BY MARIE RHEIL.
FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.
What I am going to relate to you is a true story in every respect, seeing that I had it from my late father—in his lifetime the harness-maker of our hamlet of Val-Saint, and who was never known to tell a falsehood: may God have mercy on his soul!
In the village of Ordonniers, which was the next one to us, and in our commune, where flows la Range, lived a farmer named Louis Ragaud. The maiden name of his wife was Pierrette Aubry; but after her marriage, according to our custom, she was called by every one La Ragaude.
They were rich, and no one was jealous of them, as it was known that they had commenced with nothing, having been simply servants in the employ of M. le Marquis de Val-Saint. Little by little they had risen, without having injured any one, always kind to the poor, never miserly or boasting; so that, when at the end of twenty years they found they had saved enough to buy the beautiful farm of Muiceron, which they had previously rented, all the neighbors said: "Behold the true justice of the good God!"
They had been married a long time, and had no children. Now, wealth is a great deal, but not enough for perfect contentment of heart. The good man Ragaud had fields and meadows that yielded rich crops, strong oxen, and even vines that bore well—though it must be acknowledged that the wines of our province were not very renowned. As for the farm buildings, except those of the château, there were scarcely any in a circle of six leagues which were as well kept; and nevertheless, Ragaud sighed when looking around him—no child, alas! and no family, with the exception of a cousin, who left for the army more than thirty years before, and had never been heard of since; so that, very naturally, he could not be counted upon.
La Ragaude sighed still more. She was good and very devout, but unable to bear sorrow; and this was so severe, so constant, it had ended by destroying all her happiness. Often, when looking at the neighbors' children playing before the doors, she felt her heart throb with pain, and would hasten to seek refuge in her own house, where she could give free vent to her tears. As this happened more than once, and as she always reappeared with red eyes, it had been much remarked, and sundry comments made. Not that there is much time to be lost in the fields, but a reflection here and there scarcely retards work. There are even those who say that the tongue assists the arm, and that gossipping helps push the plough. It is woman's tattle, I believe; but a good number of men here and elsewhere have the habit of repeating it, and I do likewise, without inquiring further.
The gossips of the neighborhood—above all, those who had larger families than incomes—were determined to find out the true cause of Pierrette Ragaud's tears; and, as often happens, preferred seeking for wicked reasons rather than stop their babbling.
"It is a thing I cannot understand," said one, "why the mistress of Muiceron is so unhappy that she weeps constantly—a woman who is so well off. We must believe that things at the farm are not so well as they appear. Perhaps it is her husband who makes all the trouble!"
"Her husband! Magdaleine Piédau?" replied another; "you must be well put to that you imagine such a thing. Master Ragaud is the first workman in the country; and, as for his using bad words, that he has never done, any more to his wife than to others."
"Bah! what you say is true," replied Magdaleine Piédau; "but all the same, neighbor, Ragaud can fly into a rage as well as any other man. I saw and heard him, day before yesterday, beside himself with anger against one of his yoke of oxen. You know Capitaine, the big black one? Ah! my dear, I pitied the poor beast—he beat him well! without counting that he swore so that you would not have known him. Bah! don't talk to me!"
"Ah! that may be, but I speak of people. Now, an ox is not a person!"
"There you are right, thank God! Men are often rough to beasts, and very polite to Christians; but, in my opinion, we must be gentle and patient to both. A beast that works well deserves to be well treated, and Ragaud had no right to beat his ox. I don't say he would treat his wife so; but, at least, we must allow that Pierrette Ragaud does not always look as if her life were a holiday. Ah! she has trouble, that is very sure, poor creature!"
"And the reason?"
"The reason! Go and ask her, Magdaleine, if you are so curious."
"I wouldn't dare; for, after all, it don't concern me very much. What I have said was only in the way of friendly gossip."
"In that case, we can speak of other things; for I don't know any more about it than you. We will leave it for God to clear up. Go and catch your boy, who will fall into the pond, Magdaleine Piédau, and lend me your sickle, that I may cut some grass for my cows.... But to think that Ragaud ill-treats his wife—no, no; that is out of the question. After that, where may we hope to find a good man? One don't know...."
"No, neighbor, one never knows how it is with them. You speak like a priest, my good woman. The deceased Piédau, my man, that every one believed so good, ..."
"Good-evening, Magdaleine."
