CHAPTER III. BRIGITTE
One evening, as I was walking under a row of lindens at the entrance tothe village, I saw a young woman come from a house some distance fromthe road. She was dressed simply and veiled so that I could not see herface; but her form and her carriage seemed so charming that I followedher with my eyes for some time. As she was crossing a field, a whitegoat, straying at liberty through the grass, ran to her side; shecaressed it softly, and looked about as if searching for some favoriteplants to feed to it. I saw near me some wild mulberry; I plucked abranch and stepped up to her holding it in my hand. The goat watchedmy approach with apprehension; he was afraid to take the branch from myhand. His mistress made him a sign as if to encourage him, but he lookedat her with an air of anxiety; she then took the branch from my hand,and the goat promptly accepted it from hers. I bowed, and she passed onher way.
On my return home I asked Larive if he knew who lived in the house Idescribed to him; it was a small house, modest in appearance, with agarden. He recognized it; there were but two people in the house, an oldwoman who was very religious, and a young woman whose name was MadamePierson. It was she I had seen. I asked him who she was, and if she evercame to see my father. He replied that she was a widow, that she led aretired life, and that she had visited my father, but rarely. When I hadlearned all he knew, I returned to the lindens and sat down on a bench.
I do not know what feeling of sadness came over me as I saw the goatapproaching me. I arose from my seat, and, for distraction, I followedthe path I had seen Madame Pierson take, a path that led to themountains.
It was nearly eleven in the evening before I thought of returning; asI had walked some distance, I directed my steps toward a farmhouse,intending to ask for some milk and bread. Drops of rain began to splashat my feet, announcing a thunder-shower which I was anxious to escape.Although there was a light in the place, and I could hear the sound offeet going and coming through the house, no one responded to my knock,and I walked around to one of the windows to ascertain if there was anyone within.
I saw a bright fire burning in the lower hall; the farmer, whom I knew,was sitting near his bed; I knocked on the window-pane and calledto him. Just then the door opened, and I was surprised to see MadamePierson, who inquired who was there.
I waited a moment in order to conceal my astonishment. I then enteredthe house, and asked permission to remain until the storm should pass.I could not imagine what she was doing at such an hour in this desertedspot; suddenly I heard a plaintive voice from the bed, and turning myhead I saw the farmer's wife lying there with the seal of death on herface.
Madame Pierson, who had followed me, sat down before the old man who wasbowed with sorrow; she made me a sign to make no noise as the sick womanwas sleeping. I took a chair and sat in a corner until the storm passed.
While I sat there I saw her rise from time to time and whisper somethingto the farmer. One of the children, whom I took upon my knee, saidthat she had been coming every night since the mother's illness. Sheperformed the duties of a sister of charity; there was no one else inthe country who could do it; there was but one physician, and he wasdensely ignorant.
"That is Brigitte la Rose," said the child; "don't you know her?"
"No," I replied in a low voice. "Why do you call her by such a name?"
He replied that he did not know, unless it was because she had been rosyand the name had clung to her.
As Madame Pierson had laid aside her veil I could see her face; when thechild left me I raised my head. She was standing near the bed, holdingin her hand a cup, which she was offering the sick woman who hadawakened. She appeared to be pale and thin; her hair was ashen blond.Her beauty was not of the regular type. How shall I express it? Herlarge dark eyes were fixed on those of her patient, and those eyes thatshone with approaching death returned her gaze. There was in that simpleexchange of kindness and gratitude a beauty that can not be described.
The rain was falling in torrents; a heavy darkness settled over thelonely mountain-side, pierced by occasional flashes of lightning. Thenoise of the storm, the roaring of the wind, the wrath of the unchainedelements made a deep contrast with the religious calm which prevailed inthe little cottage. I looked at the wretched bed, at the broken windows,the puffs of smoke forced from the fire by the tempest; I observedthe helpless despair of the farmer, the superstitious terror of thechildren, the fury of the elements besieging the bed of death; and inthe midst of all, seeing that gentle, pale-faced woman going and coming,bravely meeting the duties of the moment, regardless of the tempestand of our presence, it seemed to me there was in that calm performancesomething more serene than the most cloudless sky, something, indeed,superhuman about this woman who, surrounded by such horrors, did not foran instant lose her faith in God.
What kind of woman is this, I wondered; whence comes she, and how longhas she been here? A long time, since they remember when her cheeks wererosy. How is it I have never heard of her? She comes to this spot aloneand at this hour? Yes. She has traversed these mountains and valleysthrough storm and fair weather, she goes hither and thither bearinglife and hope wherever they fail, holding in her hand that fragile cup,caressing her goat as she passes. And this is what has been going on inthis valley while I have been dining and gambling; she was probably bornhere, and will be buried in a corner of the cemetery, by the side of herfather. Thus will that obscure woman die, a woman of whom no one speaksand of whom the children say: "Don't you know her?"
