by Mary Elizabeth
"Bon jour, Maitre Picard. Can I have a word with you?"
Maitre Pierre Picard, the miller of Montvert—a little, spare dry chip of a man, with a brown, weather-beaten face carved into a myriad of crooked wrinkles, and keen, bird-like black eyes—was stooping to tie up a sack of flour at the foot of the mill steps. On being thus addressed he raised his head, which was decorated with a striped cotton nightcap, and shading his eyes from the glare of the June sunset, looked up at the speaker, a stalwart young Norman of five-and-twenty, fair-haired, fair-bearded, with frank, vivacious blue eyes and handsome, sun-burned features.
"Bon jour, Andre Leblond. A word with me? Certainly—as many as you like. Come indoors," and clapping his hands to rid them of the flour, he led the way across the green which lay between the mill and the house.
As he entered, a shrill voice cried joyfully, "Here's dear father!" And then a little crutch came tapping rapidly across the floor, and two little arms were thrown round his knees.
Maitre Picard's only son was a cripple—a frail, gentle little lad of five years, with wide, solemn dark eyes which seemed several sizes too large for his small, pale face. With a smile of tenderness which transfigured his hard features, the miller bent over his motherless child.
"Yes, here I am, little one," he said, giving the expected kiss; "but I cannot take thee now—I am busy. There—run to Denise. Come in, Monsieur Leblond."
The child obediently limped off to his sister, who sat near the window, peeling vegetables for the supper-soup. She was a tall, slim girl of nineteen, with a clear complexion, which the sun had kissed into warmth, and soft velvety brown eyes—eyes so beautiful that in looking at them one forgot to criticise the other features. She looked up as the visitor entered, and greeted him with a quick bright smile of welcome. A furtive glance of intelligence was exchanged between them, and then the young man uncovered, and saluted her with formal politeness.
"Bon jour, Ma'm'selle Denise. I hope I see you well. You are busy, as usual."
"As usual," repeated Denise, cheerfully. "It is a long time since we saw you at Montvert, Monsieur Andre. Your mother is well?"
"As well as usual, thanks; but the rheumatism gives her little rest, even in summer. Our house is damp, you see, the land being ill-drained."
"But it is good land," asserted the miller, as he sat down on a chair near the hearth, and took out his pipe—"very good land—La Chenaie."
"Not bad," the young man allowed, shrugging one shoulder; "but, as my father used to say, it has never been properly cultivated. It wants capital."
"It wants capital? A-ah!" responded Maitre Picard, lengthening the ejaculation into a sort of snarl, as he stooped over the hearth and lighted his pipe at one of the smouldering brands.
Andre, glancing at Denise, wondered why she frowned at him as if he had made a mistake; but he soon forgot that speculation and everything else in thinking what a pretty picture she made as she sat near the narrow easement a slanting ray of evening sunshine lighting up her brown hair, her high white coif, quaint silver earrings, and skirt of dark blue serge, with a great heap of vegetables at her feet—big round lettuces, carrots, leeks, and beans, all tumbled together in picturesque confusion. The miller glanced over his shoulder at the visitor and frowned, as if something displeased him.
"Denise," he said sharply, "it is Pierre's bedtime."
"Yes, father, I am just going to take him."
She rose as she spoke, shook the peelings from her apron, and threw the prepared vegetables into the great iron soup-kettle hanging over the fire, and then turned to the little lad, who had followed her about, watching her proceedings with a face of grave interest.
"Come then, my bird—it is time to go to roost! The dustman is coming presently to throw dust into the eyes of little folk who ought to be in bed. Kiss father and say good night."
The miller put down his pipe and opened his arms wide to take the child.
"Good-night, my heart, my treasure," he murmured—"angels guard thee!" And taking the little wan face between his brown hands, he looked at it with devouring tenderness, kissed it again and again, and then relinquished little Pierre to his sister.
"Say 'Bon soir, Monsieur Andre,'" prompted Denise; and putting the little hand to her lips, she sent the visitor a kiss by deputy, with another of her brief, bright smiles.
"Bon soir, Mon'sieu Andre," chirped little Pierre.
"Good-night, little one; sleep well!" said the young man pleasantly, returning both the smile and the kiss; and he watched the girl as she crossed the kitchen with the child in her arms and ascended the steep stairs.
Left tete-a-tete with his host, the visitor seemed to find a difficulty in opening the conversation.