"Was a drunkard and big eater. I concealed it for ten years, and wept alone like the mistress of Muiceron."
"Good-evening, neighbor."
One summer day, when La Ragaude was washing her earthen pans in the sun, she saw the curé of Ordonniers advancing through the path in the woods. He was a worthy priest, beloved by all, and well deserving of it on account of his great charity. I have heard it said that, in the years when bread was so dear, he gave away his last measure of wheat, and then, having no more for himself, was obliged to go to the miller, Pierre Cotentin, and ask for some flour on credit.
"It is not my custom," said he gaily, "and you are not bound to oblige me; but the times are hard, and you must never refuse to give alms, even to your curé."
The miller filled the bag willingly; and as for the money, although he was very fond of it, he would never hear the word mentioned.
Said he, "M. le Curé has an empty purse. We must not ask him where the last cent went, poor dear man! Pierre Cotentin can well feed him—it is justice! Who will have the heart to be jealous?"
And in fact, the curé was so respected that not a boy, no matter how bad he was, ever failed to take off his cap when passing him.
When La Ragaude saw the black cassock coming towards Muiceron, she quickly arranged her pans, and threw aside her working-apron; for she was a careful woman and thorough housekeeper.
"Good-morning, M. le Curé; how are you?" she asked joyfully.
"Very warm, very warm," replied the curé; "otherwise, well."
"My dear monsieur, why did you not wait until the cool of the evening to do us the honor of visiting us? It is roasting in the road. I thought just now I would send a servant to replace my husband in the fields. A storm is rising, the flies bite, Ragaud is not as strong as he was at twenty, and I am afraid of the beasts—they are difficult to control when they become impatient."
"Ah! your husband is absent?"
"Have you something to say to him, monsieur?"
"To him and to you also, my good woman."
"Come in and refresh yourself," said she.
M. le Curé entered, and took a seat near the table. He appeared preoccupied, and answered like a man who did not hear what was said to him. He even placed his cane against the bread-box, and his hat on top—something which he had never done before, as the slightest motion might have sent them to the floor. When he put his hand in his pocket for his breviary, he found he had forgotten it, which embarrassed him not a little; as, it must be said, no man was more exact and particular than he in words as well as in actions.
La Ragaude, not being a fool by nature, quietly replaced the cane and hat in a safe place, but was, in her turn, very much astonished to see the curé so absent, as it was the first time it had ever happened; and from that concluded he must have something in his head of great importance. What could it be?
While busying herself around the room, without showing it, Pierrette Ragaud had distractions also. She drew new wine for cider, and washed a glass which had not been used. But that I do not believe she would have perceived then or afterwards; for she was so accustomed to scrub everything you could have used the side walls of the stable for a mirror.
M. le Curé tasted the wine through civility, but, as he said nothing, she began to feel rather impatient. Women are curious. My deceased father was accustomed to say, from that came all the evil from the commencement of the world. It is true the dear man was rather in his dotage towards the end; but it is also true that I have heard others say the same thing.
Pierrette at last commenced to question the curé very respectfully and gently; for, in truth, she could no longer restrain herself.
"Although the master is out, M. le Curé," said she, "will you not tell me what I can do to serve you?—without pressing to know, you understand, monsieur."
M. le Curé raised his eyes, and replied as gravely as though he were preaching a sermon:
"I have come to know, in the name of the good God, Mme. Ragaud, if you are disposed to act charitably."
"Oh! if it is to aid those who are suffering and in need, my husband and I will be most happy to assist you," frankly cried La Ragaude, who spoke with her whole heart and soul. "Thank God! there is yet money in the drawer. Tell me how much you want, monsieur."
The good curé shook his head, laughing, and repeated two or three times, "Good, good," which was a sign that he was pleased.
"You are always ready to give money to the poor, I know," said he; "but to-day that is not the question. I have come to ask you for something of greater importance."
"More so than money! Heaven of our Lord!" said Pierrette, slightly amazed. "I do not know, M. le Curé, how, then, I can oblige you."
She said that, although she had a generous heart; but money with us is always the great affair. In the fields, as in the city, the poor man who eats his bread while working knows that the francs are not picked up under the horses' feet.
"Money," replied M. le Curé, "when the soul is wanting in charity, is given, and there it ends; but what I have come to ask of you is a good work which will not end for a long while, and which will need good-will, and great patience especially, on your part."
"I can guess what it is," said Pierrette.