I can not express what I experienced; I sat quietly in my cornerscarcely breathing, and it seemed to me that if I had tried to assisther, if I had reached out my hand to spare her a single step, I shouldhave been guilty of sacrilege, I should have touched sacred vessels.
The storm lasted two hours. When it subsided the sick woman sat up inher bed and said that she felt better, that the medicine she had takenhad done her good. The children ran to the bedside, looking up intotheir mother's face with great eyes that expressed both surprise andjoy.
"I am very sure you are better," said the husband, who had not stirredfrom his seat, "for we have had a mass celebrated, and it cost us alarge sum."
At that coarse and stupid expression I glanced at Madame Pierson; herswollen eyes, her pallor, her attitude, all clearly expressed fatigueand the exhaustion of long vigils.
"Ah! my poor man!" said the farmer's wife, "may God reward you!"
I could hardly contain myself, I was so angered by the stupidity ofthese brutes who were capable of crediting the work of charity to theavarice of a cure.
I was about to reproach them for their ingratitude and treat them asthey deserved, when Madame Pierson took one of the children in her armsand said, with a smile:
"You may kiss your mother, for she is saved."
I stopped when I heard these words.
Never was the simple contentment of a happy and benevolent heart paintedin such beauty on so sweet a face. Fatigue and pallor seemed to vanish,she became radiant with joy.
A few minutes later Madame Pierson told the children to call thefarmer's boy to conduct her home. I advanced to offer my services; Itold her that it was useless to awaken the boy as I was going in thesame direction, and that she would do me an honor by accepting my offer.She asked me if I was not Octave de T--------.
I replied that I was, and that she doubtless remembered my father.It struck me as strange that she should smile at that question; shecheerfully accepted my arm and we set out on our return.
We walked along in silence; the wind was going down; the trees quiveredgently, shaking the rain from the boughs. Some distant flashes oflightning could still be seen; the perfume of humid verdure filled thewarm air. The sky soon cleared and the moon illumined the mountain.
I could not help thinking of the whimsicalness of chance, which had seenfit to make me the solitary companion of a woman of whose existence Iknew nothing a few hours before. She had accepted me as her escort onaccount of the name I bore, and leaned on my arm with quiet confidence.In
spite of her distraught air it seemed to me that this confidence waseither very bold or very simple; and she must needs be either the one orthe other, for at each step I felt my heart becoming at once proud andinnocent.
We spoke of the sick woman she had just quitted, of the scenes alongthe route; it did not occur to us to ask the questions incident to a newacquaintance. She spoke to me of my father, and always in the same toneI had noted when I first revealed my name--that is, cheerfully, almostgayly. By degrees I thought I understood why she did this, observingthat she spoke thus of all, both living and dead, of life and ofsuffering and death. It was because human sorrows had taught her nothingthat could accuse God, and I felt the piety of her smile.
I told her of the solitary life I was leading. Her aunt, she said, hadseen more of my father than she, as they had sometimes played cardstogether after dinner. She urged me to visit them, assuring me awelcome.
When about half way home she complained of fatigue and sat down to reston a bench that the heavy foliage had protected from the rain. I stoodbefore her and watched the pale light of the moon playing on herface. After a moment's silence she arose and, in a constrained manner,observed:
"Of what are you thinking? It is time for us to think of returning."
"I was wondering," I replied, "why God created you, and I was saying tomyself that it was for the sake of those who suffer."
"That is an expression that, coming from you, I can not look upon exceptas a compliment."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because you appear to be very young."
"It sometimes happens," I said, "that one is older than the face wouldseem to indicate."
"Yes," she replied, smiling, "and it sometimes happens that one isyounger than his words would seem to indicate."
"Have you no faith in experience?"
"I know that it is the name most young men give to their follies andtheir disappointments; what can one know at your age?"
"Madame, a man of twenty may know more than a woman of thirty. Theliberty which men enjoy enables them to see more of life and itsexperiences than women; they go wherever they please, and no barrierrestrains them; they test life in all its phases. When inspired by hope,they press forward to achievement; what they will they accomplish. Whenthey have reached the end, they return; hope has been lost on the route,and happiness has broken its word."
As I was speaking we reached the summit of a little hill which slopeddown to the valley; Madame Pierson, yielding to the downward tendency,began to trip lightly down the incline. Without knowing why, I did thesame, and we ran down the hill, arm in arm, the long grass under ourfeet retarded our progress. Finally, like two birds, spent with flight,we reached the foot of the mountain.
"Behold!" cried Madame Pierson, "just a short time ago I was tired, butnow I am rested. And, believe me," she added, with a charming smile,"you should treat your experience as I have treated my fatigue. We havemade good time, and shall enjoy supper the more on that account."