunging sails, when he suddenly stopped, over- 
 come with amazement and fear. Seated on one of 
 the large gray boulders that had fallen into the 
 middle of the River Evre, the waters of which
 
 196 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 flowed gurgling round it, was an old man with his 
 legs hanging over the stream. Perhaps it was only 
 the miller looking after his eel-lines. But there 
 were certain things about him by which Noellet 
 seemed to recognize his grandfather, who had been 
 dead twenty-seven years, one of the rough simple- 
 minded men of the old times. There was no pos- 
 sibility of doubt about it. It was the man over 
 again, with his snow-white hair, his short-skirted 
 jacket, his brown gaiters up to his knees, and 
 even the familiar movement of his head, which he 
 would thrust forward if asked to recall some past 
 event. For he had been all through the great war 
 of 1793, this grandfather, and had lived among the 
 furze, and been on the march day and night; he 
 had been twice wounded, had crossed the Loire 
 with the routed army, had seen, known, and suf- 
 fered everything; he could tell long tales about it 
 all at night. And why had he come back? How 
 had he got there, just in his grandson's path, ap- 
 pearing at the usual distance of these phantoms 
 of the dark, who are never either near or far. 
 Julien was so afraid that he would ask after 
 Pierre, that he stopped and slunk away toward 
 the willow-hedge which ran to his left alongside 
 the field. When about twenty paces from it, 
 however, he heard a voice from across the river, 
 and the sprouting willows calling out: "Are you 
 in a great hurry, Julien?" 
 
 Respect and fear held him rooted to the spot. 
 Never in his life had he addressed his grandfather 
 without taking off his hat. He uncovered and 
 waited. There was a singing in his ears as if all
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 197 
 
 the grasshoppers of the field were inside his head. 
 The voice continued: 
 
 "You have sold the oxen, Julien, and you have 
 not bought any others to replace them. Were 
 they too dear?" 
 
 He could hear the words distinctly, but he could 
 only distinguish an indistinct form on account of 
 the distance and the mist that the wind was driv- 
 ing between him and the river. He answered: 
 
 "No, grandfather, they were not too dear. I 
 sold the oxen to pay my son's debts." 
 
 "Your two finest?" 
 
 "Yes, that they were!" 
 
 The voice sounded deeper as it went on: 
 
 "It is a great pity, my poor Julien, about the 
 children nowadays; we behaved better in the old 
 times, the old times, the old times." And echoes 
 seemed to come from all sides the woods, the 
 river-creeks; the hillsides buried in shadow re- 
 peated, "Old times; old times." 
 
 And the farmer saw a regiment of soldiers in 
 white uniforms and with cockades in their hats 
 suddenly rise into view. A pale light was shed 
 above them by the barrels of their rifles and their 
 uplifted scythes. They were marching to the 
 assault of an immense rampart that could be seen 
 down there in the dark night. The grandfathe 
 was leading them. The earth shook beneath thei 
 heavy shoes, the bushes cracked, the reeds were 
 trampled by the river-side as the column marched 
 on in serried ranks. Julien recognized nearly all 
 of them, for he had known them in his youth, these 
 honoured veterans, men of a day now past, the
 
 198 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 remains of the glorious old Vende'e. They recog- 
 nized him, too, and whispered something to each 
 other which he could not hear, with a glance of 
 pity toward him. They marched past him, as if 
 swept along by the storm, so rapidly did they 
 advance, while the grandfather, still at their head 
 a long way off, continued to look toward the spot 
 where Julien had remained standing, his feet in the 
 high grass, the dark fields all around him, weeping 
 for shame.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE end of the summer had come, the season when 
 the oppressive heat of the sun remains intense to 
 the hour of its setting, and when thousands of 
 different insects creep into the cracks of the earth, 
 and are heard humming. The grasses cracked, 
 the berries dropped from the wild creepers. 
 Hardly a flower was left, for the flowers had 
 perished in the furnace of heat in which the grain 
 had ripened. In place of their vanished scents, 
 the evening air was filled with the floating perfume 
 of the harvest. Barley, oats, wheat, all were cut. 
 The beautiful, trembling ears of corn had ceased 
 to laugh and chatter among themselves; they 
 were lying low, some gathered into sheaves, with 
 their heads turned one to the other in the close 
 embrace of death, others already in the barn. 
 For many, many days the labourers, women as 
 well as men, had been mowing with all their might, 
 bathed in sweat, penetrating to the depths of some 
 tawny square. At last it was over. The earth 
 had given of her fruits, and lay naked and empty, 
 leaving her stubble-fields to the turtle-doves, who 
 shared the gleaning with the poor women, and, like 
 them, sought along the deep furrows pursued by 
 the cries from the famishing nest. The threshing 
 had been started in all directions. Beyond the 
 trees could be heard the distant throbbing of the 
 
 199
 
 200 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 machine, as its mournful roar swelled and fell, 
 telling abroad all the lugubrious history of the 
 grain from stage to stage, as it was pushed, pressed, 
 twisted, and separated, even as we are, the grain 
 to one side, the chaff to the other. 
 
 At La Geniviere the threshing went on from 
 early dawn till evening, and the people of the 
 valley, or of Fief and Villeneuve, or those dwelling 
 on the opposite slopes, said to each other: "It is 
 four o'clock; they are beginning the day's work 
 over at La Geniviere; they are stopping, it is 
 noon." Then "they are starting again; it must 
 be two o'clock." Under the August sun, which 
 sent the blood running like fire through the veins, 
 in the thick of the dust that bronzed their necks, 
 the helpers who had come from all parts at the 
 summons from Noellet, thronged the threshing- 
 floor. There were relatives, neighbouring farmers, 
 servants, and even friends who had nothing to do 
 with harvesting, among the latter being the little 
 tailor and the two Fauvepres; for at such times 
 of entertainment and hurry, every one is ready to 
 lend a hand and to turn farmer for the nonce. 
 
 A stream of ruddy grain poured from the 
 threshing-machine. Life was hidden in it, and 
 life gave it greeting and multiplied around it. 
 Women, busy with rakes, raked up the grain; four 
 horses harnessed to the poles of the pivot went 
 round and round ; men passed and re-passed, carry- 
 ing away the straw or bringing fresh sheaves at the 
 end of their blue steel reaping-hooks; some were 
 occupied with destroying, layer by layer, the huge 
 piles of sheaves, while others, up to their knees
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 201 
 
 in the new golden straw, rose with the growing 
 stack ; the little mill, with its ceaseless clack, sent 
 the husk flying out in a curve, like a comet's tail; 
 above them all, the machine with its cogged 
 wheels and its fly-wheels, continued to turn, the 
 sound of voices and laughter, and of the neighing 
 of the horses excited by the whip, being lost in its 
 rumbling clamour. Everywhere was joy, every- 
 where the intoxication of sound and movement. 
 One man alone, in the midst of the universal 
 excitement, remained impassive: that man was 
 Julien. Standing in his place as master, near the 
 gaping jaws awaiting to grind the gathered grain, 
 he received the sheaves, untied them with a turn 
 of the hand, and pushed them, with the ears for- 
 ward, up the inclined plain. The dust had cov- 
 ered him from head to foot, and even his hair was 
 white. No glimmer of light came into his sad 
 eyes as he looked up. He went through his task, 
 finding no pleasure in it, as one whose thoughts are 
 elsewhere. So absent-minded was he, that at 
 moments he forgot to feed the machine, and re- 
 mained without moving with his head fallen on to 
 his sunken chest. The threshers knew what had 
 happened by the sound of the cylinders, revolving 
 empty, and those around him cast compassionate, 
 sidelong glances at the farmer of La Geniviere. 
 They did not stop working, but for a minute or 
 two the joy of the threshing-floor was interrupted.
 
 PART THE THIRD. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 To Monsieur Chdbersot, Officer of Public Instruc- 
 tion, Honorary Professor of the University of 
 Fontainebleau. 
 
 PARIS, 
 June IQth, 188. 
 
 MY DEAR MASTER AND FRIEND, 
 
 It will soon be nearly two months since you left 
 Paris and retired from duty, and yet, as you com- 
 plain, I have not yet sent you the beginning of the 
 private journal which I promised. Lay the blame 
 on the laborious life I lead, on the overpowering 
 heat, on my trouble at Jacques' death, on anything 
 rather than on my forgetfulness. Believe me when 
 I say, that I have not for one moment forgot- 
 ten you. On the contrary, not a day passes but 
 I look for you and regret your absence. Your 
 near presence was precious to me; you were an 
 adviser, and a strength to which I could always 
 look for help. You saved me literally from starva- 
 tion. As long as I exist, I can never forget our 
 first meeting on that winter evening, on the land- 
 ing outside our rooms, perched up near the sky, 
 
 202
 
 et 
 
 THIS, MY SO N" 203 
 
 where I lived, and still continue to live, on the 
 Quai du Louvre. You, too, may remember it, 
 but not certainly with that exactness of detail 
 which leaves behind a feeling of comforted sadness. 
 And what suffering I was in! I had just returned 
 from a fruitless tramp from place to place, begging 
 in vain for one of the cheap posts as an office- 
 assistant which the hungry struggle to obtain; I 
 was living on the money lent me by Loutrel, and, 
 with my mind on the rack, working for a doubtful 
 degree. I saw the future, which I had thought 
 held such prospect for me, closing in upon me, 
 dark and stifling. There was blacker night at my 
 heart even than in the narrow house up which I 
 was climbing. Just as I had reached the door of 
 my room a figure issued from the one opposite. 
 I knocked against it. We looked at one another. 
 At the first glance I saw that I had to do with a 
 man of pleasant temper. He was not angry at 
 my clumsiness. He held a candle in his hand, the 
 light from which flickered over his bald forehead. 
 My neighbour appeared to me very tall and very 
 old, with his short, round, snow-white beard, and, 
 above all, very kindly, for instead of answering 
 my stammered excuses, he looked at me, and 
 guessed all my hidden agony, my desolation, and 
 the need I was in of assistance. Any other man 
 would, after a moment of barren sympathy, have 
 passed on and left me. This one stopped to ques- 
 tion me, and for a quarter of an hour kept me under 
 the fire of his candle and of his professional eye, 
 and when he understood that I was wishing to 
 devote myself to letters, and that I was working
 
 204 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 up for my degree by myself and under discourage- 
 ment, he said with the best smile that had been 
 given me by any one outside my family, "We shall 
 see more of each other, my young friend." 
 
 And, in truth, my dear master, we did see each 
 other again, every day and for many hours a day. 
 You resumed with me the work of teacher which 
 you had elsewhere given up; you poured out for 
 me all your treasures of scientific knowledge, of 
 patience, and of severity. In the simplicity of 
 my heart, I believed that you were preparing me 
 for my degree ; it was, however, the journalist that 
 you were arming. Your practical common-sense 
 soon convinced me of the vanity of my scholarly 
 ambitions. A Master of Arts! A doctor! And 
 I in need of bread! The longing for these titles 
 passed away when you said to me one day: 
 
 "Write an article!" 
 
 "On what?" 
 
 "On the book that has just appeared." 
 
 "But, Monsieur, it is by one of the Members of 
 the Institute." 
 
 "The more reason you should write." 
 
 "What will you do with it?" 
 
 ' ' Never mind ; write . ' ' 
 
 The article being finished, corrected, and thanks 
 to you, accepted by a first-class paper that had its 
 officers near the Quai du Louvre, do you remember, 
 how, with the eager longing of a shipwrecked man, 
 I watched each day for my two initials, as for the 
 sails of the vessel that was to bear me into harbour? 
 That first article, once published, others followed. 
 And then, when you thought that my powers had
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 205 
 
 been sufficiently and satisfactorily tested, the 
 same friend who had already done so much for me, 
 negotiated for my engagement on the Don Juan. 
 
 And then I, shy and timid as I was, I who till 
 then had kept from you the secret of my life, made 
 a full confession. How many hours did it last, 
 that walk along the avenue of the Champs-Elysees, 
 under the chestnut-trees with their pyramid-like 
 blossoms already pointing upward, like little pink 
 and white fir-trees, in the warm, spring sunshine? 
 
 How many? As many as it took to tell all my 
 tale. You listened with the untiring patience of 
 those who love. You scolded me gently, not too 
 harshly, for fear I should lose my trust in you. 
 You acted as my father would have acted, I am 
 sure, if he could have understood a confession of 
 this kind from me. Poor, cherished secret, known 
 only to one other besides you, to Melie Rainette, 
 the weaver of Fief-Sauvin, a countrywoman of 
 mine, who wears a brave heart under her white 
 linen bodice. When, in the long talks we had 
 together, as I walked beside you, I told you of it, 
 you used to shake your head. " Madness," you 
 would say, " madness." But you were not cruel 
 enough to crush my hopes with a discouraging 
 word. 
 
 Give me leave, then, to speak to you about it 
 again. The more I think about this love that has 
 taken possession of me, the more I feel that it is 
 unlike any other. Young men of family, as they 
 call themselves, who are born among the surround- 
 ings that suffice them, know nothing of this youth- 
 ful ambition which made me separate myself from
 
 206 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 my own. They have only to live and to let life 
 carry them along; their youth is untroubled by 
 strife or dissimulation; they enjoy it to the full, 
 and while still young their path in life is settled for 
 them, and they know what is to be their destiny, 
 what money they will have, and in what style they 
 will be able to live ; then they begin to look round 
 to see who shall share the fortune they now enjoy. 
 They reflect carefully before making their choice. 
 But I ! I was born at her feet, on the land that was 
 impregnated with her name, and that spoke of it 
 to me, coupled with that of my parents; her house, 
 her woods, her fields were the first horizon that I 
 knew; and she herself first awakened my admira- 
 tion and my sense of a way of life differing from 
 that at La Geniviere. Through her I had a glimpse 
 into a world that was new to me, and while I was 
 still too young to love her in the way I do now, I 
 yet loved her for the wealth, the beauty, the elegant 
 splendour of life which she represented. 
 
 And so little by little I became attached to her 
 by the two dominant passions of man's heart 
 ambition and love. I looked to her as to the su- 
 preme goal of my existence she was to be the 
 dazzling reward to which I should one day attain. 
 It was owing to her influence that I first made the 
 tremendous efforts which were required to raise 
 myself, but soon I continued them for love of her. 
 
 Confess that I must indeed have loved her to 
 have sacrificed so many things for her sake! Affec- 
 tions which can never be replaced, friendships, my 
 Vendee that I see ever as a picture before my eyes, 
 and peace the peace that without doubt would
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 207 
 
 have been mine if I had remained among my own 
 people upright, unambitious men and women, 
 who have no desire beyond a rainy spring and a 
 stormless summer. 
 
 June 20th. 
 
 Monsieur Laubriet and his family are no longer 
 here, as perhaps you know; they will stay on at 
 Landehue until November. 
 
 And here, in this great Paris, I remain alone, 
 without relations, without friends for Loutrel, 
 although we still live under the same roof is not 
 now to be counted among the latter and recall 
 all the memories of the bitter winter and of the 
 kindlier spring, which have just gone by. I see 
 more clearly the obstacles, the social disparity 
 which separates me from the Laubriet family; 
 I know myself, and I know them better now. I 
 was conscious, no doubt, even from the time I was 
 a child, that there was this distance between us. 
 But what then? I imagined, boy as I then was, 
 that when I had once taken my bachelor's degree 
 I should have half-way covered it, and that it was 
 quite enough to know a little Latin to become one 
 of their set. Since that time I have learnt to 
 understand that I am hardly nearer to them than 
 I was before, and that there is still a long, very 
 long, almost interminable distance between us. 
 Two things have helped me to take the measure 
 of it. First, the smile in your eyes when I said 
 to you: " Mademoiselle Madeleine is rich; her 
 mother belongs to the nobility; her father has a 
 country house in Vended." But a deeper and
 
 208 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 even keener sense of the truth than that impressed 
 on me by your kindly scepticism came to me when 
 I saw them. 
 
 It was in February, the 16th day of the month, 
 when I first met Monsieur Laubriet. The next 
 day, according to his invitation, I rang at the door 
 of their house in the Rue La Boetie. "Come to- 
 morrow morning" had been his words to me, "you 
 are sure to find me in." I went therefore in the 
 morning, at the hour which most society men con- 
 secrate to business and correspondence. All the 
 old shyness and fear of my youth came over me 
 again. How poorly I was dressed ! My overcoat 
 had been frozen to my back or wet through so 
 many times! The haughty demeanour of the 
 servants made me feel ashamed. The footman 
 hesitated to show me upstairs. "Just fancy, this 
 young Noellet! Think of putting oneself out for 
 such a nobody! It is very kind of Monsieur to 
 see him!" And I have asked myself since why 
 he did invite me. I think it was partly out of 
 natural kindness of heart, partly for my parents' 
 sake, and partly from some little feeling of the 
 claim made upon him by his position. It would 
 never have done for a landed proprietor like him- 
 self to let a child from his own parish, born within 
 the radius of his own grounds, and, moreover, 
 a godson, live or die in Paris without troubling 
 himself to look after him at all. His honour as a 
 lord of the manor required that he should take 
 me in hand. I made part of his social duties. 
 
 I cannot deny that he fulfilled them with affa- 
 bility. I found him in his study, seated at his
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 209 
 
 desk in his working coat, surrounded by heavy 
 hangings and works of art that allowed no entrance 
 to the outside noise and glare, and he gave me the 
 most cordial greeting. I interrupted him in his 
 work, but he was careful not to allow this to ap- 
 pear. He was simple and friendly in his manner 
 toward me, scarcely betraying the effort he made 
 to talk of things which might interest a man as 
 young, and as unfavourably placed, and as much 
 a stranger as I was to all his occupations and his 
 daily habit of thought. Once or twice, in veiled 
 terms, he even delicately offered the pecuniary 
 assistance of which I stood so greatly hi need, but 
 which I, nevertheless, refused. He tried to en- 
 courage me, advised what he thought would help 
 me in the future, what post to try for, with the 
 best desire in the world to help me, but with a 
 total ignorance of that terrible struggle for exist- 
 ence in which I had already lost much of my 
 courage. He invited me to come and see him 
 again. 
 
 But how could he prevent me looking and feeling 
 awkward? I was terribly ill at ease with him, 
 and in spite of all things he was somewhat so with 
 me also. There was that shadow of embarrass- 
 ment between us of which two people of different 
 stations become painfully conscious when they 
 have exhausted the commonplaces of conversa- 
 tion. No refinement of breeding can entirely 
 hide it. 
 
 You cannot imagine the state of torment I was 
 in, caused by these first interviews, by this repeti- 
 tion of the same questions, which I knew stood
 
 210 "THIS, MY SON' 7 
 
 between me and intimacy. More than once I told 
 myself not to go there again. And still I went, 
 urged by the persistent spirit of my race, and 
 having in the interval repaired the unseen rents 
 of my soul, whence my dream escaped. 
 
 Then I became a journalist. 
 