"Indeed!" replied the curé. "Well, that spares me the difficulty of explaining myself. Let us hear, Mme. Ragaud, what you have guessed."
"I have heard it said you were very much worried about your surplices and altar-linens, since Catharine Luguet left the country so shamefully, like a good-for-nothing girl, to seek her fortune in Paris," said La Ragaude, blushing—for this Catharine was a distant cousin—"and doubtless, M. le Curé, you wish me to replace her, and take charge of the sacristy."
"And if it were so, would you refuse me?"
"Certainly not, monsieur. I would willingly do my best to please you. Not that I have as light a hand as Catharine for plaiting and folding; but for washing and ironing, I can say, without boasting, I am the equal of any one."
"Thank you," said the curé. "I accept an offer made so willingly. But to speak truly, I have not come for that."
"Then," replied Pierrette, in astonishment, "I cannot imagine what you want me to do."
"This is it," said the curé, taking a serious tone: "This morning, Pierrette, a bundle was left at my house...."
"I bet," cried La Ragaude, "it was the beautiful monstrance promised by M. le Marquis for Corpus Christi!"
"No, it was a new-born infant, a beautiful boy, Mme. Ragaud; and, since the good God has allowed you to remain childless, and that this privation has greatly afflicted you, I immediately thought he destined this child for you."
"Monsieur," replied Pierrette, with emotion, "it is true that it is very hard for me to be alone in the house, and to think that I will die and leave no one after me to inherit Muiceron; but I prefer it to working all my life for a child sprung, perhaps, from a wicked race."
"I know where it comes from," said the curé; "but still I can tell you nothing, as it is a secret of the confessional. But have confidence in me; as for the race, it is not bad."
"It is the same thing. I don't believe in these foundlings."
"Say nothing further about it," replied the curé rather sadly; "I will send it to the hospital."
And then, without appearing to feel either pique or bitterness, M. le Curé commenced to converse on other subjects, speaking of the next harvest, the price of the new wine, and of the last fair, with even voice and kind looks, that showed plainly he did not wish his parishioner to think he was pained by her rather prompt refusal.
This kindness of a heart truly charitable had more effect on good Pierrette than reproaches or scolding. She did her best to reply to the curé, but her eyes were wet against her will, and soon she became so absent-minded the curé with difficulty repressed his mirth, seeing that he had gained ground by the ell, without seeming to do it intentionally.
"You see," said he, "by often hearing the bells ring, one becomes a bell-ringer; and as I love all my parishioners, like a true pastor, I go everywhere, inquiring and advising, so that I may be useful in case of need. In that way, Mme. Ragaud, without ever having driven a plough or taken care of cattle, God has given me the grace of being able to advise on all rural subjects, as well as the first master-farmer in the neighborhood. Thus, I will say to you: 'When there are more pears than apples, keep your wine, good man.' This is a country proverb hundreds of years old. Now, as this year there are more pears than they know what to do with, believe me, keep your vintage, and you will have news to tell me of it by next Easter."
"I do not know how Ragaud will decide," replied Pierrette; "he is always afraid when the cellar is full...."
"The proverb never fails, my good woman; and that is easily understood when one reflects how and why proverbs have obtained credit."
"But, M. le Curé," interrupted La Ragaude, "if you knew where this poor abandoned child came from, it seems to me...."
"What child?" said the curé, taking a pinch of snuff, so as to appear indifferent. "Oh! yes, the little one of this morning. What, do you still think of it? Bah! let it pass; after all, the hospital is not a place where one dies from want of care."
"I know it; but it is sad, monsieur, very sad, for one of those little innocents to say afterwards, 'I was in a hospital'; that always gives a bad idea."
"What can be done, Mme. Ragaud? One becomes accustomed to everything. Come, come, don't make yourself uneasy. We were saying, then, ... what were we saying? Ah! I remember now. I was telling you that proverbs must be believed, and for the reason that these little village-sayings are only repeated after they have been verified by the great and long experience of our fathers. Thus, you will see that the last part of the one I just quoted is equally curious: 'When there are more apples than pears, then, good man, you can drink.' Well, wasn't it a fact last year? There were so many apples that a jug of cider was only worth two farthings; there was enough for everybody, and the wine was so abundant that—you are not listening to me, Pierrette Ragaud?"