"Won't you sit down?" said Maitre Picard drily; and the other, who had forgotten that he was standing, hastily subsided into a chair on the opposite side of the hearth, where he sat turning his hat about in his hands and absently examining the maker's name inside. The miller meanwhile smoked on placidly, looking at the fire. At length, "taking his courage in both hands," Andre plunged into his subject.
"Maitre Picard, I am come to renew the proposal I made two years ago for your daughter's hand."
"Well?" interrogated Maitre Picard, letting the word escape at that corner of his mouth in which his pipe was not.
"You declined it then on the ground that Denise was too young, and that I was too poor; but you gave me leave to hope that, if in two years' time I could raise myself to a better position, you would reconsider your refusal. You remember?"
"Perfectly."
"Well," the young farmer continued, gathering courage as he went on, "I think I may say that I have succeeded. I have been very lucky these last two years; everything seems to have prospered with me. I have bought fresh land, and have put my money in the bank—"
"Very proper—very prudent," interposed his companion, between two puffs.
"And altogether my prospects have never looked so bright. I love Denise fondly and truly, Maitre Picard, as she deserves to be loved; and if you will give her to me, I will do all a man can do to make her happy."
The miller, in a cool, leisurely way, extinguished his pipe, knocked out the ashes against the leg of his chair, and put the pipe in the breast-pocket of his coat; then, looking across at his companion, he said deliberately,
"I thank you for the honor you have done me, Monsieur Andre Leblond; and I beg to decline your proposal."
Andre's face, in its sudden change from cheerful confidence to rueful amazement, was a study.
"You refuse me—again? Well, but—you said—you as good as promised, when we spoke of this before—"
"Listen!" interrupted the miller, tapping his nose with his forefinger by way of emphasis. "This is what I said—'If, in two years' time, you are in a suitable position, and if Denise is still free'—mark that 'if'"—
"Well, she is free! she told me so herself!"
"Ah, indeed! When was that? When did you see her alone?" was the quick question.
Andre colored, and bit his lips.
"We—I—I sometimes walk a little way with her on Sundays, after church."
"Oh, indeed?" said the miller, resolving on the spot that for the future Monsieur le Cure should not have to complain of his non-attendance. "But, you see, I have not yet told Denise of my intentions," he resumed. "She does not know that she is promised, or as good as promised, to my friend and neighbor Simon Moreau."
Andre's chair squeaked on the stone floor, as he pushed it back half a yard in his indignant astonishment.
"Good Heavens, Maitre Picard, you don't mean it? Simon Moreau—a man old enough to be her father—a course, vulgar, uneducated boor, who is—"
"The richest man between here and Fougeres," interposed the miller with a nod.
"And you will sell your daughter to the highest bidder, without even letting her have a voice in the matter? You will—"
"Oh, Denise will not oppose me! She knows her duty too well," he interrupted.
"Then it is the more shame of you to make use of her submission to break her heart," was the quick retort. "You'll forgive me if I speak warmly; but I feel strongly."
"Yes, I make allowance; you are disappointed, naturally," the miller returned, taking a pinch of snuff. " My daughter's dowry would have been useful—hein? The farm 'wants capital.' A-ah; I understand!" And he shut his snuff-box with a snap, smiling sourly as he glanced at his visitor under his floury brows.
The young farmer flushed up to his bronzed temples.
"I am no fortune-hunter, Maitre Picard; I think you know that. I protest against such an accusation," he began hastily.
"Good; when you have done protesting, I will wish you good evening."
"Nay, but listen to me," Andre pleaded, conquering his resentment by an effort. "I am quite willing to take your daughter penniless, if you will give her to me on those terms."
"Good evening," was the only reply.
"Consider what you are doing!" cried the young man, with passionate earnestness. "We have loved each other for years, Denise and I; it will break our hears to divide us. And think what the poor child's life will be, as the wife of such a man as Moreau! Even if you persist in refusing her to me, don't—for heaven's sake, don't give her to him!"
"Good evening," said the miller once more—and this time his finger pointed to the door.
Andre, glancing at the stern set face, saw that all his eloquence was thrown away. With a sigh of despair he took up his hat and rose.
"You refuse me then—unconditionally."
"Exactly; and if you come again on the same errand, I shall shut the door in your face."
"I shall trouble you no more," the young man replied as he passed through the door.
As he was moving slowly and sorrowfully away, a widow high up in the steep roof, above the door, opened noiselessly, and Denise looked out. She called to him softly—
"Wait for me by the bridge."