 Immediately a change took place in our rela- 
 tions. I became rather more self-assured; I had 
 a coat, a certain amount of news, the title of jour- 
 nalist, which, although somewhat vague, was never- 
 theless a passport for me. I was now presentable. 
 The drawing-room door was set half-open for me. 
 Up to that time my visits to Monsieur Laubriet 
 had always taken place in the morning; now, with 
 other friends of the family, I was invited to spend 
 the evening. Once more I saw Madame Laubriet, 
 Mademoiselle Madeleine, Marthe, and, thanks may- 
 be to the latter, who continued to be obliging and 
 attentive in her treatment of me, I received two 
 more invitations to the Rue La Boe'tie during 
 the month of April, the last of their sojourn in 
 Paris. 
 
 There I was able to study the Laubriet family 
 amid their fine surroundings, and in their true 
 light. Ah, my friend, how right you were to 
 smile, as I learnt to know too well after this 
 further advance. I found Monsieur Laubriet as 
 kind as ever in his reception of me, and with the 
 same lordliness of manner which is so embarrassing 
 to a poor young man like myself. He was pleased 
 to speak of me to his friends as his godson, and 
 this title alone was sufficient to make them draw 
 mute comparisons which sent the colour into my
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 211 
 
 face. On one of these three evenings, so deeply 
 noted in my memory, he drew my arm through 
 his and led me into the smoking-room. 
 
 "Well, Pierre," he said, "and what news at the 
 Don Juan?" 
 
 But it needed nothing more than the inimitable 
 way in which he lighted his cigarette to dispel any 
 illusion on my part of equality between us, even 
 if such an idea had entered my head. 
 
 Madame Laubriet is, in the same way, not ex- 
 actly haughty. She represents to perfection the old 
 landed aristocracy of our part of the world. She 
 remains a Vende*ean here in the middle of Paris, 
 belongs to the parish of Fief-Sauvin before that of 
 Saint-PhiUippe-du-Roule, and is marvellously well 
 up in the history of the local wars in which her 
 relations took part. She still considers the peas- 
 ants as attached in some kind of honourable 
 serfdom to the land. To break away from it 
 would be to sink. She will never be capable of 
 understanding what I have done. A journalist, 
 though gifted with all the intellect and talent 
 imaginable, is to her like a musician, somebody 
 who plays something for money. The natural 
 bent of her mind is toward the country; it is 
 palpable that when looking upon me she sees La 
 Geniviere, and she receives me with the dignified 
 smile of which my remembrance dates back to the 
 days of my childhood. 
 
 And, you will ask, what of Madeleine? 
 
 My hermit friend, you who have never seen her, 
 and probably, hidden away as you are in your 
 woods at Fontainebleau, will not see her for a long
 
 212 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 time, picture to yourself a tall young girl, with 
 golden-brown hair, with a slender neck supporting 
 a head that has a certain haughtiness of pose about 
 it. The features are marked, and just a little too 
 large, as with all the Ponthual family. The eyes, 
 which are gray, have an habitual expression of a 
 kind of absent-minded indifference, but if any- 
 thing pleases her, or any one makes an original 
 remark, or some one she likes or is bo'red by comes 
 in and rouses Mademoiselle Laubriet from her 
 demi-slumber, then they become animated and 
 turn a dark green, their glance at times imperious, 
 at times soft and smiling. Her eyes impart a 
 superb look to her of intellectual beauty and 
 animation. She knows it, and amuses herself with 
 the effect produced by these abrupt changes of 
 expression on those who contemplate her for the 
 first time. I have never known her respond to an 
 insipidity, but I have seen her smile at a bold or 
 clever hit. If a clever man enters the room, you 
 may be sure that five minutes later she will be 
 talking or listening to him. Intellect exercises 
 a sort of fascination over her. It is by that means 
 alone that I can approach her. I shall work, I 
 shall achieve, I shall surround her with my grow- 
 ing reputation. When she hears of my successful 
 articles, or of a volume of verse, in which, although 
 her name will not occur, she will be celebrated 
 throughout; when I shall have made myself a 
 position among men of letters; then perhaps she 
 will say to herself: "It is for my sake, forme"; 
 then perhaps, estimating the magnitude of the 
 effort, she will feel touched by it.
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 213 
 
 She is proud with others, but simple and natural 
 with me. She has not changed at all. I find her 
 the same as in the days when I, running out of 
 La Geniviere, would meet her coming from Lande- 
 hue with her nurse, and she would say to me: 
 "Pierre, have you found something for me to play 
 with to-day?" and then following me to the side 
 of the ditch, while I pushed aside the brambles, 
 scratching my hands and face with the thorns, she, 
 as fair-haired then as a little fairy, would lean her 
 head over, safe from injury, to look at three blue 
 eggs inside a nest. 
 
 When will she be less natural with me? When 
 shall I no longer be for her only Pierre Noellet of 
 La Geniviere? 
 
 Of La Geniviere! How difficult it will be to 
 forget that! 
 
 Hear me further. When Monsieur Laubriet 
 presented me to one of his friends I except artists, 
 who, even if they boast of one themselves, think 
 little of people's origins I could declare that I 
 read in their eyes at the first moment a lively 
 desire to become acquainted with me; the hand 
 would be cordially held out, and the whole manner 
 friendly. "Monsieur Pierre Noellet!" It really 
 seemed that I was missing among the list of his 
 connections. If Monsieur Laubriet added, ' ' On the 
 staff of the Don Juan" a shade of difference hi the 
 expression was visible, but disappeared again; but 
 if he had the misfortune to proceed with "from 
 Fief-Sauvin," "Ah, I see!" replied the other, and a 
 slight curl at the corner of the lips told me that 
 sentence had been passed upon me.
 
 214 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 June 25th. 
 
 I went to the Salon yesterday; I was tired, and 
 sat down on one of the couches. Lifting my eyes, 
 I discovered high up in one corner of the room 
 a little picture, so lost to view near the ceiling, and 
 so modest in its dimensions, that only one out of a 
 thousand had probably noticed it. What was the 
 subject, you ask? A woman, half -draped in float- 
 ing garments, looking at herself in a pool of water. 
 There was no great imagination displayed, but the 
 landscape, the sky, were exquisitely fresh, with the 
 leaves blowing in the wind, the water asleep and 
 smiling like an infant; it was the work of quite a 
 young artist. And I felt a pity for the one who 
 had painted it; some unknown man, poor, no 
 doubt, lost and thrust aside among the crowd of 
 upstarts and proteges. He had worked at it a 
 long time, had put all his heart, his dreams, and 
 a great hope, into his picture ; and they had hung 
 it up there, three yards above the floor, where none 
 had seen it. He had been so pleased at having it 
 accepted! In a few days' time he will come and 
 take down his picture, which has obtained neither 
 purchaser or medal. His studio will seem sad to 
 him, and life a burden. 
 
 But of what does he complain? Has he not 
 figured in the same Salon with the most renowned 
 and the most successful? 
 
 July 2d. 
 
 Arsene Loutrel has left me and taken rooms in 
 the Latin Quarter, under pretence of being nearer 
 the school, which is a mere joke on his part. A
 
 "THIS, MY SON' 7 215 
 
 cool separation prevented an open rupture. The 
 relations between us had become strained since 
 he insisted on the immediate repayment of the 
 money he had lent. His father may feel happy, 
 for the lessons he inculcated into his son at a 
 tender age were understood, and have been re- 
 membered. Two and two made five; I paid a 
 heavy interest to a college friend, and we ex- 
 changed quittances when we shook hands for the 
 last time. 
 
 I am keeping on the rooms of our fourth floor 
 for myself. They remind me of my first months, 
 yours especially, and moreover I am not rich, 
 although I have on my cards "On the Don Juan"; 
 and then the place pleases me. From LoutrePs 
 room, which is now mine, over the plane-trees 
 along the Quai, I can see the Seine, the Pont Neuf, 
 and its small green island, the sluice, and all the 
 old Paris of the city, which you and I used to look 
 at together, and which you explained to me during 
 that hardworking and unhappy winter, which yet 
 had its brighter hours. 
 
 I work there all the morning; I read, I write 
 articles which will be refused by L4once Gay or by 
 Thie*nard, the two principal editors of the Don 
 Juan. I know beforehand that they will not be 
 accepted; but I grow obstinate, and continue to 
 write. I have in me the perseverance of the 
 farmer, who will go on putting seeds into the same 
 furrow until the blade begins to sprout or the 
 season is too advanced. I try my hand in all sorts 
 of ways, trying to vary both subjects and style. 
 At one o'clock I make my way toward the Rue
 
 216 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 Caumartin. I go upstairs to the editor's office, 
 and find none but the porter, who says to me: 
 "Here is Monsieur Noellet, coming to prepare his 
 'Review of the Press.'" Mon Dieu, yes; fifty 
 papers are awaiting me, folded, and piled in rect- 
 angular pyramids. But first of all I half-open the 
 door of Leonce Gay's office, and slip one of my 
 articles under the rock-crystal statuette of a 
 woman, which serves him as paper-weight; I do 
 the same in Thie"nard's room, putting my second 
 article under his bronze dog. 
 
 Then to work Paris, the provinces. I have to 
 read every word and it is no light task to rip 
 up the papers with a pair of scissors, classify the 
 cuttings, political comments on one side, events of 
 various kinds on the other; after that to fasten 
 together the first lines of passages that may on 
 necessity be transposed: "The Jmtice is severe 
 on the speech made by the President of the 
 Council"; "The Intransigeant is merciless"; "Is 
 not the Figaro in the right when it says" ; "Let us 
 now see what the Abeille Savoisienne says." By 
 the help of two wafers and a slip of paper the little 
 black and white squares arrange themselves in line, 
 like so many dominoes. I little thought in the old 
 days that it was in this way one made one's debut 
 in the world of letters. After dinner I return for 
 the evening papers. Toward eight o'clock the 
 offices begin to show signs of life. From the farther 
 end of the general office where I am still alone 
 I can see the contributors coming in one by one, 
 smoking the ends of their cigars, and with their 
 copy in their pockets. Where have they written
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 217 
 
 their little column, divided by its three asterisks 
 into its tripping paragraphs? Was it at home, at 
 the cafe", or at the theatre? The Don Juan gets 
 written out at random. During the daytime, only 
 I and the porter are to be seen on the premises. 
 From eight o'clock till midnight there is Thie'nard, 
 the man journal, who fills up all the blanks, cuts 
 into the remainder, gives the Don Juan its own 
 particular configuration, revises the proofs, does 
 the work of four, and gambles on the Stock 
 Exchange. All the others go and come. " Good- 
 evening, Thienard. I have brought my news- 
 column my echoes my society notes my the- 
 atrical notices"; " Good-evening, Thienard. Have 
 you room for a puff in the second page?"; "I say, 
 Thienard, do you know about that affair of little 
 X.? It beats everything! Just you fancy" and 
 the door closes upon them. This last set of people 
 are not on the regular staff. They are news- 
 mongers, who go on to the boulevards as soon as it 
 is dark, pleased to be allowed admittance to a 
 newspaper so well spoken of by the public and 
 easy of access, every whisper of the green-room 
 being exaggerated by them so as to make them- 
 selves of importance, and who, in exchange, obtain 
 information about the races or the source of a 
 telegram lying about on the tables. It is a con- 
 tinual passing to and fro. The proofs arrive from 
 the printers; the telephone rings incessantly; 
 Leonce Gay, the reverse altogether of Thie'nard, 
 who never stirs from his office, runs from one to 
 the other. He is all in all to everybody. He has 
 the air of an officer, like Thienard, but nothing
 
 218 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 of the latter's heavy cavalry style, dark and 
 austere, groaning over his work like a grumbling 
 wood-cutter; he is the pretty lieutenant, fair, pink- 
 coloured, laughing, a good fellow and a bad lot, 
 who can talk well, and say witty things, who 
 writes as he talks, and is never put out of counte- 
 nance, never taken by surprise, and apparently 
 never in a hurry. 
 
 I sit alone at the end of the green table, under 
 my shade, in the midst of this turmoil of men and 
 things, hidden behind my evening papers, which 
 I unfold, one by one, as I did the morning ones. 
 The whirlwind rushes past me, but does not dis- 
 turb me. Who would trouble to bother himself 
 about a common labourer, at two hundred francs 
 a month, busy earning his livelihood with a pair 
 of scissors? 
 
 On certain days I see many men, well known in 
 the world of politics and letters, with whom all the 
 others are acquainted. I ask their names. They 
 might be of service to me, but if I am still ambi- 
 tious as ever my self-confidence has abated and I 
 do not dare accost them. No one thinks of offer- 
 ing to introduce a beginner like myself to them. 
 
 And so I remain stationary behind my screen 
 of papers. 
 
 By the time I have stuck my last wafer it is still 
 pretty early. I rise, and, before leaving the build- 
 ing, I manage to get hold of Le*once Gay. 
 
 "Have you read my article?" 
 
 "Of course I have." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Not Parisian enough."
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 219 
 
 I knock at Thie*nard's door; he is talking to 
 three other persons, and reading the proofs of the 
 first page, just wet from the printers, and falling 
 limply over his hand like a handkerchief. 
 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 "The article that I " 
 
 "I will look at it to-morrow; no room for any- 
 thing more to-day." 
 
 To-morrow! I do not know when that will be. 
 And so I go out and let myself be borne along by 
 the crowd lonely, lost, despairing, struggling to 
 recover myself, to clutch at some vague hope of 
 my own amid this multitude, with its cupidities, 
 its lurking passions, its hidden aims, that throngs 
 and elbows me. 
 
 You, my forest-ranger at peace, free of heart 
 and resting from life's labour you who open your 
 window in the evening to let in the woodland 
 breeze you will understand what I am going to 
 say. When as a lad, living in the Mauges, my 
 hard day's work being over, I stood up and put on 
 my jacket to return home, where supper was 
 awaiting me, what deep full draughts of air I 
 used to inhale! How they seemed to rejoice my 
 very heart. I do not regret the land. It is home 
 for which I long! 
 
 September 25th. 
 
 How curiously these prolonged meditations 
 affect one's mind ! Now when I examine my past 
 life it seems new to me. All kinds of minor events 
 of which I hardly took any notice at the time, or 
 words harboured in the peaceful memory of a
 
 220 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 child, assume a meaning now which hitherto was 
 wanting to them ; and my early youth itself, that 
 period of perfect purity and innocence, before La 
 Geniviere knew of an ungrateful child, seems full, 
 in looking back, of the ideas and dreams which 
 disturb the man of twenty. 
 
 Formerly, at this season of the year, they began 
 their hunting, and we our ploughing. Ah, my 
 dear old master, you can never know the strange 
 feeling that would take possession of me, the 
 young peasant, as I saw her riding along beside 
 her father on her gray pony. It was not love; 
 it was pride pride at belonging to the same par- 
 ish, to her neighbourhood, to those whom she 
 knew and recognized. For she never failed in her 
 greeting, and would nod her pretty head to us and 
 our oxen over the hedge. My father would lift 
 his hat, and take no further notice of them. But 
 I used to look after the cavalcade as it trotted 
 along to the meet in the soft pale dawn. And 
 often my father would have to call out to me: 
 "See, boy, Nobiais is going aside; look after him." 
 On those days I generally felt no inclination to 
 sing, but I thought about college. 
 
 October 13tk. 
 
 The days fly by. Madeleine will soon be back. 
 I ought to be happy, but I am not. 
 
 I dread seeing her again. It is now nearly six 
 months since she left Paris, and she has since been 
 at Landehue, or travelling. I have had no news 
 of her all that time. Six months! What unfore- 
 seen events may not have happened in that in-
 
 a 
 
 THIS, MY SON" 221 
 
 terval! How many things unknown to me have 
 helped to separate us all that she has seen, 
 thought, and heard! The compassionate, and, 
 even then, hesitating kindness of the family by 
 which I profited, will it not have grown cold, have 
 evaporated? In the country from which I am 
 a deserter, there are not wanting those who are 
 ready to give me a bad character. Nearly all my 
 old friends have separated themselves from me, 
 and there is not one of them, you may be sure, who 
 would have been kind enough to enhance her good 
 opinion of me. Even my very parents speak ill 
 of me. 
 
 In Paris, the surroundings in which she sees me 
 help to blind her to my real position; here I am 
 the journalist, the writer, the man who may some 
 day make a name. But down there, my vacant 
 place beside the home hearth would recall the 
 peasant to her. The roads, the fields, the shady 
 masses of the oak trees, the blue distance she 
 looks out upon from her window, all have voices 
 for her; she has seen me with a goad in my hand 
 and a book under my arm, bringing home the 
 beasts. Will they not remind her of it? I dread 
 the treachery of everything she looks upon down 
 there, for although I experience an infinite pleasure 
 in recalling Madeleine as a child, I would that my 
 childhood were unknown to her, or that she could 
 forget it. 
 
 November 
 
 Having finished at the office earlier than usual 
 this afternoon, I went to the Bois. I was walking
 
 222 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 along one of the paths enjoying the beauty of the 
 day, and soothed by the incessant rumbling of the 
 traffic and by the rattling of the horses' bridle- 
 chains as they shook their heads. Women, just 
 returned to Paris, drove past in open landaus in 
 spite of the cold wind and the yellow leaves. 
 Winter is bringing back the householders. Fur 
 garments overflowed the carriage doors with their 
 armorial bearings. It was the first drive through 
 the Bois, a day of festivity, with a succession of 
 pretty toilettes and smiles, of waving hands and 
 of mute greetings from one carriage to another. 
 The women felt themselves once more Parisians, 
 back again amid the elegant luxury of the great 
 city, and even the Bois itself was in a good 
 humour at having recaptured its company. 
 
 Suddenly I saw two tall forms, two toques, each 
 trimmed with a pointed feather. As they passed 
 I recognized Marthe and Madeleine Laubriet. 
 They had not seen me ; they had driven past with 
 their high-stepping horses, their two erect figures 
 seated side by side in the landau, both looking as 
 fresh as if just returned from the country, and 
 with their eyes partly lowered as they faced the 
 low rays of the sun slanting through the trees. 
 Unknown to themselves they carried my thoughts 
 along with them, for I followed them with my 
 eyes until they turned the far comer of the avenue, 
 and then beyond into the dream in which vision 
 prolongs itself. 
 
 On my return to my rooms I scribbled an article, 
 under the heading, "A First Afternoon in the 
 Bois." My pen seemed to write of itself. I wrote
 
 t 
 
 THIS, MY SON" 223 
 
 with my happiness, and with that spark of emotion 
 of which something always remains behind, like 
 a faded flower between the leaves of a book. 
 
 Leonce Gay read thirty lines of it : 
 
 "You've hit it this time." 
 
 "Will it be put in?" 
 
 "To-morrow morning." 
 
 November llth. 
 
 Early next morning I received a telegram-card 
 from Thienard: "Philips is ill. Take his place 
 at the Senate House. I will see to the review." 
 So I started for the Luxembourg, where I was to 
 act as reporter instead of Philips. You know the 
 upstairs gallery, dear master, where the senatorial 
 clientele waits under the usher's eye friends, peti- 
 tioners, constituents, all wanting orders of ad- 
 mittance for the sitting. I was there talking with 
 a colleague of the Press, when, guess whom I came 
 across? 
 
 Monsieur Laubriet. He was with a Senator, 
 and he let go his arm and came up to me. 
 
 "My dear friend," he said, "I want to speak to 
 you. Wait one moment, and I shall be at liberty." 
 