"Excuse me, M. le Curé, I am listening attentively; but I was thinking perhaps my husband would not return; and, nevertheless, he should have a little talk with you."
"About the vintage? We have time enough until then for that," replied the curé with a spice of malice.
"About the little innocent, dear monsieur. The truth is, I feel my heart ache when I think he will go to the hospital through my fault."
"And as for me, my good woman, I am sorry that I spoke to you about it; yes, sorry," he repeated earnestly, "for I have worried you, and I had no such intention when I came to visit you. I see now that you are inclined on the side of the good work; but I don't wish to force you to take it in hand. Here, now, if the hospital frightens you, I have thought of another arrangement, which might work well. My old Germaine, notwithstanding her thirty years of service, is still active, and the work in my house don't kill her. We will buy a good milking-goat at the August fair; until then, you will lend us one, and, God willing, the little one will remain where his good angel deposited him."
"May the Lord bless you!" cried La Ragaude, the tears streaming from her eyes. "But what a shame for us to let you burden yourself with such a heavy load, when you already give more than you can afford! No, no, holy and good Virgin Mary! For my part, I would not sleep easy after such an act."
The good curé clasped his hands, and in his heart rendered thanks to all the saints in paradise. He was very much touched, and as he was about to thank Pierrette as she deserved, Ragaud returned from the fields.
They cordially saluted each other; and, very naturally, as the good man saw his wife wiping her eyes, and the curé almost ready to do likewise, he asked what had excited them. Thereupon M. le Curé commenced a long discourse, so gentle and so touching—he spoke of charity, of the rewards of heaven, the happiness of generous hearts, with words so beautifully turned that never in the parish church, on the greatest festivals, had he preached better. Pierrette, as she afterwards said, thought she was listening to the holy patron saint of Ordonniers, who in his lifetime, it is related, spoke so well that the birds stopped singing to listen to him. Ragaud remained silent, but he shook his head, and turned his cap around in his hands—signs of great emotion with him.
Meanwhile, he said neither yes nor no, but asked time for reflection, promising to give his answer the next day before twelve o'clock. He was perfectly right, and M. le Curé, who felt in the bottom of his heart that the cause was gained, wished even to wait until Sunday; but Ragaud did not like to take back his word.
"I said to-morrow, M. le Curé, and it will be to-morrow," said he, when conducting his pastor to the threshold of the door.
"Dear, holy soul of the good God!" cried Pierrette, looking after the curé as he leisurely walked down the road, repeating his rosary as he went along. "Good dear priest, that he is! We need many more like him, Ragaud!"
"Good, holy man, in truth," replied the farmer; "but what he proposes to us is an affair of importance. You are young and healthy yet, wife, but in ten years your arms will not be as strong as now. You must think of that, even if God keeps you in good health. A child is a comfort in a house, but all the burden falls on the mother. Suppose this little one should become refractory and vagabond, like Cotentin's son."
"That is true," said La Ragaude.
"Suppose he should get bad ideas in his head, and send religion and honesty to the devil."
"That would be a great misfortune," again said La Ragaude, but this time sighing.
"I know you," continued the good man—"you become attached to every one. Didn't you weep like a little girl because I beat Capitaine, who is only an ox, and who deserved it? And haven't I seen you half crazy because Brunette had the gripes?—and she was only a cow.... Can it be hoped that you would be more reasonable about a child who would become ours?—for we must do the thing well or not at all; isn't it so?"
"It is just as you say," replied Pierrette, sighing still louder; "but what, then, shall we do?"
"My opinion is that we must consider it well," answered Ragaud.
"You only consider the bad side," said La Ragaude gently; "but suppose the little one should preserve the blessing of his baptism, and let himself be well governed—later, we would be very happy and well rewarded."
"That is true," said the farmer.
"If," continued La Ragaude, "I am easily worried about animals, I know well it would not be the same thing with a Christian. You see, husband, the poor beasts suffer without being able to complain or explain themselves; and, therefore, I am always afraid of their being treated unjustly. But a boy has his tongue, and can defend himself. We can talk sense to him, and if he won't listen, why, we will put him to school."
"Bah! you will spoil him so that he will be master of the house before he is in breeches."
"Don't fear," cried Pierrette; "that will never be, or I should think myself wanting in gratitude to the good God."
"If I could be sure of that, my wife, I would attempt it. But, come; let the night pass before deciding."
