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.