 And I had in truth hardly reached the end of 
 the gallery before he rejoined me. I had often 
 known him exceedingly pleasant, but never quite 
 so amiable as now. He wanted me to do some- 
 thing for him. 
 
 "Do you know," he said, "that poor M is 
 
 dead?" M was a Councillor-General for the 
 
 Beauprau district. " It is a great loss," he added. 
 
 "And Landehue?" I asked; "and la Geniviere?
 
 224 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 It is months since I have spoken to any one from 
 Vendee. Have you been back in Paris any length 
 of time? Has anything fresh taken place at 
 home? How is ?" 
 
 But he paid no attention to what I was saying 
 and, preoccupied with thoughts of a very different 
 character to mine, he went on: 
 
 "Yes, believe me, no one regrets his death more 
 than I do. But the earth belongs to the living, is 
 it not so?" 
 
 "Most assuredly." 
 
 "That is just what my excellent friend Z , 
 
 the Member for the Loire-InfeYieure, has just been 
 reminding me. And he has actually been insisting 
 that I ought to come forward as a candidate to 
 
 replace poor M ; I am the only possible 
 
 person for the post after Z himself, and he 
 
 is so very persistent. What do you think about 
 it?" 
 
 Surprised that an insignificant person like my- 
 self should be consulted, as well as surprised to see 
 that Monsieur Laubriet had an ambition of which 
 I should never have suspected him, I, of course, 
 answered that I thought it an excellent idea. 
 
 He was pleased with my reply. 
 
 "Well, then," he said, "we must get the start. 
 Other candidates might come forward. I shall 
 count upon you. A word or two in the Don Juan 
 will pave the way. Just a light, clever, suggestive 
 little notice, with a moderate amount of puff in it, 
 conciliatory, but avoiding all downright promises. 
 And who can do this better than you, with your 
 talent, etc. But remember, above all, not to let
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 225 
 
 it appear that I have anything to do with it; it 
 must come entirely from you. Will you under- 
 take this?" 
 
 You may guess, my dear master, that I readily 
 promised my help in the matter. 
 
 It was not, however, without some trepidation 
 as to what might be the result of this request I 
 was going to make. The Don Juan does not 
 trouble itself much about local affairs, and I do 
 not stand in any high credit with it. I could not 
 contemplate going and knocking at Monsieur 
 Thie'nard's door and saying: "The Councillor- 
 General of Beaupre*au is dead. The post is vacant, 
 etc." But my article of the morning saved the 
 situation. L&mce Gay had appeared to be well- 
 disposed toward me, and as he puts a little about 
 everything in his Echoes, I went to find him. At 
 first he refused. But when he saw that I persisted : 
 
 "I say, Noellet," he said, "are you really so 
 anxious about it?" 
 
 "More than I can tell you." 
 
 "On his behalf or your own?" 
 
 "On my own." 
 
 "A love affair?" 
 
 "Possibly." 
 
 He gave a queer little smile. 
 
 "You are growing quite a Parisian, Noellet; I 
 congratulate you. But understand, fifteen lines, 
 not a word more." 
 
 So to-morrow Monsieur Laubriet will have the 
 pleasure of reading the following paragraph in the 
 Don Juan: "A few days ago we announced the 
 death of Monsieur M at his country house at
 
 226 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 . The electors of Beaupre*au are already, it 
 
 seems, beginning to look out for a successor to this 
 honourable gentleman, who had been their Coun- 
 cillor-General for thirty years. We do not, as a 
 rule, interfere with these local elections. But in 
 the present case one man appears so exactly fitted 
 for the post that we do not hesitate to name him 
 Monsieur Hubert Laubriet, the noted sportsman, 
 well known among the artistic circles of Paris, 
 member of the Agricultural Society of France, and 
 one of the largest landowners of the province. 
 A cultivated, rich, and liberal-minded gentleman, 
 he would be the very man required. It only 
 remains to be seen whether his modesty can be 
 overcome, and if he can be persuaded to enter the 
 arena of politics. Madame Laubriet, nee De 
 Ponthual, is adored throughout the province." 
 
 November 12th. 
 
 I reached the office at three o'clock; I was 
 sent for to the parlour. There I found Monsieur 
 Laubriet, who rushed forward delightedly, and 
 seized both my hands. 
 
 "It was exactly what was wanted," he ex- 
 claimed. "The notice was capitally written. 
 Nothing omitted. The few words about Madame 
 Laubriet were quite appropriate. She was very- 
 gratified by them. You will find this out for your- 
 self if you will come and dine with us this evening 
 at seven o'clock just ourselves." 
 
 As seven o'clock struck I rang at the door in 
 the Rue La Boetie. My reception by Madame 
 Laubriet was more genuinely cordial than it had
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 227 
 
 been before the long vacation. Her proud bearing 
 she will always retain, and it suits her, but it was 
 moderated for me by a smile and a gracious word. 
 
 "The paragraph is by the hand of a Vendean, 
 who does not forget his country, and by a writer 
 who will some day make a name." 
 
 To which Mademoiselle Madeleine added: 
 
 "And who is already spoken of." 
 
 "Oh, Mademoiselle!" 
 
 She looked at her sister as she spoke with that 
 air, which belongs to her class, of only giving a 
 third part of her thoughts 'to what she was saying, 
 and that has so often baffled me and made me ill 
 at ease. 
 
 "My father, who understands about such mat- 
 ters, has often said so to us, Pierre. And even 
 we, Marthe and I, who are no judges, were very 
 much amused this morning with your 'A First 
 Afternoon in the Bois.' " 
 
 "Have you read it, then, Mademoiselle?" 
 
 "Why, yes, Pierre, and it is not at all bad, only 
 there were one or two details that might have been 
 left out. For instance, you mention, as if it was 
 a novelty this season " 
 
 "Why do you tell him that, Madeleine?" inter- 
 rupted Mademoiselle Marthe. "How could Pierre 
 know " 
 
 "Oh, please tell me, Mademoiselle," I replied, 
 already feeling unhappy and frightened, "you will 
 really be doing me a service." 
 
 "Oh, well, it's only a trifle. You describe two 
 otter-skin toques, trimmed with 'a pointed 
 feather,' which we had no difficulty in recognizing.
 
 228 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 It was charming on your part impossible to be 
 kinder. But, my dear Pierre, you speak of two 
 horrors of last winter, which you would have done 
 better not- to mention." 
 
 I had turned as red as a poppy, and she, noticing 
 this, immediately added : 
 
 "Don't let it worry you. You are not obliged 
 to know what has gone out of fashion. There is 
 nothing to show that it is we whom you describe, 
 and, moreover, the greater number of our friends 
 who, like ourselves, had only arrived in Paris the 
 night before, had not any newer dresses on than 
 ourselves." 
 
 Monsieur Laubriet now entered the room. We 
 sat down to table. Mademoiselle Madeleine, 
 anxious to atone for having involuntarily wounded 
 me, forgetful that one ought not to joke with 
 people of my kind who have already met with so 
 many bruises in life, drew me into conversation on 
 various subjects which came more within my scope 
 than the fashions literature, the theatre, the 
 latest news of Paris. I think I got on well. The 
 superior information which the dweller in Paris 
 possesses over ladies who have been spending six 
 months in the country gave me the lead. There 
 was a basket of late roses on the table, still beau- 
 tiful, although a little fallen, which they had 
 brought from Vended, and had perhaps kept to 
 give me pleasure. Their sweet, somewhat faded, 
 scent reached me, and brought at moments a 
 trouble with it, disposed as I was just then to be 
 easily upset in my feelings. As Monsieur Laubriet, 
 or Mademoiselle Marthe, took up the conversation,
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 229 
 
 my eyes involuntarily wandered to these flowers 
 that had been plucked from stems growing in the 
 homeland; like me, they had been cut and brought 
 here, probably by the same hand, and were now 
 scarcely heeded. Just above them, on the opposite 
 side of the table, rose Mademoiselle Madeleine's 
 haughty face, illuminated by the strong light of 
 the lamp. She was thrilling with high spirits and 
 wit. Not a shade of compassion or of musing 
 thought checked the free flow of her light-hearted 
 gayety. I seemed to see her again as a little child, 
 even then the proud darling of fortune, running 
 about the fields among the buttercups, which we 
 named Alleluias. My thoughts were beginning to 
 wander into other scenes, when a question sud- 
 denly put to me by Monsieur Laubriet brought me 
 back to the present. My imagination had bolted, 
 and with difficulty I got it again under control. 
 The conversation was full of these sudden starts. 
 
 But not a word of La Geniviere. It was too 
 delicate a subject to touch upon. By a refinement 
 of breeding, all the members of this family, who 
 were, for the first time, entertaining me at their 
 own table, taxed their ingenuity to find other 
 things to talk about. I was conscious of the effort 
 and discomfited accordingly. 
 
 After dinner Madame Laubriet, having taken 
 her place at the corner of the hearth, made me sit 
 down beside her, and then we naturally fell to 
 speaking of home. Mademoiselle Madeleine was 
 standing near, her face turned away from us for 
 she was busy netting a large hammock, the end of 
 which she had hooked on to the window-fastening.
 
 230 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 Monsieur Laubriet and Marthe were at the piano 
 turning over a new score. 
 
 "I went twice to see your father and mother," 
 said Madame Laubriet, "and my husband was 
 there oftener. You know, Pierre, we have always 
 held those estimable people in great respect." 
 
 "There is the same feeling on their side, Ma- 
 dame." 
 
 I did not dare ask after my father at first. 
 
 "Is Antoinette well?" 
 
 "She is the prettiest girl in the town." 
 
 "And Marie?" 
 
 "I hear that it will not be long before she is 
 married. She will be a genuine farmer's wife. Your 
 parents set their hopes on her, and I think they are 
 right. They have a future to look forward to now." 
 
 "And how are they?" 
 
 "Very much aged, especially your father." 
 
 "Did you speak to him about me?" 
 
 "Of course I did." 
 
 "And what did he say?" 
 
 Madame Laubriet, who, up to that moment, had 
 kept them discreetly fixed on the Japanese screen 
 she was holding in her hand, now turned toward 
 me her large velvety brown eyes, in which could 
 be seen the reflection of many wise thoughts, as 
 one by one they passed across her mind. 
 
 1 ' He has not got over his anger, ' ' she said . ' ' And 
 can you be surprised, my dear boy? I can well 
 imagine his feeling. It was impossible for your 
 parents to understand a determination like yours. 
 And especially now that Jacques has gone, there 
 is the farm which must fall more and more into
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 231 
 
 the hands of servants. I know nothing sadder 
 than this forsaking of the land." 
 
 "But, Madame," I answered somewhat hastily, 
 "my sisters will marry, as you yourself have just 
 said, and will carry on the family tradition: for 
 myself I have broken it." 
 
 "And you have never regretted it?" 
 
 "No, Madame." 
 
 "I trust you never may do so. There was such 
 an honourable, wide, beautiful life awaiting you 
 there." 
 
 "You think, then, Madame, that it is possible 
 for a man who has studied as I have to go back to 
 the plough?" 
 
 She hesitated a moment, turned her eyes back to 
 the screen, and answered indifferently: 
 
 "I do not say that, Pierre." 
 
 She did not say it, but she thought it. Made- 
 moiselle Madeleine was drawing her wooden needle 
 threaded with its blue string more slowly through 
 her netting, and I knew she was listening to what 
 I was saying. Why, I cannot tell, but a sudden 
 courage seized me. 
 
 "No, Madame," I replied in a low, but deter- 
 mined voice, "it is impossible. Each man has his 
 own vocation in the world. My separation from 
 the land is irrevocable. I have an ambition differ- 
 ent to that of my parents, and henceforth I shall 
 devote myself to it entirely." 
 
 "And what is your ambition?" 
 
 "To make a name for myself, Madame. Many 
 a time since I was on this paper I have elbowed 
 men who, like me, were born on a farm, not even in
 
 232 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 such a good position as myself for my father is 
 after all his own master who are now painters, 
 sculptors, musicians, authors, forming an elite 
 society side by side with that of birth and money, 
 at home everywhere, and everywhere well received. 
 I have met several of them in this house, Madame. 
 Well, my ambition is that after having been re- 
 ceived here out of pity in virtue of being a child 
 from the Mauges " 
 
 "Oh, Pierre!" 
 
 "Suppose out of kindness, Madame, that you 
 were some day to be proud of Pierre Noellet, of 
 Fief-Sauvin? How I should thank you on that 
 day for having received me, and for the encourage- 
 ment, of more value to me than you can imagine, 
 afforded me by the smallest mark of attention on 
 your part." 
 
 I thought I could perceive that Mademoiselle 
 Madeleine was pausing a long time over the knot- 
 ting of her thread before beginning another mesh. 
 What was in her mind? I could not see her face. 
 All I could detect from the side view of her oval 
 cheek was that she smiled a little. 
 
 Madame Laubriet, touched perhaps, but not 
 convinced, smiled feebly. 
 
 "Do not think," she said, "that I blame every- 
 thing concerning your ambition. There is a pride 
 which is anything but displeasing to me. The 
 only thing that is bad about yours is that your 
 parents have suffered so much for it. I should have 
 been glad if I could have brought about a recon- 
 ciliation. But I see it is too late now to go back." 
 
 "Much too late, Madame."
 
 r 'THIS, MY SON" 233 
 
 "Well, I know of no other way to allay your 
 father's anger. Do you know of any?" 
 
 "Of none, Madame. There are many things 
 besides which keep me away from my father. 
 Twice he has driven me from the house, and you 
 may be sure that I shall not make the first step 
 toward returning." 
 
 "Do not say that, Pierre. It is an evil word 
 that I do not like to dwell upon. Time changes 
 many things." 
 
 "Not many in Vendee, Madame." 
 
 She smiled somewhat sadly. I rose and thanked 
 her. Monsieur Laubriet came up to me in an easy 
 sort of way as if he had heard nothing of our con- 
 versation. We went together to the billiard-room 
 and played a few games which he very much 
 wished to lose. 
 
 And then I returned home. 
 
 November 13th. 
 
 This first interview which I had dreaded had 
 therefore turned out well. I had been better re- 
 ceived than usual, and there had been an additional 
 shade of interest in their manner toward me. I 
 had been able to tell Madame Laubriet, in her 
 daughter's hearing, what my aim in life was. She 
 had given no sign of surprise or incredulity. My 
 ambition had not appeared to her too laughable. 
 She believed as I did that I should some day make 
 a name. As far as I could see, Mademoiselle 
 Madeleine had also, while listening, thrown up 
 her head with the little haughty gesture she has 
 when anything pleases her. "Your article on
 
 234 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 'A First Afternoon in the Bois' was not bad at all," 
 she had said to me. A little want of experience 
 and knowledge of the ways of society were no 
 doubt lacking. I know it myself. But all that 
 will come in time. 
 
 I feel my courage revived and doubled this 
 morning. 
 
 Do not despair, Pierre Noellet; the wind is 
 blowing your way. You will be a somebody. 
 You will win the victory in spite of all the obsta- 
 cles that block your path. The lowliness of your 
 birth will now soon be forgotten. Your professional 
 name will be a new name. Then those who have 
 blamed you will applaud. Then you will be able 
 to say to fortune, to beauty: "I am your equal, 
 and my name is talent." Then, perhaps, Made- 
 leine Laubriet will feel that she can love me. You 
 love her too much, Pierre Noellet, for her not to 
 love you some day. 
 
 Oh, my dear old friend, what a dream! It is 
 mine more than ever. Do not disturb it: let me 
 dream on. 
 
 December 10th. 
 
 Monsieur Laubriet is chosen Councillor-General, 
 no other candidate having opposed him. 
 
 The news was wired to me this afternoon at the 
 office. And this evening, at nine o'clock, I rang 
 at Rue La Boetie. I thought it was only my duty 
 to go and congratulate Monsieur Laubriet. I was 
 pleased to have had my share in his success, and 
 the foolish conceit we have of our own deeds whis- 
 pered words to me on my way of flattering greeting.
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 235 
 
 What a wise fortune-teller! 
 
 As the door of the drawing-room was opened my 
 eyes fell on the following scene : 
 
 The Laubriet family was seated in a half-circle 
 round the fire, with a look of attention on their 
 faces, while in the middle, with his back to the fire, 
 stood a stranger, who looked like an American 
 planter, very tall, with a long black beard reaching 
 half-way down his chest, leaning forward a little 
 toward Mademoiselle Madeleine, who was clap- 
 ping her hands, as she said, laughing: 
 
 "That's nice of you, very nice!" 
 
 He drew himself up as I drew near, and looked 
 me over from head to foot. I was feeling dis- 
 pleased at Madeleine Laubriet's familiarity with 
 this unknown man. My face must evidently have 
 betrayed my feelings, for Madame Laubriet began 
 to laugh and said : 
 
 "You do not recognize him?" 
 
 "No, Madame." ' 
 
 "Look well at him." 
 
 "Is it possible, surely " 
 
 Then they all burst out at once one in answer 
 to my questioning looks, the other in explanatory 
 exclamations about him. 
 
 "Yes; it is really he, our dear Jules de Ponthual. 
 Doesn't he look grand?" 
 
 "Fourteen months' tour round the world! 
 Landed from India yesterday. Got into Paris this 
 morning, and come round to see us this same even- 
 ing. Isn't it nice of him? Without giving us any 
 warning, just as he used to do!" 
 
 "And what things he has seen!"
 
 236 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 My old fellow-collegian had let his beard grow 
 and was very sunburnt; but I ought to have 
 known him; there are not two men in Paris with 
 such shoulders as his. He was probably not more 
 pleased than I was at this meeting, but, neverthe- 
 less, he held out his hand. 
 
 "If I have covered some ground during my late 
 travels," he said, "you, too, I believe, have not been 
 stationary." 
 
 I understood that he had already heard about 
 me. 
 
 And then he started off with long stories about 
 his journey round the world, some of them of a 
 cold-blooded ferocity, in which was a mingling of 
 golden skies, of swamps with red flamingoes, 
 of young Egyptian fellaheen holding out their 
 pitchers of water to the thirsty traveller, of alarms, 
 of wild beasts, of hunting-parties: all of which 
 produced their due effect. His relations looked at 
 him with admiration. He, on his side, was de- 
 lighted with their astonishment. For myself, I 
 hardly listened to him. I was watching Madeleine 
 Laubriet, who never took her eyes off him, and a 
 mad jealousy began gnawing at my heart. She 
 did not lose a word he said, or a single look or 
 action. She was conscious alone of him. With 
 him, this proud young girl had become eager and 
 attentive. She laughed at things that were not 
 funny. She manifested an exaggeration of feeling 
 aroused by Ponthual's tales; on hearing of the 
 least danger he had run she was all astonishment, 
 fear, and emotion. Her whole attitude was a 
 conscious or unconscious flattery addressed to her
 
 ".THIS, MY SON" 237 
 
 cousin. Something of greater power than the 
 world and its conventions, or than breeding, had 
 suddenly transformed her. 
 
 I was so wretched that I could not stand the 
 prolongation of the trial. 
 
 At the end of half an hour I took my leave, under 
 pretence of having to get through some urgent 
 work. 
 