He nodded and walked away across the yard, and along the unfenced road which wound down the hillside into the valley below.
At the foot of the hill was a stream, crossed by a quaint stone bridge with one wide arch and one narrow one. Beyond the bridge a lonely lane led between high banks and tangled hedgerows to the village of St. Marie-les-Chenes, three miles away.
At length the sound of a quick, light footstep made him look up with a start, and the next moment Denise was at his side. She was out of breath with the haste she had made, and could not protest, even had she been inclined to do so, when her lover, taking her hands in his, drew her to him, and kissed her on both cheeks.
"I dare not stay long, or father will miss me," she said hurriedly. "Have you spoken to him? What did he say? Ah, I see the answer in your face!" she broke off. " He has refused you!"
"Yes, Denise, he has refused me. And do you know what reason he gives? That you are promised to another!"
She started.
"Promised?" she repeated breathlessly. "To whom am I promised?"
"To Simon Moreau." he said.
She drew back, looking at him blankly, the color fading from her face.
"No, it is impossible; father cannot mean it!"
"That is what I said when he told me; but he does mean it, Denise. He refused you to me, and he will give you to that boor, who is not worthy to kiss your shoe! Great Heaven, how shall I bear it?" he exclaimed, with a passionate gesture. "To have worked for you, hoped for you, lived for you, all these years, and now, after all—"
His voice broke and he turned away his head abruptly.
Denise stood at his side with the same blank, stunned look on her face.
"But are you sure there is no hope?" she asked in an eager, tremulous undertone. "Did you remind him of his promise two years ago?"
"You may be sure I did not forget that. I used every argument I could think of; but there—I might as well have talked to a stone."
With a gesture of despair she let her hands fall to her sides.
"If he has made up his mind, nothing will move him. It is all over!"
"But it is not—it shall not be!" her lover exclaimed impetuously. "Do you think I will give you up so lightly, after loving you so long? Not at your father's or any man's bidding! Denise, listen. In less than a year you will be of age, and then, if he still refuses his consent, why—we will do without it! You need not look so shocked," he added impatiently. "It is not a crime that I am proposing."
Denise shook her head.
"If I set him at defiance he would curse me, and that would be terrible," she said. "No blessing would rest on our marriage, for certain."
"And will a blessing rest on the one he has planned for you?" her companion asked. "Will your father's approval make you any happier as Moreau's wife? Just think what your life will be in the long years to come. If you have no pity for me, have pity on yourself, Denise."
She nervously twisted the quaint gold ring on her finger, her eyes full of trouble and perplexity.
"Dear," she said slowly at last, "I must not think of myself in this matter. If I did I should never have courage to say to you what I say now, with a sorrowful heart—we must part." Her voice faltered, and she paused a moment, than went on. "Even if I could bring myself to disobey my father, there would still be an obstacle between us. If I married without his consent, I should come to you penniless, and—"
"What of that," he interrupted, quickly. "Your love is dower enough for me, my sweet."
"Ah, no," Denise returned, shaking her head. "It's not as if you were rich. You have your fortune still to make, and, as your mother said to me the last time I saw her, an imprudent marriage would hamper you for life."
"My mother need not have said that," said Andre, frowning.
"But it is quite true, dear. And knowing. this, can I be so selfish, so cruel as to—"
"Denise, Denise," he interrupted, passionately, "do not break my heart! What is poverty compared to the loss of you? What would riches be to me without you? Ah," he added bitterly, "you do not love me, or you would not talk in that strain."
"Do not I?" she questioned, with tender reproach. "I love you too well to injure you. It is love, as well as duty, that holds me back from you."
"I think you do not know what love means," was his reply. "If you felt for me as I do for you, nothing—nothing—would hold you back from these longing arms and this lonely heart of mine. Ah, no, Denise, you do not care for me! I have been miserably mistaken."
The tears rushed to her eyes and her lips quivered.
"You are mistaken now," she said, in a tone half proud, half sad; but think as you will. You do not understand me, that is all."
Both were silent a moment, Andre staring moodily on the ground, his companion looking sorrowfully away over the sunlit meadows.. At length the. sound of a horse approaching along the lane roused them both.
"I must go now," said the girl, with a sigh, looking at him wistfully as she put out her hand. "If we must part, Andre, let us not part in anger. Forgive me, dear, and—forget me."
He turned and looked at her, then, suddenly, with an inarticulate sound of tenderness, caught both her hands in his, and drew her to his breast.