They did not mention it again until the next day; but Pierrette took care, before retiring, to light a taper at her bedside, beneath a beautiful picture of Our Lady of Liesse.
Early the next morning, she went, as usual, to feed her turkeys and drive her cows to the meadow. On her return, she saw Ragaud dressing himself in his Sunday clothes.
"I think, wife," said he, "we had better, at least, see this little one before deciding."
Pierrette hastened to throw aside her apron; and then it appeared she had expected such a decision, as at dawn she had dressed herself in her new gown of gray serge, with her bright-flowered neckerchief from Rouen, which had only been worn at the last feast of the good S. Anne, in July.
It was thus the worthy couple proceeded on their way to the priest's house. As it was Thursday, and neither festival, nor fair, nor market-day in the village, the neighbors stared as they saw them pass, and, unable to imagine the cause, chattered nonsense, half from malice, half from spite; and Simonne Durand, well known for her viper tongue, said aloud: "We must believe the Ragauds are going to obtain the priest's blessing on their fiftieth anniversary, as they are so finely dressed on a week-day."
This wicked jealousy went a little too far, and profited nothing to the spiteful thing, as every one knew the Ragauds had only been married twenty years at the furthest; but, when the mind is full of malice, there is little time for reflection.
When the good friends arrived at the pastoral residence, M. le Curé had just entered after saying his Mass; and we need not ask if he had prayed well. Germaine, his old servant, held the baby in her lap, and was feeding him with boiled goat's milk. Pierrette could not restrain her delight on seeing what a beautiful child it was, and that it was at least six or seven months old. She snatched it from Germaine's arms, and commenced kissing it, not caring that she had interrupted his little repast. This showed that the child was good-natured; for instead of crying, as a sickly, cross baby would have done similarly situated, he crowed with joy, and put out his little hands, dazzled with the fine, flowered neckerchief of his new mamma.
"How pretty and healthy he is!" cried La Ragaude. "My dear M. le Curé, you told me it was a new-born child."
"Did I say so, Pierrette? It was because I did not know much about it."
"So it seems," replied the good woman, gaily. "The little darling is at least seven or eight months old; don't you think so, Germaine?"
"I know one a year old not so large as he," answered the old servant. "But that is not all, Mme. Ragaud; you see him in the day-time, but it is at night that he is good and amusing. He sleeps without stirring, like a little corpse. For my part, I would not be afraid to bring him up."
Ragaud had not yet said a word, and still upon him all depended.
"Come and talk a little while with M. le Curé," said he, pulling his wife by the skirt.
Pierrette quickly rose to obey him, according to her good habit, but she did not give up the young one; so that Ragaud gently reproved her for again showing herself as ready to become attached to men as to beasts.
We need not be sorcerers to divine what happened. In less than a quarter of an hour, the contract of adoption was passed satisfactorily, without notary or scribbling. It was signed with a friendly shake of the hands; and to say which one of these good hearts was the best satisfied would not be very easy.
Now, without further delay, I am going to show you, as they say, the under-card in relation to the little one. True, it was a secret of the confessional, at least for the time being; but later, it was everybody's secret. The story is simple, and will not be long. You remember that our curé, in conversation with Pierrette, led her to mention a certain Catharine Luguet, against whom the good woman appeared very much incensed. This Catharine was an orphan, whose parents, dying, left her when quite young without any means of support. Germaine watched over her like a daughter, and M. le Curé, to keep her near him, paid her apprenticeship to a seamstress; after which, having grown up, and being very skilful with her needle, he placed her in a little room near the church, and gave her charge of the sacristy. But, unfortunately, the poor child was as pretty as a picture, and loved compliments, dress, and dancing, which is a great danger for a young girl, especially in a village. Catharine commenced by degrees to make people talk about her, and not without cause. The Ragauds, who were distantly related to her on the mother's side, at first reprimanded her, and finally would not see her. The girl was quick-tempered, resented the treatment, and one fine day went off, saying that she could easily find in Paris people who would be happy to receive her.
Two years passed without news of her. Her name was no longer mentioned in the village, and from that M. le Curé surmised some misfortune had happened. He prayed for the poor girl, and unceasingly begged the good God to mercifully receive her through his grace, if not during her life, at least at the hour of death. His prayer was heard at a moment when he scarcely expected it. One morning, when Germaine had left the village at day-dawn to make some purchases in the city, she took it into her head to pay a visit to one of her good friends, who was a Gray Sister in a large hospital. They talked about the patients; and the sister, very much affected, spoke of a young woman she had received the week before, and who appeared very near her end.