 They all saw me depart without the slightest con- 
 cern; indeed, they took as little notice of my leav- 
 ing as if I had been a child among a group of elders 
 listening to the tales of a grandfather, which I was 
 considered too young to appreciate. No one asked 
 me to stay; no one said: "I hope you will come 
 again." Madeleine did not so much as turn her 
 head. Once more in my room, seated in front of 
 my books, which I have not the courage to open, 
 I can see her again with her eyes on Ponthual, 
 and with that clinging look in them which ex- 
 pressed more than the ordinary pleasure at his 
 return. 
 
 And why had he made such haste to run and 
 see her? What is happening? I tremble at the 
 thought of making too true a guess. Ponthual 
 has always been an enemy of mine. We hardly 
 ever spoke to one another at college. Whenever 
 I could get hold of the ball and throw it at him, 
 I aimed with a hidden hatred, and tried my best 
 to hurt him. Something whispered me even then 
 that we were to be rivals in after life. And here 
 he comes, throwing himself in the way of my 
 dream, my old and cherished dream! 
 
 I hate him.
 
 238 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 Alas! And I can see all the advantages he has 
 over me money, name, education. I am his 
 superior in intellect, and yet this evening I sat as 
 if struck dumb. What an advantage these long 
 travels have been to him! Living in contact as 
 he has with men and things, the insufficiency of his 
 studies has been repaired. He is no longer the 
 same man. I left him heavy, ignorant, rough, and 
 I find him now tall and strong, interesting as 
 everybody is who has been about and seen things, 
 and coldly polite. What a rapid transforma- 
 tion it has been for him, while I have been 
 painfully climbing up the hill of poverty and 
 obscurity! 
 
 Madeleine will fall in love with him! 
 
 The thought is intolerable to me, but I cannot 
 shake it off. I am certain that she is going to love 
 him. And even if it is not he, she will care for 
 some one else before I have been able to climb to 
 her level. Madeleine Laubriet is twenty years of 
 age; she is rich, she is attractive. She has only to 
 look around her and choose. Why should she 
 stoop to pick me out from among the many who 
 are struggling and suffering? 
 
 I shall not have time to realize my dream. Why 
 did I not see this from the first? To-day I see it 
 all so clearly. I looked for fame and it has not 
 come. It can never come. For sixteen months 
 I have been fighting in the crowd that, like myself, 
 all wish to make a name. What have I gained as 
 regards her for whose sake I have undergone the 
 suffering of daily striving? Am I not as far from 
 her as the first day I came? Every step I have
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 239 
 
 taken in the world has been a humiliation. Here 
 I am nobody. Life to me appears useless, void, 
 and almost guilty. It would require years, years 
 that will not be mine! 
 
 My poor illusions, I look for them and find them 
 not. Even in my worst days, during the poverty 
 and misery of my early struggle, they were with 
 me and encouraged me. I heard the beating of 
 their wings around me. I said to them: Leave 
 me; I love you, but I will not follow you; you 
 will return later on, when a little renown will 
 have made me worthy of her: illusions bora 
 of her smile, my best-beloved ones, leave me! 
 But I did not say it with much firmness, and 
 one of them generally remained behind to con- 
 sole me. 
 
 And where are they now? 
 
 The wind is blowing a hurricane this evening. 
 It shakes my doors and windows, hurling itself 
 against them in great gusts. It has flung and 
 broken and scattered itself against every corner of 
 the walls and roofs: now it cries and sobs. So 
 many obstacles bar its passage! How free and 
 proud it was as it passed unchecked over our hills 
 down there! A great river of wind flowing with 
 a regular sound as of waves, monotonous and re- 
 sistless! And La Geniviere, perched high on its 
 rock, was like a little island, around which swept 
 the gigantic stream. 
 
 Always the same memories, always the same! 
 My happy childhood when I broke away from 
 it I received a wound, which continues to gape 
 afresh.
 
 240 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 This evening I ask myself with dismay if I have 
 not been mistaken? I cannot now go back and the 
 future lies dark before me. What will become of 
 me?
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 FORSAKEN, ill spoken of, Melie Rainette lost none 
 of her pride, but went outside her door as little as 
 possible. She had grown to love her flowers, and 
 spent hours in her garden digging and weeding 
 and watching the flowering of some autumn plants 
 which she had picked up here and there. She was 
 vaguely conscious of some resemblance between 
 herself and these plants blown about by the rough 
 winds and beaten with storms. She mourned 
 sympathetically when they died, thinking of her 
 own fate. A languor came over her. She was not 
 ill, but she no longer felt as strong as she did 
 formerly. Her face had gradually grown thinner 
 with her trouble. Clad in her black mantle, she 
 had now the look of a widow, whose thoughts are 
 dwelling on past happiness, and who as far as 
 possible takes no note of outward things. 
 
 Then the winter set in. Everything outside 
 was frozen except the rosemary bush, which was, 
 however, growing less vigorous as the years went 
 by. They were sad days for Melie Rainette, for 
 added to her loneliness was the increasing distress 
 of her circumstances. Work was bad. All the 
 manufacturers throughout the Mauges were lower- 
 ing their prices. Orders came in less frequently, 
 and even the most skilled weavers received thread 
 for only three or four days' work a week. 
 
 241
 
 242 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 Poverty, loneliness, and sorrow of heart these 
 were much for a young girl to bear. Nevertheless 
 Melie Rainette did not complain. First of all, 
 being less busy at her weaving, she gave more time 
 to lesser orders for sewing or embroidery, of which, 
 although fatiguing and badly paid, she was fonder, 
 both for the sake of the work itself and for the good 
 light which it required. Her own room was so 
 white and well furnished! She was happier there 
 than anywhere else. It contained all the wealth 
 of the house : lace on the curtains ; a firescreen of 
 moss stuck with artificial flowers; an arm-chair 
 that had belonged to her father; a cupboard, near- 
 ly empty inside, but made of prettily veined wal- 
 nut wood, and so polished with white wax that it 
 was a wonder to look upon; and, hanging well in 
 view on its cushion of red velvet between the two 
 glass candlesticks on the mantel-piece, her mother's 
 wedding wreath, which she had rescued from an old 
 trunk to which it had been consigned. 
 
 The time passed more lightly there at least, it 
 seemed so to Melie. 
 
 A few good people still came to see her now and 
 then. 
 
 But she had also undertaken a new duty which 
 was a great pleasure to her. The parish priest of 
 Fief, seeing her so violently abused, had not lost 
 his own respect for Melie, and to avenge her for the 
 evil reports of which she was a victim, he engaged 
 her as a help to the sacristan, an old woman who 
 was falling into the grave, and could no longer at- 
 tend to the church and its decorations. 
 
 This handling of flowers, ornaments, and altar-
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 243 
 
 cloths was a real delight to Me*lie,not less than the 
 distribution of incense to the choir children and 
 the decoration of the church on the eve of festivals. 
 She enjoyed getting out the banners and garlands, 
 and superintending the carpenter who put them 
 up, retiring a step or two to call out to him, "A 
 little higher. A little lower. Yes, that's it." 
 Then there were the old frames to cover with fresh 
 leaves, and rhododendrons and palms, sent from 
 the Landehue conservatories, to arrange round the 
 altar. Melie's taste for this kind of occupation, 
 which harmonized so well with her character, had 
 developed under the ill-treatment to which she had 
 been subjected. The quiet of these white-arched 
 spaces calmed and refreshed her. She felt in 
 shelter, far away from and forgotten by the world. 
 A scroll well hung and falling gracefully, an in- 
 scription in gold letters on a light foundation of 
 muslin, or even an orris-root scented altar-cloth, 
 as she unfolded its smooth, shjning folds fresh from 
 the iron, was sufficient to fill her with the joy of a 
 child, who can find food for enthusiasm in every- 
 thing, and all whose emotions are winged. The 
 humblest duties had a charm for her. As she 
 washed the tiled floor or polished the buffet in the 
 sacristy, the silence of the place hardly broken by 
 the rattling of the window-glass in its lead frame- 
 work, a deep and delicious sensation of peace stole 
 over her. 
 
 Moreover, her great troubles and regrets had 
 subsided into that tranquillity which belongs to all 
 eternal things. Her soul no longer disturbed by 
 them, she looked back on the events of the past
 
 244 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 with that feeling of everything having happened 
 long, long ago, which is natural when there has been 
 a violent break in life. She saw herself again as a 
 child, as a girl, then as a woman, at the time when 
 she herself hardly knew how or when her protective 
 affection for Pierre Noellet had grown into some- 
 thing more into a love that had remained hidden, 
 that she had never confessed, and that had now 
 died completely out of her heart. And as mothers 
 dress with their own hands the graves of the 
 children they have lost, so Melie surrounded the 
 remembrance of her buried affection with the faces, 
 the words, the smallest circumstance amid which 
 the cherished dead had been born. Sad sweet- 
 ness of loved graves, she knew you well! 
 
 There were times, however, when her courage 
 failed her days when she was at her poorest, or 
 when some incident occurred and took her by 
 surprise, suddenly recalling the happiness she had 
 lost and the severed friendships. 
 
 It was on a day like this, the 28th December, that 
 she saw the people from two of the farms at Vil- 
 leneuve driving past early in the direction of La 
 Geniviere. She knew that the farmer had sum- 
 moned a whole armament of friends to help him 
 cut down the gorse on a piece of waste land which 
 he wished to clear. Formerly she would have made 
 one of the party. She thought about it a long time 
 after they had passed out of sight as she sat over 
 her small fire, which she had banked up with ashes 
 to prevent it burning too quickly. They had 
 driven noisily through the town, and had seen 
 nothing of Melie. Before nightfall they had cleared
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 245 
 
 the old corner of waste land running down to the 
 Evre, one of the last left in the province, that had 
 hitherto been a perfect forest of broom and gorse, 
 rising higher than a man's head, and clothed each 
 spring in a garment of gold. The tall, prickly 
 stems had fallen beneath the bill-hooks and scythes 
 of men and women. Others had tied them into 
 bundles, their hands bleeding from many pricks 
 and scratches. They went quickly to their work, 
 laughing the while. Soon the earth, red from its 
 covering of dead vegetation, was laid bare, not a 
 blade of grass was to be seen upon it, only the 
 bristling points of stems, still moist and green 
 where they had been cut, but fast drying beneath 
 the wind. 
 
 As the sun went down four fires, lit at the four 
 corners, began to send up their columns of smoke, 
 and these, rising into higher spirals and rolling over 
 the adjacent hills, gave notice to the dwellers 
 in the near valley that the dense thicket, where 
 formerly the Chouans had found a hiding-place, and 
 where their grandchildren had sheltered as they 
 guarded the sheep, that the waste land of old 
 times, full of song, of flowers, and of memories, 
 had, like everything else, lived its life. 
 
 When the evening meal was over, the young 
 people finished up the day with dancing a gavotte, 
 according to the custom when a master-farmer had 
 summoned a large party to make war on his land. 
 Two and two at first, and then all together, both 
 rooms at La Geniviere being given up to them, 
 the youths and maidens jumped the latter with 
 sedateness, the former with more after-supper
 
 246 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 hilarity. The married women, with their distaffs, 
 stood against the walls, looking on as they span. 
 There was no violin or bagpipe on account of the 
 recency of Jacques' death. Two girls, therefore, 
 with clear young voices began to lilt "Ah, ah, ah, 
 ah!" and the dancers found it all-sufficient music 
 for their steps. Marie Noellet was the only one 
 who did not dance. Looking as usual dignified 
 and a little sad, she sat in the corner with a pitcher 
 of drink made of service-berry ready to hand to 
 the tired dancers. 
 
 It was past ten o'clock when the elder men and 
 women carried off their young ones, the merry 
 sound of their voices and footsteps ringing through 
 the stillness of the winter night, and heard afar 
 long after they had left the farm. 
 
 Louis Fauvepre remained behind the others. 
 
 While Marie and her sister were helping their 
 mother put the chairs and tables in order, he sat, 
 lost in thought on a bench near the window, await- 
 ing the farmer, who had gone part of the way with 
 his departing friends. The high spirits he had 
 been in a few minutes before had disappeared. The 
 military bearing, which the boys of the town tried 
 to imitate, had given place to a curious awkward- 
 ness of attitude, and he seemed to be ill at ease 
 under the eyes of the two girls, who were running 
 backward and forward, active, silent, and looking 
 equally disturbed. The same cause of agitation 
 affected them all three in different ways. When 
 Marie crossed the room and came nearer to the 
 bench, Louis Fauvepre especially was so far moved 
 as not to be able to lift his eyes.
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 247 
 
 And a proud little smile might have been de- 
 tected on the grave lips of the girl, like the first 
 small shoot from a seed that is longing to burst into 
 flower. 
 
 The farmer came in, shook the rime off his hat, 
 and seeing Louis Fauvepre, seated himself on the 
 bench at some little distance from the young man. 
 Then he made a sign to the women to leave the 
 room. 
 
 The two men were left alone, their figures lighted 
 up by the blaze from the bundle of heather which 
 Marie had lighted. The young man sat silent, not 
 knowing how to begin what he had to say, and it 
 was the farmer who spoke first. 
 
 "You look all in a flutter, my boy," he said. 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "You know without my telling you, Maitre 
 Noellet." 
 
 "I may have my suspicions, but I must hear 
 about it all the same," replied the farmer, and 
 with a certain tense look of emotion on his face 
 he lifted his head, and, gazing absently toward the 
 far end of the room, he prepared himself to listen. 
 
 "Well, Maitre Noellet, this is it: I do not think 
 you have ever heard any one speak ill of me?" 
 
 "No, my boy." 
 
 "You have always been friendly with my father." 
 
 "And with his father before him an old man 
 whom I greatly respected." 
 
 "I am earning my living now, Maitre Noellet, 
 and have even a little over." 
 
 "That's good, Louis Fauvepre; I like to hear 
 that."
 
 248 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 "I am old enough to think of marrying and 
 setting up a home of my own." 
 
 "I have nothing to say against that." 
 
 "And it is your daughter, Marie, that I want 
 for my wife." 
 
 Julien Noellet let his heavy hand fall on the 
 young man's shoulder, and they looked each 
 other in the face. 
 
 "My poor boy," he said, "I have no need of a 
 wheelwright here. I had two sons, as you know; 
 one is dead, the other as good as dead. Since I 
 am now without sons, he who is to be my son-in- 
 law must take their place at the plough, and mine 
 when I am no longer here." 
 
 Then, in a lower voice, he added: 
 
 "You will find a wife elsewhere, my Louis; 
 there are no lack of marriageable girls in the town." 
 
 "But it is your girl I want, Maitre Noellet," 
 said Fauvepre eagerly. 
 
 "You cannot have her," replied the farmer. 
 
 "Yes, but I mean to have her, even though I 
 leave my father and give up my trade. I have 
 done a little of everything in the course of my life, 
 Maitre Noellet soldier, blacksmith but I know 
 how to use the goad and handle the plough as well. 
 You know yourself that this summer when work 
 was slack at home I hired myself out to the farmer 
 at Grande-Ecorciere. Don't think I am afraid 
 of the land. Give me Marie. I will come and 
 live here with you. I will stay to take your place 
 at La Geniviere when you are gone. Maitre 
 Noellet, if you want a son to drive your ploughs, 
 here I am."
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 249 
 
 He had risen, and stood up tall and bold; his 
 eyes flashed, the knotted muscles of his arm could 
 be seen through his vest as he crossed them over 
 his chest. And the fanner, who had half risen 
 himself, looked fixedly at him for a while, sur- 
 prised and proud. His blood did not rise so 
 quickly as that of the younger man, but it was 
 stirred. A light came into his eyes, the features 
 relaxed; for a moment he forgot his trouble as 
 he saw that a son had come to him, that before 
 him stood a true peasant, a Vendean who loved 
 the dark earth, a future master for La Geniviere, 
 and of the same race as himself and his forebears. 
 He enfolded him in his arms in a strong embrace, 
 and as his gray hairs touched the vigorous head 
 of the young man: 
 
 "I am willing, then," he said. "You can come 
 and speak to her next Sunday, Louis Fauvepre.' 
 
 He had spoken the words of betrothal. The 
 soul of his ancestors must have been present as he 
 uttered them. A thrill passed through the whole 
 white house in greeting of the heir. The door 
 closed softly. Was it happiness returning? The 
 flame on the hearth leaped up. On the farther 
 side of the wall there was the rustling of a dress, 
 the sound of a gliding footstep receding in 
 the distance. At the end of the courtyard a 
 dreaming redbreast sent three notes out into the 
 night. 
 
 At that same hour Pierre Noellet, who had 
 received a short invitation from Monsieur Laubriet
 
 250 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 the day before, was entering the reception-rooms 
 of the latter's house in Rue La Boe'tie. 
 
 "Come, my dear Pierre, all our friends will be 
 there to-morrow evening; your place is among 
 them." 
 
 A large company was assembled, and Pierre, 
 after his salutation to the mistress of the house, had 
 retired to his usual post of vantage near the window. 
 
 In spite of the friendly brevity of Monsieur 
 Laubriet's note, he had had a presentiment that a 
 cruel trial awaited him. He had come, neverthe- 
 less, with a sort of desperate feeling of bravado 
 the feeling made up of pride and courage, which 
 makes us face a trouble or a danger which no flight 
 can avoid, and to say to it: "You are looking for 
 me ; well, here I am. Hit out straight at me, and let 
 me look you full in the face." He had inherited 
 the righting blood from his old grandfather. 
 Pierre had so dreaded hearing the news which he 
 had now run to meet that he had not been near 
 Monsieur Laubriet for a fortnight. Very pale in 
 face, wholly indifferent to the young men who 
 passed by him with their opera-hats in their hand, 
 and who looked astonished, and smiled at the poor 
 boy's tragic countenance, he stood and watched 
 Mademoiselle Laubriet. All eyes were turned 
 upon her; she was the centre of attraction, and 
 looking altogether exquisite in a dress of mign- 
 onette colour, embroidered with gray and white. 
 Independently of this, her whole bearing and the 
 temporary sovereignty of happiness which crowned 
 her brows were sufficient evidence that the enter- 
 tainment was in her honour. Her cousin Ponthual
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 251 
 
 followed her as she passed from group to group, 
 as if to share in the felicitations. He was smiling 
 good-humouredly above his long beard. They 
 were surrounded by bowing black coats, by pretty 
 hands held out by women gloved to the elbow, by 
 a murmur of insipid and conventional words, the 
 tenour of which could be guessed without hearing 
 them, and each one of which was like a dagger in 
 the heart of Pierre Noellet. 
 
 He had had time to taste the whole bitterness 
 of these congratulations, when Ponthual, having 
 completed the circuit of the room, caught sight 
 of his old schoolfellow and came up to him. 
 Madeleine had paused to talk with some of her 
 girl friends, who were devouring her with ques- 
 tions and smiles as they examined her dress. 
 Ponthual had nothing left of his insolent and 
 mocking manner. He was all friendliness, and 
 held out his broad hand to Pierre with the hearty 
 cordiality of strong and happy beings whose hearts 
 are free from rancour. 
 
 "Well, friend," he said, "you know." 
 
 Pierre just touched the tips of PonthuaFs 
 fingers and replied : 
 
 "No, I have heard nothing." 
 
 "Then I will make haste to tell you the news. 
 We are old acquaintances, and I think you will 
 sympathize with me in my happiness: I have 
 been engaged to my cousin Madeleine since the 
 day before yesterday. You are surprised?" 
 