"Forget you? When I forget there is a heaven above us!" he added, in a passionate undertone, and taking her face in his hands, he kissed her on her eyes, her lips, her brow. "You love me; we will not be parted," he whispered, laying his bearded cheek against her forehead. "I cannot live without you. Listen, dearest. I told your father I should trouble him no more; but I am resolved, now, to make one last appeal to him. If he repeats his refusal, then you will have to choose between him and me. You understand?"
"I understand," Denise replied; but wait a few days before you speak to him again. He—"
She broke off, glancing nervously down the lane.
"Look, Andre, it is Monsieur Moreau," she whispered. "Let me go; he must not see me here."
Andre glanced over his shoulder at the approaching horseman, muttering something that was certainly not a benediction.
"I shall come to Montvert again in a fortnight—on Midsummer Eve—" he said, hurriedly; till then, adieu, dear one."
"Adieu," she echoed, as she waved her hand to him, and hurried away.
* * *
"So the miller has a Midsummer fire after all, though he vowed he would have no more," remarked Madame Leblond, glancing through the casement without raising her head from the saucepan she was stirring.
Andre made a sound of assent.
"What has come to you to-night, lad? You have been like a man bewitched ever since you came back from your ride. Where did you go, by the bye?" she added, with a quick change of tone, pausing in the act of transferring the contents of a saucepan to a dish.
''To Montvert."
His mother bit her lip.
"If you had a spark of pride, you would never have set foot in that house again, after the reception you met with last time."
"I did not set foot in it," he returned with.a dreary smile, "for the miller was as good as his word, and shut the door in my face."
With a bang she set down the dish on the table and turned towards him, flushing up to her sunburnt forehead.
"What! He did? Ciel, I wish I had been there! Who is he—the old curmudgeon—that he should dare to insult my son? Isn't a Leblond as good as a Picard! Ay, my faith, and a hundred times better! But it is your fault," she went on, turning the current of her wrath upon Andre, "your own entirely. What need was there for you to humble yourself to him, begging and praying for his daughter, as if there was no woman in the world but Denise Picard?"
"There is no other in the world for me."
"Rubbish!" cried his mother, irritably. "You know you can't have her! What's the good of crying for the moon? I hope," she added, with an uneasy glance at him, "that you have not been trying to persuade the girl into—into any romantic folly?"
"I have done my best to persuade her to marry me, if that is what you mean," he said as she paused. "I asked her a fortnight ago, and again to-night, when I saw her for a few moments at the bridge."
"Ah! And she—"
"Refused. She would not marry under her father's curse, and bring misfortune on us both, she said. You may be quite easy, mother—it is all over."
She drew a breath of relief.
"Denise is a good, dutiful girl," she said, warmly, "and deserves to be happy, and will be. And so will you, my son, if, instead of wasting your breath in sighing for what you can't have, you will pluck up a spirit and let me look out for a wife to suit you. I—"
"Mother," interrupted Andre, turning his head, "you need not seek a wife for me. I will have Denise Picard or none."
"Then, my son, you will have none," she replied, with an emphatic nod; "for Denise will probably be Madame Moreau before harvest. I heard to-day that the marriage is delayed only until Moreau and old Picard can agree about the amount of the dowry."
Andre abruptly changed his position, and loosened his collar as if he were suffocating; then he took up his hat from a chair near the door.
"Where art thou going?" she interposed, feeling somewhat remorseful as she caught a glimpse of his face.
"For a walk in the fields. Don't sit up for me," he answered, briefly, and before she could speak again he had left the house.
He slowly crossed the courtyard, and passed through a gate into the fragrant darkness of the orchard, where long leafy vistas lost themselves in depths of mysterious gloom, traversed here and there by a furtive moonbeam which played on some gnarled bough or lichen-crusted trunk. Beyond the orchard lay the open fields, silvery with dew and moonlight.
Andre wandered slowly on in the radiant stillness from field to field, over the short, sweet, new-mown grass, and among the scented haycocks, till he reached a gate which opened into the lane. From this point it was but five minutes' walk to the village. He paused, and leaned with folded arms on the gate, looking out over the wide, dim country, and drinking in the sweetness of the summer night. On the hill of Montvert the bonfire was still blazing fiery red through the darkness. He had spent many a Midsummer Eve there, and could picture the scene as vividly as if he had been present—the great, roaring fire on the mill green, lighting up with weird red glare the faces of the crowd, and casting long, fantastic shadows across the grass—the old mill, looking in the fitful light like some grim giant, with arms outstretched—the dark figures passing to and fro before the fire, or dancing hand in hand around it, singing an old, tuneless chorus—the sharp crackling of the flames—the aromatic smell of pine wood and dried moss. It all came back to him as he watched.