"I have put her by herself," said she, "and I will confide to you, Germaine, that this poor afflicted creature has a child; and, between ourselves, I very much believe she is dying as much of shame as of want."
Germaine wished to see her; but, at the first look, the sick woman uttered a loud cry, and hid her head under the counterpane.
"What is the matter?" said Germaine. "I frighten her."
"We have awakened her," replied the good sister, "and she is nervous. I should have entered alone."
But the poor girl sobbed without showing her face. At last the sister calmed her. Germaine, on her side, spoke kindly, and finally she drew down the covering. You can imagine the rest.
It was Catharine Luguet, but how changed! She, formerly so pretty, so bright, and so laughing—and now her mother herself would scarcely have recognized her. The innocent little being that slept in a cradle by her side told all her story. What she had found in Paris, what had brought her back to the country, there to die, were dishonor, misery, and an orphan without a name—but also sincere and true repentance; and the good God, who has certainly received her in paradise, struck the blow, that she might be saved.
Who was astonished, and at heart happy, in spite of his sorrow, which can be well understood? It was our curé. Holy man that he was, he was happier to have his lost sheep brought back to him, even although half dead, than not to have found her at all. The next day, he hastened to Issoudun, and remained the greater part of the afternoon with poor Catharine.
Issoudun was the nearest large city to our village, and, if I have forgotten to tell you so, I beg you will excuse me.
Although my father gave me some slight details of the unfortunate girl's story, I will not relate them; for many long years she has reposed in consecrated ground, and, as the dear, good man wisely said, "The sins which have received the pardon of God should be hidden by man;" and this is true charity.
It is only necessary to say that this first visit of our curé was followed by many others. Catharine declined visibly, and her little one, from whom she would not be separated, was a great worry to her. The sisters took care of him, and fed him to the best of their ability during the day, but they could not attend to him at night. He was beautiful and healthy, and grew like a weed—which was a miracle, considering the state of the mother—but his first teeth commenced to appear, and rendered him restless and troublesome. One morning, when M. le Curé and Germaine went together to the hospital, they found poor Catharine so ill they feared she would not pass the day.
"My daughter," said Germaine to her, "be reasonable; let me have your child. I will take great care of him."
"As you please," replied Catharine.
He was instantly carried away; and, that no one should penetrate the secret, a confidential woman, employed in the hospital, came in the night-time, and left him at the priest's house in the village. That same night, poor Catharine became speechless, but was conscious until the moment of her death, which soon happened, and never was there seen a more peaceful and touching agony. The sisters saw with admiration that after death she regained her beauty, and her face its youthful look of twenty years.
"She is smiling with the angels," said the pious souls, and it was not to be doubted; for the angels receive with as great joy the repentant as the innocent.
The little one was baptized and registered under the name of his poor mother. Our curé easily procured all the necessary acts; but for the family name, the dear innocent had none to bear, at least for a long time. He was called Jean-Louis; about the rest, there was silence. As to the secret of his birth, although confided in confession, Catharine, before dying, said to the curé:
"You will tell all, my father, if it is necessary, later, for the future of my child."
And you will see in the end that it was a wise speech.
Between ourselves, this holy, good man of a curé, who was gentle and merciful, as much from a sense of duty as by inclination of heart, had always blamed the Ragauds for their rigorous severity against the poor departed. Says the proverb, "In trying to do too much, one often fails to do well." Perhaps it would have been better to have patiently borne with the poor inexperienced girl than to have driven her from the protection of her only relatives on account of malicious gossip. But Ragaud did not understand jesting; he was, as the saying runs, as stiff as a poker, and, as soon as the wicked tongues commenced to wag about her, he said, "There is no smoke without fire," and closed his mind to all explanations, and his door to the girl. Thus had they acted towards Catharine, without thinking that then she was only giddy and coquettish—faults which might have been cured as long as the soul was not spoiled. The treatment was too harsh; it caused the flight to Paris, which took place in a moment of anger and spite, and all the misfortunes that followed. In strict justice, the Ragauds should in a measure make reparation for an action done with good intentions, but which had ended so badly. Our curé foresaw that sooner or later they would be sorry for it; therefore, in burdening them with the child, he acted shrewdly, but also with great fairness. I certainly will not blame him, nor you either, I think.