 He took the pallor and the wild looks of this 
 poor creature, whose heart he was unconsciously 
 breaking, for astonishment.
 
 252 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 "No," said Pierre, "I am not surprised. Is it 
 quite settled?" 
 
 "Everything in the most correct and official 
 manner, of which this gathering is a witness. We 
 shall be married in the middle of March. I shall 
 take Madeleine travelling. We shall go Ah, 
 there you are. Good evening. We were hoping 
 you would come." 
 
 Ponthual had turned away to shake hands with 
 a new arrival. 
 
 The torture had lasted long enough. Pierre felt 
 that he should soon lose control over himself. He 
 began to sob. He left the window recess and 
 made his way through the throng to the door. A 
 voice was calling to him. "Make haste; hide 
 your sufferings from this gay crowd. Escape into 
 the heart of the great, indifferent Paris, where 
 sorrows and joys alike are lonely, submerged, 
 unknown, and of which the very dust is familiar 
 with tears. Make haste." 
 
 And yet, as he was on the point of leaving the 
 room, a sudden desire seized him to have one last 
 look at Madeleine. 
 
 She was only a little way from him, distinguish- 
 able among the other girls with whom she was 
 chatting by the incomparable charm which belongs 
 to those who know themselves beloved. Pierre 
 Noellet, as he looked over the heads of the assem- 
 bled guests, across the dazzling glitter of light, the 
 resplendent hangings and the moving pageant of 
 toilettes, had no difficulty in singling her out. 
 
 And her eyes caught sight of him, too. She 
 thought he had only just arrived. She smiled
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 253 
 
 even more engagingly, and, moved by one of the 
 kindly impulses which were uppermost in her that 
 evening, she made a movement as if to go forward 
 and greet him, to thank him for having come, to 
 show herself to him in her new joy in which every- 
 one was sympathizing. 
 
 But it was more than he could bear. The sight 
 of her like that was insupportable, and he turned 
 and fled. 
 
 Soon he found himself alone in the fresh night 
 air, walking rapidly along the pavement. And 
 suddenly, in the midst of the anguish that op- 
 pressed him, the memory of some words addressed 
 to his ambitious youth returned to him with a 
 bitter sense of irony: 
 
 1 1 What a pity some one does not give him a lift ! " 
 It was his tutor speaking, and Loutrel, with his 
 squeaky voice, made answer: "You, with such 
 powers as you possess, could aspire to anything."
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 MERE NOELLET, when informed that same evening 
 of her daughter's betrothal to Louis Fauvepre, was 
 supremely happy. The imagination, which was 
 natural to her, immediately carried her beyond the 
 present, and she saw in the event for which she 
 longed an inducement to the farmer to soften the 
 severity of his attitude toward Pierre, and already 
 pictured the good news being sent off to that 
 marvellous country, in which her thoughts were 
 wandering day and night, and a letter arriving in 
 reply. Yes, a letter! That was the height of her 
 ambition, the dream she had so long cherished, not 
 daring to dwell upon it, and which might now be 
 allowed to blossom on account of the little ray 
 of sunshine which was gilding La Geniviere. 
 
 What could be more natural and reasonable? 
 
 How could her daughter be married, and Pierre 
 not informed of it? And as it never rains but it 
 pours, the farmer's wife, who had known the truth 
 of the proverb as regarded her troubles, said to 
 herself: "No doubt it holds good with happiness, 
 too, and that one good thing brings another. To- 
 day it is my daughter's betrothal, and to-morrow 
 it will be a letter from my son." 
 
 She did not dare speak openly, however, to her 
 husband. She had known him so violent and 
 angry about Pierre, and his resentment against him, 
 
 254
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 255 
 
 although somewhat abated by time, still existed. 
 Above all, she was aware, having many a time had 
 proof of it, that he held it a solemn point of honour 
 not to go back on his word. Julien had never been 
 known to belie himself, whether as regarded a 
 matter of business or a trivial promise of which 
 any one else would have made light. And she 
 knew well, poor woman, that a wife's tears or 
 prayers would have no power to remove the 
 sentence passed upon the child. She had tried 
 too often to have any doubt on this point. 
 
 Finally, it was Abbe* Heurtebise who undertook 
 the task. 
 
 "I will approach him on the subject," he said 
 to her; "you leave it to me." 
 
 Some days went by, and Mere Noellet could hear 
 of nothing having been said, for the abbe* always 
 took his time about everything. He was not one 
 of those who think it does not matter where or 
 when they accost people. Before he entered upon 
 any subject, he liked to feel in a certain frame of 
 mind himself, and to be quite sure that the person 
 he was addressing was in one equally suitable. 
 He had probably come across the farmer several 
 times either in the town or the fields or along the 
 road, but on each occasion either the presence of 
 a third person, or some business on which the 
 farmer was bent, or the state of the weather, or 
 even something more insignificant still, had kept 
 the abbe from giving voice to the words which 
 were all ready to be spoken. 
 
 At last one day, as he was coming down through 
 the copse woods from Vigneau, and was about to
 
 256 "THIS, MY SON' 7 
 
 cross the river, he saw the white walls of La 
 Geniviere in front of him, and Mere Nollett's 
 message flashed across his memory. He closed his 
 breviary, keeping his thumb between the leaves, 
 and began pondering, as he followed the footpath 
 which ran between the bare willow bushes. 
 
 The farmer was just at that moment mending 
 the footbridge which crossed the Evre at the bot- 
 tom of the old piece of waste land. It was simply 
 an oak trunk which had been flung across the 
 water ages back, and which now, split with the 
 sun, and hollowed by the rains, looked like a small 
 boat of bark half full of black mud. So he had 
 turned carpenter for the time, and, astride on the 
 trunk, was nailing on to it a new oak plank. His 
 long legs hung over the gray, sluggish water, which 
 was rippled by the silently expanding eddies. 
 
 And he, too, was thinking of Pierre. 
 
 He had got about half way through his work 
 when, reaching out his hand to take a tool from 
 his box, he accidently lifted his eyes from the old 
 habit of looking to see what the weather was like 
 and caught sight of Abbe Heurtebise descending 
 the copse path toward the river. 
 
 It was inconvenient to the farmer to have to get 
 off the trunk and make room for him to pass. He 
 did not, however, let this be seen, but first replac- 
 ing his tools one by one in his box, he worked him- 
 self back by degrees, still astride the bridge, and 
 helped himself with his two hands till he reached 
 the bank, for he was not sure enough of his old 
 legs to venture to stand upright upon it. 
 
 The abbe" crossed the bridge, which cracked
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 257 
 
 under his heavy foot, not being as yet quite securely 
 fastened, and stopped beside the farmer. They 
 were of equal height; but the farmer, although 
 younger by at least ten years, had no longer the 
 soldier-like air, nor the extraordinarily animated 
 and energetic expression of eye of the elder man. 
 
 "And so you go riding on the trunks of trees 
 now," said the abbe". 
 
 "What would you have me do?" replied Julien. 
 "I have my double weight of sorrow, and that 
 makes me a bit heavy." 
 
 "Have you had any news of your son lately?" 
 The abbe put the question abruptly. 
 
 The farmer seemed troubled by the question, 
 and looked down at the box he was holding. 
 
 "No," he answered, "I have not." 
 
 "How long is it since you had a letter?" 
 
 The farmer made no reply. 
 
 "Has he written to you since May?" the abbe* 
 continued. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And has any one of your household written 
 to him?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "We are now near the end of February, Julien, 
 so it is eight months ago." 
 
 "You may be sure that I have counted them 
 myself," said the farmer. 
 
 "Yes, I can see you are in trouble about it. 
 But that is not enough, my friend. Your son 
 acted wrongly very wrongly. You made use of 
 your authority, and you were in the right. But 
 perhaps you went a little too far, Julien?"
 
 258 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "In forbidding Pierre to write to you. At this 
 moment you are in ignorance as to what may have 
 become of him, body and soul. Are you even 
 sure that he is alive?" 
 
 The word struck home. The farmer gave a 
 start, and glanced up quickly at the abbe. A 
 sudden look of anxiety had come into his eyes. 
 
 "Alive?" he repeated "alive?" 
 
 "Do not be alarmed, Julien. It was only my 
 way of speaking. If he were dead you would have 
 known it. Did not Monsieur Hubert tell us that 
 he saw him from time to time? No, you may be 
 sure that he is still among the living. But does 
 that cover all that it is your duty to know about 
 your son your only son? And will you let your 
 daughter be married without sending him word 
 about it?" 
 
 The farmer stretched forth his arm toward La 
 Geniviere, as if to call it to witness. 
 
 "I sometimes failed in my duty to my father in 
 small matters," he said. "I never knew him take 
 the first step toward reconciliation." 
 
 Pierre, eighty miles away, in the Laubriets' 
 drawing-room, and Julien, on the bank of the Evre, 
 had met in spirit in their similar reply to the same 
 interrogation. 
 
 Abb Heurtebise looked around him at what had 
 been the old waste land, now broken up by a first 
 ploughing, but still cleaving together in great 
 clods of earth, whence protruded the broken, 
 twisted, and already lifeless roots of furze and 
 broom. A shade of sadness passed across his face.
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 259 
 
 "The past," he said; "where is it now, my poor 
 Julien? I am concerned in it as well as you, and 
 yet I say to you, 'You must not let things go on as 
 they are between yourself and your son; it does 
 no good either to you or him.' " 
 
 He did not press the matter further, for he 
 knew his man and his country too well to imagine 
 that he could carry the formidable fortress of 
 Vende"ean resentment in a single assault. 
 
 He nodded quickly to Noellet, and went on up 
 the hill toward Villeneuve along the edge of the 
 ploughed field, where clung bits of the heath that 
 had been cleared away. 
 
 The peasant turned round, and got astride the 
 bridge again to recommence his work. But the 
 echoes no longer rang to the regular strokes of his 
 hammer, for after each nail had been knocked in 
 there was a pause; Julien Noellet was thinking 
 over what the abbe" had just said to him. Now 
 and then an impatient movement of his legs, 
 expressive, no doubt, of some sudden mental 
 exclamation, sent the frightened fishes to the 
 bottom of the Evre, that still ran its cold, slow 
 course under the fine scum of foam.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 HE was thoughtful and anxious, but he had not 
 yet made up his mind. The resolutions of country 
 people take as long to grow and ripen as their 
 harvests. Julien held long talks with himself; 
 he went over the past as he worked in the fields, 
 his trouble at one moment inclining him to say 
 yes, and his self-love at another to say no. Some 
 weeks went by in this unhappy and conflicting 
 state of mind. It might perhaps have gone on 
 longer still if life itself had not suddenly put the 
 question to him afresh, and in a way which al- 
 lowed of no hesitation as to its answer. 
 
 The time fixed for Marie's wedding was now 
 drawing near. It happened on one of the last 
 Sundays, after evensong, that she was waiting, as 
 had been her habit since her betrothal, for Louis 
 Fauvepre to come and have a talk with her. 
 
 Joy and sorrow, those who are dying, and those 
 who are going to be married, the same old walls 
 look on at all that passes. In the middle of the 
 room at La Geniviere the farmer was seated on a 
 bench in front of the table, resting himself, his 
 feet still white from the dust of the road. He had 
 just come in from the town. His wife was folding 
 up her cap on the bed, which, alas, still stood 
 empty. Marie was standing up and listening. 
 She heard a firm step crossing the courtyard, and 
 
 260
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 261 
 
 a little quiver passed over her which seemed 
 to transfigure her face. She looked delightfully 
 pretty in her pleasure and shyness, and when he 
 entered in his fine clothes, proud and confident of 
 her love, she went up to him and put her head on 
 his shoulder, half smiling, half serious, with a look 
 in the direction of the old people as she let him 
 embrace her. Julien made his future son-in-law 
 sit down opposite to him. 
 
 His sad stern face always relaxed a little when 
 he saw Louis Fauvepre, whom love had won for the 
 land. A bright ray of hope warmed his heart. 
 He rejoiced in the thought of a near future when 
 the farm-lands, better worked by the younger 
 hands, would bring the masters in money and 
 when he himself would be relieved of the heavier 
 tasks, and have less worry and fatigue. For, 
 although not an old man, he felt worn out. He 
 had reached the period of life when ambition no 
 longer makes for more distant stages, but returns 
 to the hearth as to the final halting-place. Had 
 not the women seen him for the first time sowing 
 convolvulus and other small seeds under the vine- 
 trellis, taking a fancy to cover the front of the 
 house with flowers? 
 
 When the young man, therefore, had taken his 
 seat on the farther side of the table, Julien Noellet 
 called out in a cheerful voice : 
 
 "Go and fetch a bottle of muscadet, Marie; we 
 will drink to your coming marriage." 
 
 And then he added to Louis Fauvepre: 
 
 "The weather is heavy to-day; we shall have 
 a storm, I think, before nightfall."
 
 262 ''THIS, MY SON" 
 
 "Perhaps so," said the young man; "it will be 
 good for the vetches, which are perishing for want 
 of rain." 
 
 "You are right, Louis Fauvepre; a little wet 
 will do them good, and the wheat too." 
 
 "You've got some fine wheat, Maitre Noellet; 
 you will see, in return for taking me on at La 
 Geniviere, you will have your barns full." 
 
 "It will be always so now, my friend; you have 
 brought me back my luck." 
 
 Marie now placed a bottle and two glasses on 
 the table. As she looked through the open door 
 toward the stables, Fauvepre asked what she saw 
 out there. 
 
 "Two magpies chattering," she answered. "We 
 shall have company." 
 
 She was simple-minded, this tall, good-looking 
 girl; she repeated what she had always heard, 
 and what she half believed: "When two magpies 
 chatter, it is a sign that company is coming." 
 
 "Pooh!" said Fauvepre, "who should be com- 
 ing?" 
 
 "No one," put in Julien. "Formerly, as soon 
 as evensong was over on Sunday, we had a suc- 
 cession of farmers' wives and their children, or of 
 farmers who had business with me; but when a 
 house is in mourning, you see, the people keep away. 
 The magpies are mistaken." 
 
 He had hardly finished speaking when the post- 
 man appeared, who came in, his stick under his 
 arm, and shaking the dust off his shoes. 
 
 "You saw the glasses on the table then?" said 
 the farmer.
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 263 
 
 "No; I have a letter for you." 
 
 The eyes of all present turned to Julien, who 
 rose, seized with a great alarm. 
 
 " Where does it come from?" he asked, with an 
 effort. 
 
 The postman felt in his leathern bag, and an- 
 swered : 
 
 "From Fontainebleau." 
 
 "I do not know that name," said Julien; "is it 
 far from Paris?" 
 
 "About as far as from here to Nantes," replied 
 the postman. 
 
 And he handed the letter to the farmer. 
 
 The latter took it with a trembling hand, and 
 studied the writing upon it for a minute or two. 
 
 "No," he said slowly, "it is not from him." 
 
 And see how contradictory human nature is; 
 he had refused to receive letters from his son, and 
 yet now, when he saw that this one was not from 
 him, his eyes filled with tears. 
 
 "Take it and read it for me, Louis Fauvepre; 
 my sight is too dim to-day." 
 
 The postman went off, and the young man, 
 opening the letter, read aloud as follows: 
 
 " FONTAINEBLEAU, 
 
 "April 16ft, 188 
 "MONSIEUR NOELLET, 
 
 "I am writing to you, moved to do so by 
 
 the sincere friendship which I have felt for your 
 
 son since I first met him in Paris, Quai du Louvre. 
 
 "Pierre is no longer the man he was. Life, 
 
 which seemed to smile upon him, has suddenly
 
 264 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 been clouded. Since the cruel disappointment of 
 December 28, he has lost all his strength and 
 energy. He is doing nothing; he is ill; he has, 
 I hear, forfeited his position on the Don Juan. 
 Trouble, illness, absinthe, which is so fatal, would 
 soon bring him into the most deplorable condition 
 if some friend did not warn you of the danger. 
 I have taken this task upon myself. It is for you 
 now to see what can be done. Do your duty; I 
 consider that I have done mine. 
 
 "Your obedient servant, 
 
 "CHABERSOT." 
 
 For some time there was a dead silence after 
 Louis Fauvepre had finished reading. The letter 
 was somewhat of a mystery to the people of La 
 Geniviere, owing to the less familiar language of 
 the old humanist, and to their ignorance concern- 
 ing events to which he referred. 
 
 It was the mother who first broke silence. 
 
 " Pierre is ill like the other one!" she cried, 
 bursting into tears. "You see, he has not even 
 the strength to write!" 
 
 "Why should you think that?" said the farmer. 
 "I forbade him to write, and that is a sufficient 
 reason, I think!" 
 
 "Poor child!" she continued, "and that letter is 
 nothing to you? You do not realize that he is 
 unhappy, that he is " 
 
 "He is punished," said Noellet. "I knew he 
 would be, but in what way is not explained." 
 
 He spoke quietly, and his look and the sound of 
 his voice showed that the old anger had given way.
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 265 
 
 But Mere Noellet was too agitated herself to notice 
 this. 
 
 Seeing Marie also in tears, the farmer told the 
 women to go. 
 
 "You will not mend anything with your crying. 
 I must talk over this with Louis Fauvepre." 
 
 They went into the next room, and when the 
 men were alone: "What happened on December 
 28?" asked the farmer. 
 
 "It was the day you consented to my marriage 
 with Marie." 
 
 "Yes, I remember, after the clearing up of the 
 waste. But it is not that to which the letter refers. 
 What does it say?" 
 
 "The cruel disappointment." 
 
 "Do you know what it means?" 
 
 "Indeed I do not." 
 
 " He is ill and in trouble ; there is no doubt about 
 that," said the father. 
 
 "He has taken to drink," added Fauvepre; 
 "he is intoxicating himself with absinthe and 
 that's bad." 
 
 "Really?'/ 
 
 "I have known men in the regiment who died 
 from drinking it." 
 
 "Who died from it!" repeated the fanner. 
 
 He hid his face in his hands, meditating on this 
 grave and unexpected news. But he felt unable 
 to think of anything; he only had confused visions 
 of his son and a feeling of some overwhelming 
 trouble of heart. At last he took hold of Louis 
 Fauvepre's hand. 
 
 "I cannot think what to do," he said. "Give
 
 266 "THIS, MY SON' 1 
 
 me your advice, my dear boy; tell me how to 
 act." 
 
 "Do you want me to give you my frank opin- 
 ion?" 
 
 "Yes; tell it me." 
 
 "Go and bring your son home." 
 
 "What are you thinking of, Fauve"pre? Go to 
 him, to a boy who has lied to me!" 
 
 "I know it." 
 
 "Who was the cause of his brother's death, who 
 has brought me nothing but poverty and shame 
 since he was a man " 
 
 "Maitre Noellet," said the young man in a tone 
 of decision, "all that is now past and over. Pierre 
 is ill, and you should have no other thought about 
 him now but that he is your child, and that he 
 needs you." 
 
 "If he is ill, there are doctors over there to look 
 after him, and if when he is well again he wishes 
 to return, he is old enough to find the road that he 
 took when he went away." 
 
 "He will not return along it alone, Maitre 
 Noellet, after your having driven him away." 
 
 "Besides, he has not sent for me." 
 