With a heavy sigh he let fall his head upon his folded arms. A dreadful sense of desolation lay like lead upon his heart. His love for Denise was woven like a golden thread into the very texture of his daily life; all his hopes and ambitions clustered round her image, and in losing her he lost them too. But it was not for his own loss only that he grieved. When he thought of Denise's fate his heart thrilled with indignant pity. To be chained for life to a man she could not even esteem, suffering the daily torture of companionship with a coarse, ignoble nature, her heart slowly withering, her spirit losing its brightness, her sweet eyes their light. A pang that was like absolute physical pain shot through him at the thought, and with a sobbing sigh he put both hands to his broad chest ; then, turning from the placid, moonlit landscape, he threw himself upon the sloping bank at the foot of the hedge.
The moments slowly lengthened into hours. At length, overcome by fatigue, Andre sank into a doze, and, from thinking of Denise, fell to dreaming of her. He dreamed that he was once more in the mill kitchen, watching her as she ascended the stairs with little Pierre in her arms. Suddenly, as she turned her face towards him over her shoulder, he saw its expression change to a look of agonized terror.
"Little Pierre is falling—save him!" she screamed.
He hastily extended his arms to catch the child, and with the effort awoke—awoke with a great start, and with that terrified cry still ringing in his ears. The impression of the dream was so strong that his heart beat fast as he scrambled to his feet and looked round him, dreading he knew not what.
He found that he had been sleeping some time, for the moon was low in the east. The breeze had sighed itself to sleep; everything was profoundly still. Glancing instinctively across the fields towards Montvert, he drew back with a smothered cry. Was he dreaming still, or was the bonfire blazing again on the hill? What was the red tongue of flame that leaped and flickered against the purple of the sky?
Another look, and the dreadful truth broke upon him. A calamity worse than that Maitre Picard had foreboded had come to pass—the house was on fire! The flames were bursting fiercely from the thatched roof—that roof beneath which perhaps the inmates still slept, unconscious of danger.
For a moment he stood gazing at it like one in a dream; then, rousing himself with a start, he turned and ran back home as if he were running for his life. To wake the farm servants, dispatch one to the village for assistance, and another to Fougeres for the engines, was the work of a few moments; then he saddled his horse and set off at a hard gallop to the mill. As he tore along the lonely lanes his dream came back to him with thrilling vividness. Denise's horror-stricken face rose before him; her scream still rang through the silence. Straining his eyes through the gloom he saw that the red light on the distant hill was growing higher and brighter every moment. Supposing he arrived too late to warn or save? His heart turned cold with fear.
At length the bridge was reached and crossed, and the horse rushed on with scarcely slackened speed up the winding hill road beyond.
And now Andre could see what terrible progress the fire had already made. One end of the house was enveloped in flames; the roof was alight from end to end, and the burning thatch, falling piecemeal in great flakes, sent up showers of sparks and a dense cloud of smoke, which hung like a pall above the hill. A confused noise of shouting which reached him as he approached told him, to his great relief, that the inmates were aroused. Midway up the ascent he was compelled to alight, his frightened horse refusing to proceed; hastily tying the bridle to a tree on the road side, he hurried on.
A bewildering glare of light, a roaring of flames, a crackling of wood, a hubbub of excited voices and trampling of hurried footsteps—these were the sights and sounds that greeted him when he reached the courtyard gate.
Just as he was passing through, a white figure, with streaming hair, rushed past him. He caught it by the arm, exclaiming, "Denise!"
It was not she, however, but Madelon, the maid servant, half-dressed and wild with terror. She screamed when he touched her, and at first replied only by a vacant stare to his eager question—
"Are they all safe?"
"The miller is safe enough; he is among the men yonder," she answered at length.
"And Denise?"
"Ma'm'selle Denise is a mile or more away—at her aunt Vernier's at Preville. The master sent her there this evening."
He drew a deep breath of relief.
"And little Pierre—did she take him with her?"
A curious Iook of perplexity crossed the girl's face.
"I—think so," she stammered.
"You think?" he cried. ''Don't you know whether she did or not."