From the day that poor Catharine's child was installed in the house of her relatives, there was a change in Muiceron. Pierrette no longer wept, and, far from being grieved, as formerly, at the sight of other children, she willingly drew them around her. On Saturdays, when she baked her bread for the week, she never failed to make a large crumpet of wheaten flour, beaten up with eggs, and a bowl of curds and fresh cream, for the sole purpose of regaling the young ones of the neighborhood. We need not inquire if, on these evenings, the house was full. The children were well satisfied, and their mammas also; for Saturday's supper remained whole for Sunday, and, in the meantime, the little rascals went to bed gayer than usual, thanks to a glass of white wine that watered the crumpet and filled the measure of joy in all those little heads.
It was also remarked that Ragaud's jests were more frequent at the meetings of the church wardens of the parish on the appointed days after Vespers. Sometimes he even went off in the morning to his work singing the airs of the country-dances, which was a sure proof that his heart was at peace; for, by nature, he was a man more serious than gay, and as for singing, that was something quite out of his usual habit.
These good people thus already received a holy reward for their generous conduct. According to the old adage, "Contentment is better than wealth"; and now they, who had so long possessed riches without contentment, had the happiness of enjoying both. Quite contrary to many Christians, who imagine that the good God owes them everything, the Ragauds every evening thanked Heaven for this increase of wealth. Now, if gratitude is pleasing to men, it is easy to believe that it draws down blessings from on high; and from day to day this could be clearly seen at Muiceron.
Little Jean-Louis grew wonderfully, and gave good Pierrette neither trouble nor care. At his age, children only cry from hunger, and as he, well fed and well cared for, had nothing to complain of, it followed that he grew up scarcely ever shedding a tear.
When he was one year old, it seemed that the good boiled goat's milk was no longer to his taste, as he put on a discontented look when he saw the smoking bowl. Ragaud, one evening, for a joke, put his glass to the boy's lips, and, far from turning his head, he came forward boldly, and drank the cider like a man. This highly delighted Master Ragaud, who wished to try if a piece of dry pork, in the shape of a rattle, would please him as well; but to that Pierrette objected, maintaining that a root of marsh-mallow was a hundred times better, particularly as the little fellow was getting his double teeth.
"You wish to bring him up like a woman," said Ragaud, shrugging his shoulders; but, nevertheless, he let the mistress have her own way.
There were no other disputes about him until he had attained his third year, for then his excellent health, which had caused so much happiness, was nothing in comparison with the good instincts which commenced to develop. He was lively and gentle, chattered away delightfully, and was always so obedient and tender, that to pay him for his good behavior, the Ragauds nearly killed him with kindness. In regard to his appearance, I will tell you that in height he surpassed most children of his age, his hair was black and curly, his eyes dark also and very bright. With all this, he was not very handsome, as, growing so fast, he had kept very thin; but Pierrette said wisely, he would have time to grow fat, and since he ate, drank, and slept when he was tired, there was nothing to fear.
One thing will astonish you, that neither of the Ragauds perceived for an instant that the child was the living image of poor Catharine Luguet; and still the likeness was so striking, M. le Curé spoke of it incessantly to Germaine, and expected on every visit to Muiceron to be embarrassed by some remark on the subject. But whether the good people had really forgotten their relative, or did not wish by even pronouncing her name to recall a sorrowful remembrance, certain it is that nothing in their words or actions, which were perfectly frank and simple, betrayed in the slightest degree that they ever thought of it.
About that time, Pierrette commenced to be more uneasy, as Master Jean-Louis often escaped on the side of the stables, and delighted in racing up and down the bank, bordered with tall grass, of the stream that ran behind the bleaching-ground of Muiceron. With such a bold boy, who would not listen to any warning, an accident very often happens; therefore, the good woman placed around his neck a medal of S. Sylvain, in addition to that of the Blessed Virgin Mary, which he had worn ever since his arrival at the farm.
S. Sylvain is a patron saint venerated in our province, who won heaven in leading the life of a peasant like us. Pierrette had a great devotion for him, and said that the saints above remember with tenderness those of their own former condition on earth; consequently, no one in the good God's heaven could better protect a child daily exposed to the accidents of rural life. One day especially, when he wished to be very active in helping his mother Pierrette by putting little pieces of dry wood in the fire, while she was soaking the clothes in lye, a plank of the big tub gave way all at once, and the boiling water floated around the room, and only stopped within half a foot of the child, who might have been drowned and scalded, in less time than it takes to say it. Pierrette for two entire days was so overcome she could speak of nothing else.