 "The letter does that for him. Go and bring 
 him home, Maitre Noellet." 
 
 "And after that?" 
 
 "After that, it will be time to think what else 
 to do. I do not know what will happen then, but 
 you will have done your duty." 
 
 "And then I have never travelled so far in my 
 life," said Noellet, feeling staggered. 
 
 "Very well, then you can begin now," replied
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 267 
 
 the young man. "It is never too late to do that. 
 If you want a companion, take Antoinette not 
 Marie, of course." 
 
 The farmer sat frowning and thinking, with bent 
 head. Then he drew himself up, held his glass up 
 to the level of his eye, and said : 
 
 "You have spoken like a man! Let us drink to 
 your marriage, Louis Fauvepre, for we have not 
 done so yet." 
 
 They drank, put their glasses down on the table, 
 and sat on in silence, and the women, hearing that 
 their voices had ceased, came back into the room 
 and tried to read in the men's faces to what de- 
 cision they had come. 
 
 Then, after another minute had passed, the 
 farmer looked at Fauvepre, saying: 
 
 "Yes, my friend, I will go and fetch my son." 
 
 Mere Noellet clasped her hands together. 
 
 "What did you say?" she cried. "Noellet, 
 do not cheat my hopes. You are going to fetch 
 him?" 
 
 Filled with a hardly believable joy, she lent 
 toward them, interrogating first her husband's 
 face, and then that of her future son-in-law, not 
 able to trust her own happiness. 
 
 Noellet was paler than usual, but also calmer, 
 and pleased with his own courage. 
 
 Louis Fauvepre looked at Marie, proud of feeling 
 himself loved, consulted, and almost worshipped 
 by the members of his newly-found home.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 MERE NOELLET began immediately to pack up in 
 preparation for the journey. It was not a heavy 
 task, for the travellers only took with them a small, 
 black-covered basket, fastened with a peg, suffi- 
 cient to hold a few provisions and a handkerchief, 
 cap, and white collar for Antoinette, who wished 
 to do honour to Paris. But the good woman 
 spent twice the time in looking up these things 
 than was necessary. She forgot first one and then 
 the other, her thoughts, winged with affection, 
 flying to her son, trying to picture the joy, and to 
 fancy what the first words would be, as he stepped 
 over the threshold of La Geniviere; for now that 
 he was free to return, she would not even allow 
 herself to think for a moment that he would not 
 come back. To return home, was not that a cure 
 for everything? Mon Dieu! how would she be 
 able to bear this great joy, she who had never seen 
 him since he left? And he, what would he say 
 when he saw his father and Antoinette, his favour- 
 ite sister, as bright with youth as a morning con- 
 volvulus, arriving in Paris? 
 
 Her dear child ! She forgave him so fully for all 
 his sins that she even asked herself if she had ever 
 had any feeling against him except the great regret 
 of not being able any longer to kiss him. 
 
 He ungrateful? No one who knew him could 
 
 268
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 269 
 
 accuse him of that ! On the contrary, how grateful 
 he had been for all the compliments showered on 
 him, when he ran home from school with the silver 
 cross which even now was lying in the cupboard 
 so full of mementoes of the past ! The illness and 
 the trouble of which the letter spoke, were they not 
 all due to his having been sent away from home? 
 Was it likely he would not suffer when she, now 
 almost an old woman, felt only half alive separated 
 from her Noellet? But now all that was over. 
 Louis Fauvepre ah, the worthy man! had per- 
 suaded the father to take this great journey to 
 Paris, and Pierre would now be sure to return. 
 
 She perpetually caught herself dreaming like 
 this, and each time began trotting off again and 
 scolding herself for allowing her thoughts to wan- 
 der so whenever she thought of her Noellet. 
 
 The farmer and the girls were already fast 
 asleep before she had finished packing the basket, 
 pinning the handkerchief, and overhauling and 
 brushing the clothes which she spread ready for 
 the travellers on two chairs. Every one, herself 
 included, was up before dawn. 
 
 She lit a fire with a fagot of vine-branches, 
 around which there were reiterated farewells, and 
 loving and needless cautions; and then Julien and 
 Antoinette, deeply .affected at leaving the farm, 
 were carried off by La Roussette through the frosty 
 morning air. 
 
 La Rousette, with her slender legs, was as fast 
 a trotter as ever, and covered the ground like a 
 woodland doe. They reached Chalonnes in good 
 time. The cart was put up at the hotel. The
 
 270 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 travellers crossed the bridges over the Loire on 
 foot, got into the express for Paris, and, bumped 
 and shaken, went on without stopping until they 
 reached the station of Saint-Lazare at three 
 o'clock in the afternoon. 
 
 Julien Noellet had passed the time in conversa- 
 tion with a sheep-farmer, and Antoinette in look- 
 ing out of the window at the fields as they flew 
 dizzily past.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 "WELL, here you are in Paris, Maitre Noellet!" 
 said the sheep-farmer, as he jumped on to the 
 platform. "Go down the Rue d' Amsterdam, the 
 Rue du Havre, cross over the Boulevard Hauss- 
 man, and you will then have only about a quarter 
 of an hour's walk to the Rue Caumartin, near the 
 large boulevards, and will find yourself opposite 
 the offices of the Don Juan." 
 
 Whereupon he bid farewell to his fellow-passen- 
 gers, who were somewhat alarmed at finding them- 
 selves all alone so far from home. 
 
 Julien and Antoinette, following the directions 
 given them, started on their walk across Paris, 
 going slowly, and much delayed at every crossing 
 by the number of vehicles that streamed past them. 
 They were a curious-looking couple, these two 
 peasants, as they stood on the pavement amid the 
 bustle and glitter of the great city, which was 
 unusually alive, every one taking advantage of a 
 day of sunshine he with his unsophisticated ap- 
 pearance, his short waistcoat, his long hair, his 
 austere face, walking with the same long strides, 
 and in the same calm, deliberate manner, as if he 
 was following the plough ; she, delicate and pretty, 
 with her black dress and lace cap, dazzled and 
 attracted by a thousand things at once. She 
 loitered a little behind her father as they passed in 
 
 271
 
 272 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 front of the shops, and would have liked to pause 
 and gaze at the windows the dresses, the jewel- 
 lery, the early fruits and vegetables from Algeria 
 and the south piled in baskets, the displays of 
 linen drapery, earthenware, and even of toys 
 everything tempted her. But her father took her 
 by the arm, saying: "Come, Toinette, it is your 
 brother we are here to see." He could think of 
 nothing but the child for whose sake he had left 
 La Geniviere. There was but one attraction for 
 him in Paris his son. All his thoughts were oc- 
 cupied with wondering in what condition he would 
 find him, what he should say to him, and how he 
 should get him home. 
 
 Not having the slightest acquaintance with 
 Paris, and being unaccustomed to look for names 
 of streets on blue plates, they naturally lost their 
 way, and found themselves in the Place de F0pe*ra, 
 surrounded by the immense concourse of human 
 beings who flooded the boulevards. They made 
 their way now with some difficulty, jostled against 
 one another, and occasioning a momentary sur- 
 prise as they threaded the crowd. People turned 
 round for an instant to look at them. Antoinette, 
 full of wonder, opened wide her golden-lashed eyes. 
 Her sixteen years were like a song that appealed to 
 everybody's heart, and many felt theirs grow 
 younger for having only brushed past her in the 
 crowd, and remarked with brightening humour : 
 
 "What a pretty girl!" Yes, look at her well, 
 you men and women of the pavement; it is the 
 deep-musing country, the spring, that is passing. 
 When the spring goes by our souls take wing.
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 273 
 
 Julien Noellet, tired with the noise that seemed 
 deafening after the silence he was accustomed to, 
 stood still at the corner of the boulevard, and said 
 to his daughter: 
 
 "Ask some one where the offices of the Don 
 Juan are, Antoinette. We shall never get there. 
 The houses here are too many." 
 
 "My pretty child," answered the costermonger 
 she had questioned, "you are close by; two steps 
 farther, the second on the right." 
 
 A little more searching about, and at last they 
 were in the Rue Caumartin, and had reached the 
 offices of the Don Juan. 
 
 For the first time the farmer looked round him 
 with some curiosity. To the left was the boule- 
 vard he had just left, to the right a continuation of 
 the street he was in, and facing him a large folding 
 door standing open and leading into a vestibule 
 piled with packages of tied-up papers. Overhead, 
 on a level with the first floor, was written in red 
 letters on a transparent background, "The Don 
 Juan, literary, social, and financial paper, ten 
 centimes." 
 
 The farmer, followed by Antoinette, ascended 
 the dusty staircase, and soon came to the landing, 
 where he saw two doors: Manager's Office, Editor's 
 Office. These words conveyed no meaning to him. 
 For a moment he stood still, holding his hand to 
 his heart, which was beating violently; then he 
 opened one of them on chance. 
 
 A clerk, heavy with sleep and idleness, his 
 elbows on a blotting-pad, looked up. At sight of 
 the Noellets he smiled patronizingly, as much as
 
 274 "THIS, MY SON' 3 
 
 to say: "You must have come a long way not to 
 know that there is nobody at the Dan Juan before 
 eight o'clock, that at eight o'clock I light up and 
 take my stand at the telephone"; but he merely 
 asked: 
 
 "Whom do you wish to see?" 
 
 "We wish to see Pierre Noellet," answered the 
 farmer. 
 
 "You are lucky; he is the only one of the staff 
 who is here during these hours." 
 
 "Then he is here?" 
 
 "Yes; but one might as well say that he is not." 
 
 "He is ill, is he not?" 
 
 "How do you know? Who are you, may I 
 ask?" 
 
 "I am his father, Julien Noellet, from Fief- 
 Sauvin." 
 
 He spoke with a quiet dignity, which seemed to 
 awaken some ancient feeling of respect in this 
 official. 
 
 "I had a good man for my father, who was 
 something like you, Monsieur Noellet," he said. 
 He rose, looked at the farmer a moment, and 
 added: "Since you have come to see your son, 
 I ought perhaps to warn you that he may not 
 recognize you. He has had a great trouble, poor 
 young man! I do not know rightly what it is. 
 It is nearly three months ago now. He has taken 
 to drinking absinthe, and you know that spares 
 nobody. He came here his head all muddled and 
 unable to do his work. Monsieur Thie"nard saw 
 the state of things, and some scenes took place. 
 And, well, the day before yesterday "
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 275 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 "Your son was dismissed. It is a pity a 
 promising young man. But, then, this cursed 
 absinthe has got hold of him. He no longer 
 knows what he is doing, and for two days past he 
 has come here as if he had never been sent away. 
 I let him be in the sub-editorial room, since nobody 
 comes there during the afternoon, and he sleeps." 
 
 "Take me to him/' said Noellet. 
 
 The man led them through a padded door and 
 along a passage. At the end was the sub-editorial 
 room, with its vulgar fittings and green wall-papers, 
 a long table running down the middle, overhung 
 with gas-jets in the shape of circumflex accents, 
 each capped with a fringed shade, and there, on a 
 sofa against the wall, his eyes shut, very pale, in a 
 heavy drunken sleep, lay his son. 
 
 A great pity overcame the father. Before him 
 rose the remembrance of the strong, healthy 
 Vende'ean he had reared. Could that emaciated 
 young man lying there really be his Pierre? Was 
 the thin blue blood which hardly coloured his 
 brow the red blood of the Noellets that had 
 formerly blossomed on his lips? It was, indeed, 
 high time that he should come and carry his child 
 away into his own country! 
 
 With two or three rapid strides he crossed the 
 room, and, lifting his son's head with both his 
 hands, cried in a trembling voice : 
 
 ' ' Pierre, Pierre, my boy, wake up ; it is I ! " And 
 as Pierre still did not open his eyes, "It is I," he 
 repeated, "and Antoinette; it is La Geniviere 
 come to Paris!"
 
 276 'THIS, MY SON" 
 
 Antoinette had taken one of the limp hands in 
 hers, and was kissing it as she knelt beside her 
 brother. 
 
 The warmth of this child's kiss brought a mo- 
 mentary awakening from the heavy intoxication 
 that was weighing upon Pierre. He opened his 
 eyes, gave a stupefied stare at Antoinette's white 
 cap, and then looked up at his father, who was 
 standing motionless in front of him. A little 
 shudder passed over him, as if of fear. 
 
 "Father!" he murmured, "father!" 
 
 His head fell back again on the sofa, and the 
 transitory gleam of consciousness that had enabled 
 him to recognize his father was succeeded by the 
 former dull torpor of sleep. 
 
 It was a disgraceful sight, this young, handsome, 
 cultivated man lying there like a brute beast, with 
 the inertness of a log. In vain had Pierre cast off 
 his belongings, in vain mixed with the world; he 
 still remained at bottom a man of the people; 
 their passions had but slumbered within him, and 
 they had suddenly awakened as soon as he lost 
 the ambition that had transformed him. 
 
 With the first trouble that fell on him he had 
 turned to drink, like any farm labourer who has 
 just received his dismissal. 
 
 Julien felt a keen shame, and the look of com- 
 miseration on the face of the witness of this scene 
 was acute suffering to him. His honour was never 
 slow to speak, and he came to an abrupt resolution. 
 
 "At what hour does he generally wake?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Toward evening. But he is no better in his
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 277 
 
 mind even then. You can see that he is killing 
 himself, poor lad." 
 
 "I do, indeed. Where are his things?" 
 
 There was a moment's hesitation; then the man 
 answered: 
 
 "I am afraid he has nothing left, Monsieur 
 Noellet; he has sold everything." 
 
 "Where does he lodge?" 
 
 "He has changed his rooms, and I could not tell 
 you where he lives now." 
 
 The farmer made no further inquiries; he did 
 not even trouble himself to consider whether this 
 man might possibly be lying and taking advantage 
 of the exceptional situation into which chance had 
 brought him, for he had but one thought to go 
 away, to save his son. 
 
 "Very well, then," he said "I will take him 
 away at once." 
 
 "Where to?" 
 
 "Straight to the station." 
 
 "There is no train before this evening, Monsieur 
 Noellet." 
 
 "I will wait, then. I care about nothing, so that 
 I can get him out of the town. It was on his ac- 
 count alone that I came, you understand, and I 
 wish to take him away." 
 
 The man had already got his head out of the 
 window and was hailing an empty cab. 
 
 And so it was that the following night Julien 
 Noellet, who sat motionless in the corner of the 
 carriage, took his two children, who were lying on
 
 278 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 the opposite seat, back to Vended. There were 
 no other passengers in the carriage. Paris, already 
 left far behind, was being gradually hidden from 
 view by the villas and thick trees that bordered 
 the line. A line of lights running along some 
 sloping or winding suburban road could just be 
 seen now and then through the opening of a narrow 
 cutting, a last breach giving access to the great 
 city. The train sped along with the slight rolling 
 movement that is so lulling in its effect. Pierre 
 and Antoinette were both asleep, lying nearly full 
 length under the light of the lamp. The old 
 peasant did not tire of contemplating them. His 
 heart was full of tender emotion, full of recollec- 
 tions. At moments, irresistibly overcome with 
 fatigue, he fancied that it was ten years earlier, 
 when they were both still small, and that he was 
 going softly with bare feet about the two rooms at 
 La Geniviere to look at his sleeping family.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 PIERRE woke up long before they reached La 
 Geniviere. His father, who had been waiting 
 for this moment, said: 
 
 "Well, my child, do you know where we are 
 going? We are getting near Vended now. We 
 shall be home before noon. Are you glad?" 
 
 But Pierre made no reply. All through the 
 journey he had been in a kind of dreamlike stupor, 
 letting himself be ordered and taken about like 
 a child. Nothing seemed to rouse him out of it, 
 not even the arrival at the farm, the sight and 
 kisses of Mere Noellet, who was half out of her 
 mind with joy, his sisters' questioning, or the 
 familiar surroundings of La Geniviere. He was 
 entirely and stupidly indifferent. There was not a 
 spark of life in his eyes, which had been so full of 
 fire. When he now and then spoke a few words, 
 it was as if he was not certain of his speech. He 
 had to make an effort to understand what was 
 said to him, and the effort brought on a fresh 
 collapse. The poison with which he had been 
 saturating himself for months past seemed to have 
 taken all the life out of him. "He is very ill," 
 thought all the good people of La Geniviere. And 
 moved with a concealed pity, they did not linger 
 long about him, but dispersed here and there to 
 
 279
 
 280 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 their several duties : Marie, Antoinette, the father, 
 and the farm-servant, who had run up on hearing 
 the cart drive in. The daily work began again 
 round Pierre, who sat near the fire burying his 
 face in his hands. Mere Noellet alone, having no 
 heart for work, remained beside him. She had 
 hoped for a happier return of her child. She went 
 from room to room until the evening, ceaselessly 
 looking after and attending upon him, watching 
 and waiting for the other return that she was 
 expecting. But she watched in vain. None of 
 her tender maternal ministrations succeeded in 
 arousing her son from his melancholy torpor. 
 When night came she sorrowfully pointed to the 
 bed which had been his in former times, and Pierre, 
 worn out, lay down and fell fast asleep. 
 
 It was near morning, but still quite dark, when 
 Pierre awoke to full consciousness. 
 
 He opened his eyes, and trembled. The feeling 
 familiar to his youth came over him again, the 
 shuddering feeling of those moments of waking 
 amid the absolute silence of the country, the sense 
 of the surrounding darkness, of being a mere dot 
 lost in the immensity of shadow. He put his 
 hands out gropingly to feel the smoked posts of 
 his bed. It was really then La Geniviere, the nest 
 of his childhood, where he and Jacques had been 
 together in the old happy days. He saw again all 
 the faces of those belonging to him, of Antoinette 
 and Marie, of his father and mother, as if they 
 were actually looking at him through the wall. 
 Dear eyes, full of tender reproach, gazing long and 
 searchingly at him. A thousand visions of the
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 281 
 
 past rose up before him. And with delight Pierre 
 became aware that he had recovered the free 
 power of thought. He rose and put his ear to the 
 door. He could hear the calm breathing of his 
 sleeping sisters. He went and looked up the wide 
 opening under the sloping projection of the great 
 chimney-piece. He could see the stars, already 
 paling, passing overhead. A little chirrup came 
 from a bird in the courtyard. It was the robin 
 redbreast at roost on the wood-stack, a vigilant 
 watchman, who was in the habit during the night 
 of making known in this way that all was well. 
 Pierre recognized the sound and smiled. He lay 
 down again, and continued his gentle dreaming, 
 greatly moved at finding himself at home once 
 more, and at feeling the child's heart being born 
 anew within him. Soon he heard a linnet giving 
 notice of the dawn with a hesitating prelude of 
 song, then it was a blackbird, and the magpies 
 giving chase to one another among the trees of 
 the ravine. A flight of crows brushed against the 
 roof in the early twilight. A glimmer of light shot 
 through the window : the dawn! the dawn! 
 
 And the father, coming out of his room, crept 
 up to the side of his son's bed, and to his astonish- 
 ment found him awake. 
 
 "Are you feeling better, my boy?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 "Do you remember that I came to fetch you 
 from Paris the day before yesterday?" 
 
 "Very indistinctly. I could fancy that my 
 coming here was all a dream." 
 
 "Are you vexed with me for doing so?"
 