"I did not see her leave the house. I told the master she had taken the child—I thought she would have been sure to do so; but—but—"
She hesitated, and began to tremble.
"But what?" he asked, loudly, seized with a sudden dread.
She glanced at him fearfully.
"When the fire broke out," she faltered, "I woke in a fright and rushed down stairs. I noticed nothing at the time; but afterwards I—I thought I recollected seeing him in his cot in her room as I passed the door."
"You saw him and left him there?" he cried, recoiling from her in horror.
She sobbed and wrung her hands.
"I am not sure that he was there; I only fancied—I was mad with fright."
He put her roughly away from him and hurried into the yard in search of the miller. He found him the centre of a group of men—his own servants and those of Simon Moreau, whose farm adjoined Montvert—occupied in getting the terrified horses out of the stables where the fire had first broken out. Andre touched his arm.
"Did Denise take the child with her to Preville?" he asked, without preface.
The miller turned and looked at him. With his face blacked by smoke and dust, and his tassel night-cap all awry, Maitre Picard was an object at once grim and grotesque
"Of course she took him. Madelon told me— Good Heaven," he broke of, noticing the expression of the young man's face, "you do not mean—"
The words died on his lips; his brown face blanched suddenly to a dreadful sickly pallor; he staggered back as if from a sudden blow, and looked with wild dilated eyes towards the burning house.
"No, no; I hope and pray that he is not there!" Andre cried. "But, if Denise— Thank Heaven, here she is!" he exclaimed, as Denise herself came hurrying op to them, white with excitement and breathless with running.
"Oh, father, what a calamity!" she panted. "I saw the light from my bedroom window at Aunt Vernier's, and I have—run—all the—way." Then, looking round, she added, "Where is Pierre?"
The question struck cold to the hearts of the listeners. They looked aghast into each other's faces, and no one replied. Her father caught her by the arm, and shook her, in his excitement.
"You—you took him with you!" he gasped, hoarsely. "Girl, what are you thinking of?"
Denise looked at him blankly.
"Father, I did not take him. I thought you knew. I put him to bed in his little cot in my room before I started, and—"
"In your room," echoed Moreau, who stood near. "Then heaven help him! Look there!" and he pointed to the casement half way up the steep roof. It was open, and barbs of fire like serpents' tongues darted from it, while the flames from the burning thatch played above and around it.
With a dreadful, inarticulate cry, like that of some wild animal bereaved of its young, the miller threw his arms above his head, and rushed back to the house. He would have flung himself recklessly into the midst of the flames, if one of the men had not thrown his arms round his waist and restrained him. He struggled like a madman.
"Let me go, or I shall do you a mischief," he shouted. "Let me go to my child—oh Heaven, my little, helpless child!"
"It is too late, Picard." said Simon Moreau, who had followed him. "The staircase is on fire; you could not reach the room, and even if you did you would be sure not to find the child alive now."
The miller made another frantic effort to get free, but his strength seemed to fail him at once His whole figure collapsed—he tottered and fell upon his knees.
"My child, my child, my child!" he repeated over and over again, in a hoarse whisper, as his head sank forward upon his breast.
A moan of pity ran through the crowd, gradually swelling to a loud, confused murmur.
"Get through the window," shouted some one in the back ground; but no one volunteered. The smoke and flames were pouring more fiercely every moment from the window, and the room within appeared like a furnace. Denise looked despairingly round for Andre, but he had disappeared.
"No one in his senses would attempt it," muttered Moreau, with a shrug. "A man's life is worth more than a child's—a poor little cripple, who would have been only a misery to himself and a burden to others if he had lived. Perhaps it is all for the best," he added, philosophically.
He had not imagined that his words would reach the miller's ears, and he drew back with a start when the latter, suddenly raising his head, looked him full in the face, and repeated, with a slow, bitter smile—
"All for the best! If the boy is taken, there will be the more for the girl, isn't that it?"
Moreau's swarthy face turned darkly red. Before he could reply, however, he was pushed aside by Andre, who came hurrying up out of breath, and laid his hand on the father's shoulder.
"Maitre Picard," he said, in a strong hopeful voice, "don't despair; there is still a chance of saving the poor little lad, and I am going to try it. I have been looking for a ladder; the men are bringing it now.
The words were greeted by a ringing cheer from the bystanders, and half a dozen of them hastened off to assist in bringing the ladder. With a strange look, in which wonder, hope, and gratitude struggled with a sort of shame, the miller lifted his eyes to the young man's face, but said not a word.