In the same manner, once, when Ragaud carried the little fellow with him to the fields, he amused him by placing him on one of the oxen; but the animal, tormented by the flies, shook his head so roughly that his rider, about as high as your boot, was thrown on the ground; but before any one could run to assist him he was already standing, red, not with fear, but with anger, and quickly revenged himself on the beast by striking him with a willow-wand that he used for a whip, and which he had not let go in his fall. Ragaud was terribly frightened at the time, but afterwards proudly related the adventure, and said to his neighbors that his son, Jean Louis, would be as brave a man as General Hoche, the hero of the war of La Vendée, and who, according to the old men of the neighborhood, never in his lifetime feared either man or beast.
As for the resemblance to General Hoche, Pierrette cared precious little, not being the least warlike by nature. Truth to say, I scarcely believe she knew precisely who was this very great personage, notwithstanding his immense renown in the province; therefore, she simply contented herself with having a Mass of thanksgiving said in S. Sylvain's Chapel, thinking that his protection was worth more than all the vanities of this world.
The great love of this good household for the little orphan increased day by day. Pierrette and her husband accustomed themselves to call him "My son" so often and so sincerely that I do believe they really ended by fancying it was so. The neighbors could do no less than they; so that every where and by every one he was called the Ragauds' son—so true it is that custom often takes away reflection.
From that grew the idea that this little mite would one day be the big man of the neighborhood; and those who thought they were making a wise discovery, in supposing it would be thus, fell into the intentions of the Ragauds, as surely as the brook flows into the river; for at this same time, one autumn evening, when the fire burnt brightly on the hearth, Ragaud, seated at table opposite his good wife, commenced all at once to compliment her talent for housekeeping, praising everything around him, from the walls and window-panes, glistening with cleanliness, to the chests and benches, newly waxed once a month. He took pleasure in recalling his great happiness during the past twenty years, attributing all his blessings, after God, to the account of Pierrette's virtues; and as, like the thread in a needle, Jean Louis was sitting between them, eating his soup, he seized him in his arms, and tossed him up three times nearly to the rafters.
"You see, my son," said he, re-seating himself, and still keeping the boy on his knees, "you drew a good number in the lottery; for although you came to us like the down off the thistle, you have, nevertheless, a mother such as cannot be found in a hundred leagues; and as for your father, my brave fellow, he will leave you enough crowns to make you as respected in life as though you were a prefect."
"Happily," replied the wise Pierrette, "the little one is not old enough to understand what you are talking about; for this, my dear husband, is a very improper speech for the child's ears. We would fill him with vanity, and not only does pride offend the good God, but it renders a man very disagreeable to those around him."
"You are always right," replied Ragaud, without taking offence; "but a good fire, a good wife, money honestly earned, and new cider—nothing like these for untying the tongue and making it a little too long. Come, go to bed, my Jeannet, kiss your parents, and say your prayers well; to-morrow we will go to gather the thatch in the fields near Ordonniers, and if you only bring me as much as will fill your apron, you shall have two cents on Sunday to buy a gingerbread."
"Very well," said Pierrette, laughing, "that will be a fortune which will not make him too vain."
A little while afterwards, when they were alone, the conversation was recommenced, but they proceeded regularly about the business, and, finally, debated the question as to how the will should be drawn, according to law, so as to leave Muiceron to the child. The difficulty was that Ragaud knew very little about writing in any shape, and Pierrette nothing at all. They talked away, without making any progress, far into the night, and at last acknowledged they would have to finish where they should have begun, namely, by going next day to consult Master Perdreau, the notary of Val-Saint, on the subject. Thereupon, they went off well pleased to sleep in their big bed, with the canopy of yellow serge; and as the next morning the work of the thatching pressed, on account of the rains which were about to commence, Ragaud postponed his trip to another day.
Now, the good God, who has his own designs, permitted that it should be entirely otherwise from what these good people had intended, and in a manner so astonishing that no one, no matter how wise, could have foreseen it; for La Ragaude, who had nearly completed her forty-second year, became the following year the mother of a beautiful little girl, who was most fondly welcomed by the delighted parents.
TO BE CONTINUED.