 282 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 Pierre turned his head a little aside, as if 
 ashamed, and answered: 
 
 "Father, you did well to bring me away." 
 
 There was some reluctance and a great deal of 
 pride still in this acknowledgement, but the father 
 went away happy. 
 
 Neither on this day nor on any of the succeeding 
 ones did Julien and his son ever refer to the past. 
 Of what use to do so? For the present, however 
 unhappy the past and uncertain the future, the 
 farmer had his child back again, and he asked 
 for nothing more. He knew the value of these 
 truces in life. He was rejoicing in this one. His 
 dear Vendee, he thought, could not fail to be a 
 good adviser to this son she had recovered, and 
 so he held his peace, and let her do her work. 
 Later on one would see one would talk about 
 things. And the home, being now full again, 
 seemed dearer to him again. He began to come 
 in earlier than had been his custom, and as he 
 looked round on his family the old happy expres- 
 sion it had lost for so long came over his face once 
 more. 
 
 As for Pierre, the resurrection had begun. He 
 kept very much to himself, avoided the town, and 
 generally started early in the morning and went 
 right away into the fields. The country wel- 
 comed him, and gathered him to her heart with 
 the great tender smile she keeps for those who 
 have loved her. He roved at large about it, 
 walking slowly in whichever direction chance 
 might lead him, listening to the voice of his native 
 Vende*e, who had known him when he was young
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 283 
 
 and glad to be alive. She spoke to him of his 
 childhood. She worked on him with the memories 
 brought back by every step he took; little by little 
 the things which he had thought dead revived 
 within him: peace, energy, confidence in the 
 future a rather uncertain confidence as yet, but 
 strong enough to be consoling. He took hold of 
 life again, and life took hold of him. The salubri- 
 ous air of the heaths, the long walks, the calm of 
 mind, all helped to bring back some colour to his 
 cheeks. His eyes regained some of their former 
 brightness, and became less wandering in their 
 expression. He returned home every day a little 
 better and stronger both in mind and body. 
 
 There was only one group of trees toward which 
 he never turned his eyes, one direction in which 
 he never walked. So many bitter feelings were 
 still brooding at his heart! How could he bear 
 the sight of that park, of that house, where 
 Madeleine Laubriet reigned as mistress Made- 
 leine, who before long Whenever, at some turn 
 of the road, the rounded tops of certain wide- 
 spreading oak-trees or the slender outline of a 
 certain poplar swaying down there in the wind 
 came in view, Pierre quickly turned away. 
 
 Was this near neighbourhood of La Landehue 
 the only reason, then, that prevented him for 
 two whole weeks from going to see Me*lie Rainette? 
 Alas, no. He accused himself of ingratitude, and 
 reproached himself afresh every day for giving no 
 sign of remembrance, or even the compensation of 
 a word of gratitude, to this unfortunate girl who 
 had suffered ill-treatment on his account. Never-
 
 284 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 theless, he kept away from her. He was afraid 
 of the secret that he had once confided to her, and 
 which might give her occasion to triumph over 
 him. "What has become of Madeleine Lande- 
 hue?" she would say. "My poor friend, she is 
 married." And he seemed to hear the vindictive 
 raillery of Me" lie's voice, for her feeling of friend- 
 ship for him such was the name he gave to the 
 devotion she had shown him had probably be- 
 come embittered by neglect and poverty. 
 
 In spite of his fine philosophy, he was surely a 
 bad judge of such a love and such a woman. 
 
 However, he at last overcame his reluctance, 
 and one afternoon walked to the town by the path 
 which ran along outside her garden. As he drew 
 near the garden gate, he saw Me'lie Rainette, who 
 was pretending to be busy weeding. She had been 
 working like this for some hours every day for 
 nearly a fortnight past, in daily expectation of 
 the visit which he more than owed her. He was 
 struck with her pallor, and with the somewhat 
 scornful dignity of her manner. She reminded 
 him of Madonnas he had seen at exhibitions in 
 Paris, with her eyes that, set in their dark circles, 
 looked too large for the small oval of the face. 
 
 She showed no sign of surprise on seeing him, 
 and went up to the gate before he had time to 
 open it. 
 
 He had better perhaps remain on the further 
 side as if a mere passer-by, since the town had 
 given her such a bad name. He understood, and 
 remained standing, watching her approach. She 
 was poorly clad in a very shabby dress she,
 
 
 
 THIS, MY SON" 285 
 
 Me"lie, formerly so dainty in her attire and had 
 on wooden shoes. She looked almost like a 
 beggar. 
 
 She paused, leaning on the handle of her garden 
 spade. 
 
 "You were passing this way?" she said sadly. 
 
 "No, I have come to see you. I ought to have 
 come before, I know " 
 
 "You owed me nothing," she interrupted; 
 "there is no need to make excuses. Have you 
 been ill?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "With trouble, I suppose? My poor Pierre, if 
 you knew how distressed I felt for you when I 
 heard that Madeleine Laubriet was going to be 
 married." 
 
 There was no mockery in her voice far from 
 it. She looked so kind and sympathetic that her 
 pity quite overcame him. He yielded to the bitter 
 pleasure enjoyed by those who suffer, and began 
 talking of his own trouble. 
 
 "If you knew," he said, "what it is to love, and 
 all at once to feel oneself despised, rejected, as I 
 have been." 
 
 "Yes, I know; the heart breaks under it." 
 
 "I felt so lonely, Me*lie, when this dream, which 
 had been with me since I was a child, was taken 
 from me." 
 
 "In truth, when a sorrow like that falls upon 
 one, it seems as if there was no longer any meaning 
 in life. As for work, it becomes altogether dis- 
 tasteful." 
 
 " Yes, I left off work ; I lost my post; I was out
 
 286 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 of my senses. And I am still, truth to say, for 
 there is not an hour of the day when I am not 
 thinking of her." 
 
 "To dwell on that which never can and never 
 will be, that is torture." 
 
 "Yes, M61ie, and to recall the days of hope is 
 another." 
 
 "One has no power to drive away the memory 
 of those days; whether they were happy or un- 
 happy, they are all sad now in some way or 
 other. And you made so many sacrifices for her, 
 Pierre." 
 
 "They were all for her, Melie even the sacrifice 
 of my parents." 
 
 "They cost you nothing, then." 
 
 "Nothing; I offered them to her as secret 
 pledges of my love." 
 
 "But I expect you have counted them over since 
 in anger, asking yourself how so much devotion, 
 so much affection lavished for years " 
 
 "For ten years." 
 
 "Yes, for years and years, could have been 
 unperceived by her." 
 
 "Yes, it is so, as you say." 
 
 "How any one could trample a poor human 
 being under foot as heedlessly as one might an 
 uncomplaining bit of ivy or moss." 
 
 "It is wonderful, Me*h'e. How exactly you un- 
 derstand these things!" 
 
 One of those smiles that lessen none of the 
 sadness of a face, for they come from the sad 
 depths of the heart, rose to Melie's lips. 
 
 "I?" she said. "My life has been very lonely,
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 287 
 
 and I have known some suffering. That is how 
 I come to understand." 
 
 "Yes, Me"lie, you with your heart and your 
 intelligence, you can understand how I feel 
 picturing her as the wife of another man a man 
 inferior to me in intellect who has neither fought 
 nor suffered for her as I have, and who had neither 
 reputation, nor any artistic or scientific work, or 
 self-made fortune, nor indeed the least personal 
 effort or sacrifice to offer her in homage. Ah, 
 would I knew what was in the hearts of these 
 rich girls, and how these favoured ones feel! I 
 would I knew for certain whether she ever felt 
 for me " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "The least feeling akin to love; a secret esteem 
 or even just a little pity." 
 
 "Do not think about that, Pierre. There is 
 only one thing for you now: to set to work and 
 resign yourself to fate." 
 
 "I am far from that as yet." 
 
 ' ' Not so far as you think. With a little courage, 
 you will soon have overcome all your anger and 
 resentment, and be able to wish happiness to those 
 who have ignored you, even though it cannot 
 come from you " 
 
 "Never! You do not know me." 
 
 "You will be able to say to yourself, should you 
 ever see her again, 'You, whom I loved, I know 
 that I can never be anything to you; nevertheless, 
 I am happy if you are happy.' " 
 
 And she added very softly: 
 
 "Believe me, Pierre, it is possible."
 
 288 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 Pierre Noellet looked with astonishment at the 
 unpretending weaver of Fief-Sauvin, who, in this 
 simple and natural way, was urging upon him so 
 dignified and noble an attitude of behaviour. 
 
 "Melie," he said, "I am not so perfect as you; 
 I feel weak and passionate, but I thank you all 
 the same. You have done me good." 
 
 Again the sad smile crossed the girl's face, and 
 she said: 
 
 "It is because we have been talking of her." 
 
 " Perhaps. I shall come and see you again, 
 Me"lie." 
 
 "At the end of another fortnight?" 
 
 "Don't be spiteful. Where shall I be this day 
 fortnight? I dare not think about it. No, to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "But to-morrow, Pierre, is your sister's wed- 
 ding day." 
 
 "Just so. You can guess that I shall run away 
 from all that noise and gaiety as quickly as I can. 
 And since you are not among the invited guests, I 
 shall come here after supper, may I?" 
 
 "Yes, while the dancing is going on down there. 
 How happy Marie is!" 
 
 Me"lie Rainette could not finish her sentence. 
 
 Pierre's unconscious cruelty, the contrast be- 
 tween Marie's fate and her own, were too much for 
 her courageous resolutions, and she began to cry. 
 
 "You are hurt at not having been invited?" 
 said Pierre. "It is partly my fault, my dear girl; 
 forgive me." 
 
 He put his arm over the gate and took her hand. 
 
 "To-morrow, then," he added; "to-morrow."
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 289 
 
 But no look of pleasure came into Melie's face; 
 on the contrary, her eyes filled with a deep sorrow, 
 and she replied, her voice choked with tears, 
 which she tried in vain to check : 
 
 "Yes, Pierre, to-morrow we will talk about her 
 again." 
 
 He left her feeling disturbed. This Me"lie, what 
 was the matter with her? She was a girl of hum- 
 ble birth, but certainly of very refined mind, and 
 with such keen perception of feeling. 
 
 "Yes," thought Pierre to himself, "she said 
 several things to me which would never have 
 occurred to many better educated women. I 
 talked of nothing but myself and my troubles. 
 She had no complaint to make, and yet life has 
 been hard for her, too. She would make an 
 excellent wife, self-sacrificing and devoted; strong, 
 faithful natures like hers must bring great happi- 
 ness to those who are born to be happy." 
 
 He went along the path till he reached the spot 
 near MeUie's garden, whence, on account of a gap 
 in the hedge, one could get a view of Landehue. 
 He turned his head, and there suddenly before him 
 was the park, with its great masses of trees, and 
 the meadows with their hawthorn hedges. Alas, 
 those fresh young leaves! Those newly-raked 
 paths that widened out in front of the white stone 
 flight of steps, those flowering beds silent, that 
 house which one felt was on the point of throwing 
 open its doors, were they not all signs of the 
 approaching nuptial? He passed quickly on and 
 reached La Geniviere. There, in the courtyard, 
 he found three youths setting up a tall Maypole,
 
 290 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 round which were hung barrels garnished with 
 bottles. Their loud laughter, the blows of their 
 pickaxes and bars of iron on the flinty ground 
 could be heard far afield. La Geniviere also was 
 preparing for festivity. To-morrow Marie was to 
 be married. The Mauges would soon be able to 
 boast of another happy family. Marie had loved 
 a plain blacksmith; she had been without ambi- 
 tion, and had found happiness. 
 "And I?" thought Pierre sorrowfully, "and I?"
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 IT was a fine affair, this wedding of Marie's. The 
 sun, without which nothing is beautiful, had 
 joined in the festivity from early morning. Its 
 rays fell warmly through the breaks in the gray 
 mesh of clouds that covered the sky. The tem- 
 perate joy of the weather shed its influence on all 
 around. Clothed in the mild light, the houses 
 of Fief-Sauvin took on an air of amiability. The 
 bells rang out so clearly that all the Mauges must 
 have heard them. The whole population of the 
 town was at their doors. And when, as the clock 
 struck ten, Marie emerged from the church on the 
 arm of Louis Fauvepre, when the fiddler rushed 
 from the tavern to take his place at the head of 
 the procession, which was to escort Marie home, 
 then was the time for every one to admire Marie's 
 bridal dress of black poplin, her thick-ribbed 
 shawl of white silk, the flowing ribbons which fell 
 from her waist to the ground, her fine lace head- 
 dress, and the wreath that might have been 
 gathered from the orange-trees of La Landehue. 
 A handsome pair, in truth! Louis Fauvepre 
 radiant, Marie bashful at the many eyes turned 
 upon her, and at her own happiness, which she 
 could not hide. The fiddler himself was proud 
 of them. What flourishes of the bow! How the 
 thin fingers of the humpbacked tailor flew over 
 
 291
 
 292 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 the strings! As he passed along playing, the 
 young people began fidgeting their feet, moved 
 with a longing to dance, while the old ones grew 
 bold enough to walk a few steps without their 
 sticks, which they waved above their heads. 
 
 There were at least two hundred persons in the 
 procession all the relations and all the friends, 
 except Me" lie Rainette, were there. They passed 
 slowly down through the town, and then, turning 
 off the high road, followed the path that led to the 
 farm. Hardly a year had passed since they had 
 all trod that same way; it was the same time of 
 year; the same apple trees were in flower, 'the 
 same wind blowing through the trees, but then 
 they were carrying Jacques to his grave. 
 
 Were there any among them who remembered 
 this? The trees did, without doubt, for they gave 
 to the happiness that was passing what they had 
 given before to the sorrow a rain of white 
 blossoms. 
 
 And still the fiddle went on with its tune, which 
 was no less enlivening than a call to hounds. 
 When, as the bridal party neared the farm, the 
 boys in hiding behind the banks began shooting 
 off their pistols, and duck-guns, and blunderbusses 
 to "kill the bride," causing everybody to scream, 
 its shrill voice could still be heard above the 
 fusillade. The fiddle was afraid of nothing. Its 
 song was very old. It had played for the farmers 
 to dance before the Revolution, and perhaps for 
 the soldiers among the broom, during the great 
 war. The willows by the Evre knew it well. 
 And so they repeated it with a good will, as the
 
 293 
 
 bride and bridegroom entered the courtyard, 
 where the Maypole was standing, surrounded 
 below by bundles of wood and at the top by bot- 
 tles; as the bride took her place at table, and as the 
 guests, towards the middle of dinner, rose for the 
 danse des presents, each having brought his 
 offering a piece of cloth from Cholet, glass candle- 
 sticks, piles of plates, or, like the magnificent lady 
 of independent fortune, Me>e Mitard, a cleft stick 
 hung with silver pieces. 
 
 The dinner, which lasted three hours, was given 
 under the shed, which was supplemented by a tent 
 that had been hired, together with the benches, 
 the tables, and other things, from a caterer at 
 Beaupre*au. After it was over they danced on the 
 threshing-floor; there were jigs and gavottes, and 
 even a sort of quadrille introduced by the regi- 
 mental friends of Louis Fauvepre, all to the same, 
 or very nearly the same, tune. Two bagpipes had 
 now come to the assistance of the fiddle. The 
 uproarious revelry and violent exertion of body 
 and legs went on till dark, under the open sky 
 and the eye of the elders who sat in groups round 
 the rising ground. 
 
 And, it being then late, they all sat down again 
 to table. 
 
 The earlier exuberance of spirit had now sub- 
 sided. A few dark, handsome, young farmers' 
 sons, as powerful as their oxen, still continued to 
 joke, and talked of dancing again after supper. 
 But most of the guests were beginning to feel the 
 fatigue of the long drawn-out festivities. The 
 girls, with tired faces, became grave and silent, and
 
 294 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 made but feeble response to the advances of their 
 admirers. The elder women were already thinking 
 of the return home with a driver not quite too sure 
 of his way. They shot stealthy glances at their 
 husbands, their sons, or brothers, and seeing them 
 either redder or paler in face than was natural to 
 them, they greeted the broad jokes and the obli- 
 gatory songs on such occasions as the present with 
 only perfunctory smiles. For the good old 
 custom of past times was over; the women no 
 longer brought their deep goblets, nor the men the 
 little cups of silver plate, which they hung from 
 their button-holes, a wise and temperate practice ! 
 Only a few old men still kept it up. The others 
 drank their full glasses of wine from the slopes of 
 the Loire and the Sevre, and grew more and more 
 excited, to the despair of the women, who became 
 increasingly irresponsive and uneasy. 
 
 Nothing can be more lugubrious than a feast 
 in certain states of mind. All day Pierre Noellet 
 had been fighting against the dark melancholy 
 that had taken possession of him, destroying all 
 happiness and courage, all revived hope and calm 
 forgetfulness of the past, and hiding all the 
 summits. The noisy hilarity of these vigorous 
 and simple-hearted people was offensive to him. 
 Their shouts of laughter gave him pain. He 
 longed to get away. He took part in his sister's 
 wedding as a stranger might have done, seating 
 himself at a corner of the shed near the door. 
 Even the sight of Marie and Louis Fauvepre, so tran- 
 quilly happy and whispering to each other at the end 
 of the table, irritated him and drove him outside.
 
 "[THIS, MY SON" 295 
 
 Toward the end of supper, Antoinette and 
 another young girl rose, and together, hand in 
 hand, they went and stood before the bride. 
 There was a partial lull of tongues. The girls, 
 both very shy, looked at each other, in order that 
 they might start together, and then, with their 
 untrained voices, drawling the final syllables, they 
 began to sing a song which their grandmothers had 
 sung more than a hundred years before: 
 
 The nightingale of the woods. 
 The wild nightingale, 
 The nightingale of love 
 Who sings night and day! 
 
 He says in his beautiful song, 
 In his pretty language; 
 Maidens, marry, 
 For marriage is sweet. 
 
 At this moment Louis Fauve'pre's wife, over- 
 come with emotion, as tradition also required, hid 
 her face in her cambric pocket-handkerchief. All 
 the guests now rose and climbed on to the benches 
 to see the bride in tears. And in the commotion 
 that ensued Pierre made his escape. 
 
 He suddenly found himself under the blue night- 
 sky. He withdrew to the end of the threshing- 
 floor. How calm everything was down there in 
 the valley! How peacefully it lay sleeping under 
 the moon! At these few paces away from the 
 shed, the pitiable buzz of human enjoyment was 
 so lost in the great silence that one would hardly 
 have known that an entertainment was there 
 drawing to its hilarious close. The bushes bent
 
 296 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 beneath the weight of their dew-laden leaves. A 
 pungent, marshlike odour rose from the fields 
 beside the Evre. And what numberless stars 
 there were overhead! The three in the Belt of 
 Orion shone out from among them all, and their 
 eyes, that were once so full of dreams, were 
 now looking down filled with an infinite pity. 
 Pierre could not draw his own away from 
 them. 
 
 He remembered his promise, and began walking 
 slowly along the path that led to Melie's house. 
 His shadow, thrown on the bank trampled by the 
 animals, followed him all the way. La Geniviere 
 lay hidden behind the thick curtain of trees, and 
 the fiddle was beginning again to send forth its 
 weak, squeaky tune. 
 