Moreau eyed his rival with a scowl.
"You will not attempt it if you set any value on your life," he remarked.
"Perhaps I do not," was the quiet reply.
"Oh, if you are bent on committing suicide, I have no more to say; but, if you expect to find anything living in that furnace you are a greater madman than I take you for! Why, it—"
Maitre Picard suddenly sprang to his feet, all his energy returning in a moment.
"Madman? He is a hero," he cried fiercely, "and thou art a heartless raven! Stand back!" And, taking his quondam ally by the arm, he literally flung him on one side.
Moreau turned white with rage and offended dignity.
"You shall repent having insulted me, Pierre Picard," he said, and casting a venomous look at him, stalked away.
At the same moment two men came hurrying up, bearing a long ladder, which was at once placed against the front wall of the house. Twice Andre attempted to mount it, and was driven back, blinded and half suffocated by the smoke from the burning thatch. As he paused a moment to recover his breath before making a third attempt, suddenly there came from the room above a sound that went like a knife to the hearts of those who heard it—a child's shrill despairing scream. Again and again it was repeated, rising high above the noise of the fire.
"Father, father!" wailed little Pierre.
The unhappy father twisted his hands in his grey hair, and ran hither and thither like a distracted creature, uttering broken cries of agony. The crowd, which was now swelled by groups from the village and neighboring farms, swayed to and fro in intense excitement. Men shuddered—women moaned and sobbed.
Andre set his teeth hard, drew in his breath, and taking advantage of a moment when the smoke was lifted by a passing breeze, rushed at the ladder, and this time gained the top, and got his foot in at the open casement. For an instant his figure stood out in dark relief against the red glare within, then the smoke and flames seemed to swallow it up, and he was lost to sight.
There was a long minute of breathless silence, broken only by the crackling of the burning wood. Every eye in the crowd was riveted on the widow; all the upturned faces wore the same expression of strained suspense. Then there burst forth a thrilling triumphant cheer as Andre reappeared at the window with what looked like a small white bundle in his arms.
He had his foot on the widow-ledge, when a loud. cracking noise above his head made him glance upwards. At the same moment there was a warning shout from below.
"Quick—save yourself! The roof is falling in!"
There was no time to descend the ladder. Clasping his light burden closer in his arms, he leaped blindly forward to the ground—not a second too soon, for, at the very moment when he alighted, the timbers of the roof fell with a great crash, bringing with them a mass of flaming thatch and scattering a shower of sparks over the yard.
Half a dozen hands lifted Andre to his feet, and dragged him back out of harm's way. Then the crowd closed upon him—cheered him till they were hoarse—shook hands with him—patted him—would have hugged him next, in their enthusiasm, if he had not struggled away from them.
"Here he is, safe and sound, Maitre Picard!" he said, as he made his way to the miller, and placed the child in his eager outstretched arms.
With a fierce eruption, which was startling in a man naturally so self-contained, the father hugged. his recovered treasure to his bosom.
"My heart—my love—my little dove!" he said in a passionate whisper, raining kisses on the little white face, the piteous sobbing mouth; the frail hands that clung to his neck.
The child's terror subsided as he felt the pressure of the familiar arms; his sobs ceased, and with a little fond murmuring noise like the coo of a pigeon, he put up one hand to stroke the miller's face.
"Don't cry, father," he whispered; "Pierre is not hurt."
"No, he is not hurt, the brave little man," said Andre, smiling, "but if I had been a moment later—. The curtains of his cot were on fire; the smoke had stupefied him; and he did not wake till the flames actually touched him. See—his hair is singed at this side!"
As he pointed, Denise uttered a stifled cry.
"Oh, look at your hand!" she exclaimed.
He looked at it mechanically, and then for the first time discovered that it was badly burnt. He was wounded, too; the blood trickled from a deep cut on his forehead, made by some of the falling woodwork.
"It is nothing," he answered slightingly; but even as he spoke he turned pale, staggered, and would have fallen if the miller, hastily handing the child to Denise, had not extended his arm to support him
"Lean on me, my son," he said.
"My son!" A wild, sweet hope leaped up in Andre's heart at the word: He glanced quickly at the other face, but it had regained its usual inexpressive stolidity, and gave no clue to his thoughts.
"If you can get as far as the mill, Denise will dress your hand," he said.
The young man assented, and they moved slowly away, just as a distant shout and rumbling of wheels told that the fire engines were approaching.
* * *
In the lower chamber of the mill, on an temporary couch of empty floor sacks, sat Andre, with Denise at his side. She had dressed and bandaged his hand, and was now bathing his wounded forehead. Near the doorway, very grim and upright in her black serge skirt and tall sugar-loaf cap, sat Madame Leblond, looking out with an inscrutable expression of countenance straight before her across the green. Little Pierre was coiled up fast asleep on Madelon's lap. A lantern on the floor lit the faces of the group, and cast their exaggerated shadows against the flour-whitened walls, giving an unreal, fantastic look to the scene .
"Is the pain there?" asked Denise softly of her patient, laying her hand, light as thistle-down, on his temples.
"It was there, but it is gone; you have charmed it away," he replied.
"In that case," remarked his mother, looking round, "perhaps you are able to ride home now? The sooner we start the better."
"Ride!" echoed the voice of the miller, who had ascended the steps unperceived, and now stood in the doorway, looking in the doorway, looking in upon the group. "He must not attempt it. I have sent his horse back to La Chenaie; when he feels well enough, Jean will drive him home."
"I wish you would let Denise and the little one come with us," said Andre, eagerly. "They could stay at Le Chenaie till you have the new roof on. My mother would make them heartily welcome;" and he cast an appealing look at her, which she feigned not to see.
"Would she?" queried the miller dubiously, as he took up little Pierre, who had awakened at the sound of his voice, and sat down near Andre, wiping his heated forehead.
The widow looked round with a dry smile.
"You think I might pay you tit for tat, miller, and shut the door on your daughter as you did on my son?" she said. "Well, so I might, if I were inclined to be revengeful; but—"
"But you can afford to be generous," he interrupted gravely. "Your son has had his revenge already, madame." He turned to the young farmer. "Listen, Leblond. People call me a hard man; but I am not an ungrateful one, I think. It has never been said of Pierre Picard that he forgot a benefit or forsook a friend; and from this night you are more than my friend. The debt I owe to you can never be paid—never—never!" he repeated, with emphasis; and, as he spoke, his arms unconsciously tightened their clasp of the child on his knee, who looked up, wonderingly, into his agitated face.
Andre flushed; his eyes sparkled with light; and, leaning forward, he said quickly—
"You can pay the debt, with interest, whenever you choose. Give me Denise, and you shall have a receipt in full."
"Hum—that is businesslike," remarked Matire Picard, his black eyes twinkling.
"Gently!" cried Madame Leblond, coming forward. "Is not Denise already disposed of? Simon Moreau—"
The miller, who was refreshing himself with a pinch of snuff, gave a sudden snort, which made them all start.
"Simon Moreau may go—elsewhere for a wife," he said grimly, as they looked at him. "He shall have no daughter of mine. I told him so half an hour ago. He—"
"What! Then Denise is free?" cried Andre, starting to his feet. "Oh, Maitre Picard, you won't refuse her to me a third time?"
Denise crept to her father's side and, winding an arm round his neck, whispered—
"He has given you back one child, mon pere; let him have the other!"
"Go thy ways, then, silly child," he growled, pushing her gently away, "and pay my debt by making him happy—if thou canst."
"I will try," she said simply, turning to her lover with a smile as bright as a May morning.
"Thou hast done it already!" he whispered, as he folded his arms about her, and pressed on her lips the kiss of betrothal.
"While those two are making love, suppose we make friends, Madame Leblond?" said the miller, extending his hand, which was cordially shaken by the widow.
"And now," she said briskly, "we had better start at once if we are to reach La Chenaie to-night."
"To-night, mother. Why, it is morning!" exclaimed Andre, pointing through the doorway.
They all passed out, and stood for a moment at the top of the steps, looking towards the east, where the "red rose of dawn" was unfolding. Even as they watched, the tender dim uncertain light grew warmer; a streak of lovely luminous primrose broke through the grey clouds on the horizon; the mist rolled like a gently-withdrawn veil from woods and fields, and the violet eyes of the summer day unclosed bright and pure, as if there were no death in the world, nor sin, nor sorrow.
"Yes, it is morning," said Andre softly, taking Denise's hand—"the morning of a fresh day and the dawn of a new life, sweetheart, for thee and me! Come, let us go home!"
Warragul Guardian, Thursday 11 August 1881, supplement page 2 & Thursday 20 October 1881, supplement page 2.
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