 Pierre Noellet, this is a dangerous path for you. 
 You know it well. You know the exact spot 
 before you reach Melie's house, whence you can 
 see La Landehue, its lawns, even its flower-beds, 
 looking gray to-night in the moonlight, beside the 
 bright gravel paths. In your sad frame of mind 
 you will not be able to pass the opening without 
 looking beyond it. What would you do, if you 
 were to see him and her, back this evening from 
 Italy and taking possession of their kingdom, in 
 the avenue that curves round to the fields, walking 
 slowly side by side, as the newly happy love to 
 wander amid the things of the past? 
 
 And it is indeed no fancy! The marks of the 
 carriage wheels are fresh upon the gravel. And 
 see! Those two shadowy figures, so close to each 
 other that at moments they look like one they
 
 tc 
 
 THIS, MY SON" 297 
 
 are Jules de Ponthual and Madeleine. They are 
 coming his way. 
 
 Pierre jumped over the hedge, and darted 
 behind a clump of chestnut trees that stood about 
 fifty yards from the avenue. What was he going 
 to do? Did he know himself? He had run for- 
 ward directly she had appeared. He must see 
 her again, even if on another's arm. Should he 
 suffer for it, die for it, he must look on her once 
 more! 
 
 He had completely forgotten you, Me*lie Rain- 
 ette, who were waiting for him! He remained 
 hidden beside a cluster of saplings, his head thrust 
 forward through the leaves, with his eyes turned 
 to the left. 
 
 The darkness was thick around him, but on that 
 side the branches had been cut so as to form an 
 arch, through which could be seen a corner of the 
 park illuminated by the soft, sleeping light. 
 
 The young couple came slowly toward him. 
 Soon he was able to catch the sound of their two 
 voices. 
 
 "That playing of bagpipes and fiddle," said 
 Ponthual, "makes me long to go on to La Geni- 
 viere. Will you come and see them dance? It 
 would be amusing." 
 
 Madeleine paused at the edge of the patch of 
 shadow thrown across the path by the copse wood. 
 She looked up at her husband with a little coaxing 
 pout of reproach. Some indescribable and fleeting 
 charm was added to the severe beauty of her 
 face and form by the pale light that fell around 
 her.
 
 298 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 "Amusing, perhaps," she said; "but it is so nice 
 out here!" 
 
 "How right you are!" he answered. And he 
 drew her along, laughing in his loud, happy way. 
 
 "Do you know what has become of Pierre 
 Noellet?" he added after they had gone a little 
 farther. 
 
 "Nothing very good, I fear. We have seen 
 nothing of him since December. My father has 
 written to him twice, but there has been no reply." 
 
 "Really? I can hardly believe it." 
 
 "What is more, he took the trouble to go to the 
 Don Juan, and there he was told that Pierre 
 Noellet no longer came regularly to work, and that 
 when he did, he was in such a state." 
 
 "You don't say so!" 
 
 "A boy to whom we showed every kindness, 
 even admitting him into the family circle. You 
 can understand that my father did not persist in 
 his inquiries." 
 
 "Poor Noellet, what a pity! To come to an end 
 like that!" 
 
 "It is, indeed; but only what might have been 
 expected." 
 
 "How? He was intelligent, and had very good 
 wits." 
 
 She gave a little smile. 
 
 "Quite so; but not better than many others. 
 And with it all he had such a wild, extravagant 
 ambition, thinking that he could take the world 
 by storm in a way that is only possible to those 
 of very exceptional talents, and even then they 
 have to work for some time. For one who sue-
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 299 
 
 ceeds there are a hundred who fail miserably. 
 He is a proof of it." 
 
 " There is more truth in what you say than you 
 think, perhaps," replied Ponthual rather gravely; 
 "an extravagant ambition that may well be so. 
 I confess I was very much struck by something 
 that happened, and which I cannot help at this 
 moment associating with his rapid downfall, 
 which does not look unlike desperation. You 
 remember the 28th, when I told Noellet about 
 our coming marriage, that last time we saw 
 him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "He turned pale and trembled; his whole face 
 changed. At first I attributed his emotion to 
 the surprise caused him by my news. But, on 
 my faith, I begin to think there was something 
 more." 
 
 They were just then passing the spot where 
 Pierre lay hidden. 
 
 Madeleine looked questioningly at her husband. 
 
 "What do you mean?" she asked. 
 
 "Well, my dear, I have no need to tell you that 
 you are attractive, and perhaps that unhappy 
 boy " 
 
 "How can you!" she exclaimed with a touch of 
 temper. "You do not know what you are saying. 
 He has great ambition, as I believe; but not to the 
 extent of forgetting our relative positions. When 
 all's said and done, Pierre Noellet never was, and 
 never will be, anything but a peasant." 
 
 And they passed on, their talk drifting to other 
 subjects.
 
 300 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 As they were leaving the shade of the trees and 
 turning into the quiet light of the fields they heard 
 behind them a rustling among the leaves. Made- 
 leine, frightened, pressed close to her husband. 
 Ponthual turned leisurely round to listen, looking 
 in the direction of the thicket. He could hear 
 that the sound was going farther off. 
 
 " Don't be alarmed," he said, shrugging his 
 shoulders; "it's only some frightened animal 
 running away." 
 
 The trees were too thick for them to distinguish 
 the figure of Pierre Noellet, who was fleeing in 
 despair. "He never was, and never will be, any- 
 thing but a peasant." And it was she who had 
 aid it ! She who was laughing at him ! She had 
 not only never detected the love which had 
 driven the farmer's son away from the land, and 
 had been the cause of so many struggles and so 
 much suffering; it had never even entered her 
 head that it was possible. Not only had he wasted 
 and lost his youth, but he was scorned, despised by 
 her whom he had loved, condemned to be nothing 
 for ever but a peasant in her eyes and those of the 
 world! The only word of pity vouchsafed to him 
 had come from Jules de Ponthual! 
 
 He ran forward like a madman, straight ahead 
 across the fields. He fled, pursued by the vision 
 of their happiness and by this contemptuous judg- 
 ment passed on all his past ambition. 
 
 Thinking, no doubt, that his wild race would 
 bring him again to the spot where he had climbed 
 the bank with ease, he unfortunately mistook the 
 direction, and came to the hedge where it faced
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 301 
 
 Melie's garden. At this point the field rose six 
 feet or more above the foot-path. In spite of the 
 delirious condition he was in, Pierre Noellet by 
 daylight would have seen the gulf yawning in front 
 of him. But blinded by his tears and deceived 
 by the shadow of the immense stumps of trees that 
 lined the path, he saw nothing. Suddenly the 
 ground failed beneath his feet, and, unable to 
 check his impetuous flight, he fell with violence into 
 the hollow below. A cry rang through the night. 
 
 Jules and Madeleine, already some way off, 
 stopped a moment to listen in the direction 
 whence the cry had come, but, hearing nothing 
 farther, went on toward the park. 
 
 But, close by, in the little garden, some one was 
 watching, waiting for a promised visit. 
 
 On hearing Pierre's cry, Melie ran to the gate and 
 opened it, and went down the garden steps. There 
 on the ground before her lay Pierre, face down- 
 ward, his feet in the shadow, the upper part of his 
 body in the light. He was lying motionless. 
 
 Melie called him by name: "Pierre! Pierre 
 Noellett!" Only the great silence of the path 
 answered her. 
 
 Overcome with terror, she knelt beside him on the 
 stones, leaning over him and calling again, ' ' Pierre ! " 
 
 And as he still gave no sign of life, she put back 
 his arms, that had fallen forward, and gently 
 lifted his head a little way from the ground. Alas, 
 she drew back her hands covered with blood! 
 Pierre, white as death and with closed eyes, lay in a 
 pool of blood, his forehead battered in by the stones. 
 
 Melie Rainette wanted to call for help. She was
 
 302 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 alone. She had not the strength to carry or drag 
 him as far as the house ; and this wound, this red 
 stream staining the white stones one by one. She 
 must get assistance. Perhaps some one in the 
 village would hear her, but she could not make her 
 voice speak; she felt 'herself beginning to swoon. 
 
 The sound of a man's approaching footsteps 
 roused her. 
 
 It was the fanner from La Geniviere, who, un- 
 easy at his son's abrupt manner of leaving the 
 feast, had come out in search of him. 
 
 "Oh, come," she cried, "he has fallen jumping 
 on to the path; he is hurt; come quickly!" 
 
 "Was it his cry I heard just now, Melie?" 
 
 "Yes, I was close by; I heard him, and I ran at 
 once. He hasn't moved since, and see how he is 
 losing blood; he is going, perhaps " 
 
 "Poor lad!" said the farmer, going up to his son; 
 "and I thought he had run away into the Mauges." 
 Then he added: "Help me to carry him away 
 from here, Melie, for I am getting old." 
 
 He lifted Pierre in his arms, and with Melie's 
 assistance carried him inside the gate, and laid him 
 on the mossy slope that ran round the garden. 
 Then the father stooped, and took his son's head 
 on to his breast. The moon was shining on the 
 little bank, and ah, now in the full light, how 
 much more terrible it was! The blood, how it 
 poured from the wound streaming over the farm- 
 er's gay waistcoat, which was still adorned on one 
 side with a flower from Marie's nosegay. Melie 
 had run to fetch water to bathe that broad, deep 
 gash, whence the life-blood was escaping.
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 303 
 
 The farmer, accustomed as he was to the rough 
 wounds caused by scythes and bill-hooks, was not 
 at first so alarmed as Melie; but when he saw that 
 Pierre continued motionless, and that his breath- 
 ing was growing fainter, he was seized with anguish. 
 Trembling and in tears, he looked at the girl whom 
 he had driven away, and whom he met again so 
 unexpectedly at this crisis of troubles. 
 
 "Ah!" he cried, "perhaps he will never come to 
 again!" 
 
 At that moment Pierre opened his eyes, and 
 said slowly, and with great effort: 
 
 "Father, are you there?" 
 
 His eyes were fixed and glazed; they could no 
 longer see. 
 
 ' ' Yes, my son, ' ' said the farmer. " I am here ; I 
 am holding you. Do you feel my arm, there, under 
 your shoulder? Are you badly hurt, my dear boy? " 
 
 "Where is Jacques?" said Pierre. 
 
 Jacques had also asked, "Where is my brother, 
 the abbe"?" 
 
 The farmer saw that he was wandering, and not 
 wishing to agitate him, replied: 
 
 "He is far away." 
 
 "Yes, yes, far away, far away. I did him 
 harm, and you, too. Forgive and you must for- 
 give Me"lie, too she did not lead me wrong No, 
 Melie is good. You know, the one who gives us the 
 palms. This for you for your mother for An- 
 toinette." 
 
 He paused, seized with a convulsive shudder. 
 
 It was evident that death was near. The un- 
 happy father had seen too many die to doubt it.
 
 304 "THIS, MY SON" 
 
 "Run, Melie," he said, "run quickly, and bring 
 the priest; our boy is dying!" 
 
 She threw down the handkerchief stained with 
 blood, and rushed away. She had hardly reached 
 the bottom of the garden when Pierre again moved 
 his lips. 
 
 "I cannot hear," said Julien, "speak again; if 
 you can, say it again, dear." 
 
 And he put his ear closer to the bleeding head of 
 his child. 
 
 "He will not have tune to come," murmured 
 Pierre. "Give me your rosary." 
 
 The old farmer, sobbing, felt in his pocket, and 
 put the rosary in the wounded man's hand. 
 
 With a last effort, Pierre put up his hand to find 
 his mouth, pressed the little black cross to his lips, 
 and with his kiss upon it passed away. 
 
 At that moment a confused sound of cheering 
 rose in the direction of La Geniviere, and the sky 
 above the farm was lighted by a red flame that 
 sent up its smoke in wreaths of cloud toward the 
 stars. They were burning the Maypole. The 
 shouts were the final salutes in honour of Marie's 
 wedding. 
 
 The festivities were drawing to a close as, alone 
 in the Rainette garden, the farmer laid the head of 
 his dead son back upon the bank. 
 
 The next morning at this Geniviere, that had 
 been so abruptly plunged into mourning, Melie 
 Rainette rose with the first gray light of dawn from 
 beside the bed on which Pierre Noellet was laid.
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 305 
 
 For many long hours she had kept her watch; she 
 had been there of her own accord, and with the 
 permission of sorrow, and the farmer had knelt 
 beside her through the night, hardly aware, as it 
 seemed, of her presence. Buried in mournful 
 stupor, he appeared to see and hear nothing. But 
 as she was about to leave the room he called her. 
 
 "Stay, my daughter," he said, and Me" lie could 
 not remember ever having heard him speak in so 
 kind and tender a voice. 
 
 And as she still hesitated, not knowing what he 
 meant, he repeated : 
 
 ' ' Stay ; you loved him as well as we did, my poor 
 girl. Stay here in memory of him. I have lost 
 my two sons and" he looked as he spoke to- 
 ward Louis Fauvepre, who was standing in a 
 corner of the room "one I have found again; 
 you will replace the other 1"
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 FOUR months later Monsieur Laubriet was driving 
 in his phaeton along the road from Beaupre*au to 
 Fief-Sauvin on his way to Landehue. As the 
 horses were walking up the hill at the entrance to 
 the town, he caught sight of the farmer from La 
 Geniviere in a field to the right of the road. 
 
 Julien Noellet's hair had turned quite white. 
 He hardly did any work, leaving the ploughing to 
 others, and contenting himself with breaking the 
 clods, which he did in a dreamy way, and with 
 many pauses between his feeble blows. 
 
 Monsieur Laubriet waved his hand to him. 
 
 "Good day, my poor Noellet!" 
 
 The peasant lifted his hat without replying. 
 But not because this compassionate address 
 affected him at all. It merely disturbed that long 
 reverie of the aged, who are alone for many hours 
 occupied with easy tasks. He leaned on his hoe 
 with his arms crossed, and looked toward his farm. 
 
 The harvest had been a good one for Julien 
 Noellet. His granaries were full. From where 
 he stood he could see the top of the large yellow 
 haystack between the trees that were still green 
 with leaf. And although the autumn had hardly 
 begun, the ploughed land gave token that young 
 and active hands had undertaken the direction 
 of the farm. 
 
 306
 
 "THIS, MY SON" 307 
 
 Louis Fauve"pre, Julien's worthy son and suc- 
 cessor, was at this moment at the other end of 
 the field. Six oxen, as in former days, were 
 drawing the furrows across the violet-coloured 
 earth. Louis Fauve"pre was at the plough; 
 neither his gait nor his style of ploughing were 
 similar to that of the old man, who had been 
 in the habit of leaning far forward to keep his 
 eye on a certain spot between the muzzles of 
 his beasts. Very upright, with a graceful ease of 
 strength, he was holding the cast-iron handles of 
 a new plough without any sign of effort. 
 
 Having reached the end of the field, he ordered 
 the ploughman to lead the beasts to the grassy 
 border under the hedge, for Marie, his young wife, 
 the real mistress of the white house, had just 
 arrived with the three o'clock soup, and she was 
 standing waiting, with her usual look of quiet 
 and dignified happiness, a little red in the face, 
 and more out of breath than seemed warranted by 
 so short a walk. 
 
 The old farmer, as he noticed this, slowly drew 
 himself up, and upon his face, that had suddenly 
 brightened, the face of the grandfather, dawned 
 the smile of immortal hope. 
 
 THE END
 
 Books by RENE BAZIN 
 
 PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER-S SONS 
 
 THIS, MY SON 
 
 (LES NOELLETS) 
 $1.25 
 
 This novel, which is one of the author's most 
 powerful and moving books, is nominally the 
 story of a certain Breton farmer and his sons 
 and daughters, but the main theme is really the 
 tragedy that results from the pull of the new life 
 of the town away from the old life of the peasant. 
 The descriptions of the farm and the family life 
 there, of the growth of the boy Pierre, of his 
 training for the priesthood, of his break with his 
 family, of his experiences as a journalist in Paris, 
 and of his love and of his ambition and their 
 result is told simply, powerfully, and with as- 
 tonishing vividness. There is no element of con- 
 troversy in the story, no presentation of any 
 quarrel of Church and State, but the striking 
 picture of the inevitable and perpetual struggle 
 of the old and the new, of every new genera- 
 tion against every old generation, reinforced 
 and accentuated by the modern motive of the 
 struggle of the country against the irresistible 
 call of the city.
 
 BOOKS BY RENE BAZIN 
 
 THE 
 COMING HARVEST 
 
 (LE BLE QUI LEVE) 
 $1.25 
 
 "He gives us the everyday life of the work- 
 ing men and women of France. . . . Rene 
 Bazin makes pictures on every page of this 
 story that ought to be inspiration for a thou- 
 sand painters." 
 
 New York Freeman s Journal. 
 
 "It is so far out of the ordinary run of books 
 published to-day that it causes a distinct sur- 
 prise. Bazin has indeed touched the heights 
 of human emotion and the depths of human 
 sorrow. On every page are the unmistakable 
 earmarks of greatness." 
 
 Louisville Evening Post. 
 
 "We shall not be the worse for such a book 
 as this. A novel well made and also (mirabile 
 dictu) well translated; a novel instinct with 
 human sympathy and withal a novel of ideas 
 and sentiment." Philadelphia Public Ledger.
 
 BOOKS BY RENE BAZIN 
 
 REDEMPTION 
 
 (DE TOUTE SON AME) 
 $1.25 
 
 "A fascinating story. Simple in construction, 
 commonplace in incident, it is a superb delinea- 
 tion of the glory of consecration and sacrifice 
 exemplified in the life of a young girl of the 
 people." Catholic World. 
 
 "There is a subtle descriptive power, imparting 
 a haunting quality which makes one feel in- 
 stead of see, which, together with his delicate 
 ability to unravel the skeins of simple souls, 
 goes far to account for Rene Bazin's wide- 
 spread popularity in France to-day." 
 
 Review and Expositor. 
 
 "The work is remarkable for its literary 
 beauty and strength. Once read it will never 
 be forgotten." Cleveland Plain Dealer.
 
 BOOKS BY RENfe BAZIN 
 
 THE NUN 
 
 (L'ISOLEE) 
 $1.0O 
 
 " It is the epic of the persecuted church, terrible 
 in its truth, terrible in its portent, terrible in its 
 indictment." The Monitor. 
 
 "The Nun is a book which no one who reads it 
 will ever forget." Westminster Gazette. 
 
 "This work eats into the heart, and lives in the 
 memory as do but few books from modern 
 authors." London Daily Telegraph. 
 
 "M. Bazin gives some beautiful pictures of 
 life in a convent, of the order, the discipline, 
 the labors and the sacrifice of the gentle women 
 of the Sisterhood." Philadelphia Record. 
 
 "Told simply yet with such power that one 
 cannot get away from the scenes he depicts nor 
 forget the portrait he draws." 
 
 Donahoe's Magazine.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 APR 6 1955 
 
 Form L9-50m-ll,'50 (2554)444 
 
 0NIVERSL'' v ns 1 T. \LIFORNEl 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 PQ Bazin - 
 
 2193 tt Thi3. my son." 
 
 B3N6E 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A 000629417 7 
 
 APR ft 
 
 PQ 
 2193 
 B3N6E