That night Valmond and his three new recruits, to whom Garotte the limeburner had been added, met in the smithy and swore fealty to the great cause. Lajeunesse, by virtue of his position in the parish, and his former military experience, was made a captain, and the others sergeants of companies yet unnamed and unformed. The limeburner was a dry, thin man of no particular stature, who coughed a little between his sentences, and had a habit, when not talking, of humming to himself, as if in apology for his silence. This humming had no sort of tune or purpose, and was but a vague musical sputtering. He almost perilled the gravity of the oath they all took to Valmond by this idiosyncrasy. His occupation gave him a lean, arid look; his hair was crisp and straight, shooting out at all points, and it flew to meet his cap as if it were alive. He was a genius after a fashion, too, and at all the feasts and on national holidays he invented some new feature in the entertainments. With an eye for the grotesque, he had formed a company of jovial blades, called Kalathumpians, after the manner of the mimes of old times in his beloved Dauphiny.
“All right, all right,” he said, when Lagroin, in the half-lighted blacksmith shop, asked him to swear allegiance and service. “‘Brigadier, vous avez raison,’” he added, quoting a well-known song. Then he hummed a little and coughed. “We must have a show”—he hummed again—“we must tickle ‘em up a bit—touch ‘em where they’re silly with a fiddle and fife-raddy dee dee, ra dee, ra dee, ra dee!” Then, to Valmond: “We gave the fools who fought the Little Corporal sour apples in Dauphiny, my dear!”
He followed this extraordinary speech with a plan for making an ingenious coup for Valmond, when his Kalathumpians should parade the streets on the evening of St. John the Baptist’s Day.
With hands clasped the new recruits sang:
“When from the war we come,
Allons gai!
Oh, when we ride back home,
If we be spared that day,
Ma luronne lurette,
We’ll laugh our scars away,
Ma luronne lure,
We’ll lift the latch and stay,
Ma luronne lure.”
The huge frame of the blacksmith, his love for his daughter, his simple faith in this new creed of patriotism, his tenderness of heart, joined to his irascible disposition, spasmodic humour, and strong arm, roused in Valmond an immediate liking, as keen, after its kind, as that he had for the Cure; and the avocat. With both of these he had had long talks of late, on everything but purely personal matters. They would have thought it a gross breach of etiquette to question him on that which he avoided. His admiration of them was complete, although he sometimes laughed half sadly, half whimsically, as he thought of their simple faith in him.
At dusk on the eve of St. John the Baptist’s Day, after a long conference with Lagroin and Parpon, Valmond went through the village, and came to the smithy to talk with Lajeunesse. Those who recognised him in passing took off their bonnets rouges, some saying, “Good-night, your Highness;” some, “How are you, monseigneur?” some, “God bless your Excellency;” and a batch of bacchanalian river-men, who had been drinking, called him “General,” and insisted on embracing him, offering him cognac from their tin flasks.
The appearance among them of old Madame Degardy shifted the good-natured attack. For many a year, winter and summer, she had come and gone in the parish, all rags and tatters, wearing men’s kneeboots and cap, her grey hair hanging down in straggling curls, her lower lip thrust out fiercely, her quick eyes wandering to and fro, and her sharp tongue, like Parpon’s, clearing a path before her whichever way she turned. On her arm she carried a little basket of cakes and confitures, and these she dreamed she sold, for they were few who bought of Crazy Joan. The stout stick she carried was as compelling as her tongue, so that when the river-men surrounded her in amiable derision, it was used freely and with a heart all kindness: “For the good of their souls,” she said, “since the Cure was too mild, Mary in heaven bless him high and low!”
She was the Cure’s champion everywhere, and he in turn was tender towards the homeless body, whose history even to him was obscure, save in the few particulars that he had given to Valmond the last time they had met.
In her youth Madame Degardy was pretty and much admired. Her lover had deserted her, and in a fit of mad indignation and despair she had fled from the village, and vanished no one knew where, though it had been declared by a wandering hunter that she had been seen in the far-off hills that march into the south, and that she lived there with a barbarous mountaineer, who had himself long been an outlaw from his kind.
But this had been mere gossip, and after twenty-five years she came back to Pontiac, a half-mad creature, and took up the thread of her life alone; and Parpon and the Cure saw that she suffered nothing in the hard winters.
Valmond left the river-men to the tyranny of her tongue and stick, and came on to where the red light of the forge showed through the smithy window. As he neared the door, he heard a voice singularly sweet, and another of commoner calibre was joining in the refrain of a song:
“‘Oh, traveller, see where the red sparks rise,’
(Fly away, my heart, fly away!)
But dark is the mist in the traveller’s eyes.
(Fly away, my heart, fly away!)
‘Oh, traveller, see far down the gorge,
The crimson light from my father’s forge.
(Fly away, my heart, fly away!)
“‘Oh, traveller, hear how the anvils ring.’
(Fly away, my heart, fly away!)
But the traveller heard, ah, never a thing.
(Fly away, my heart, fly away!)
‘Oh, traveller, loud do the bellows roar,
And my father waits by the smithy door.
(Fly away, my heart, fly away!)
“‘Oh, traveller, see you thy true love’s grace.’
(Fly away, my heart, fly away!)
And now there is joy in the traveller’s face.
(Fly away, my heart, fly away!)
Oh, wild does he ride through the rain and mire,
To greet his love by the smithy fire.
(Fly away, my heart, fly away!)”
In accompaniment, some one was beating softly on the anvil, and the bellows were blowing rhythmically.
He lingered for a moment, loath to interrupt the song, and then softly opened the upper half of the door, for it was divided horizontally, and leaned over the lower part.
Beside the bellows, her sleeves rolled up, her glowing face cowled in her black hair, comely and strong, stood Elise Malboir, pushing a rod of steel into the sputtering coals. Over the anvil, with a small bar caught in a pair of tongs, hovered Madelinette Lajeunesse, beating, almost tenderly, the red-hot point of the steel. The sound of the iron hammer on the malleable metal was like muffled silver, and the sparks flew out like jocund fireflies. She was making two hooks for her kitchen wall, for she was clever at the forge, and could shoe a horse if she were let to do so. She was but half-turned to Valmond, but he caught the pure outlines of her face and neck, her extreme delicacy of expression, which had a pathetic, subtle refinement, in acute contrast to the quick, abundant health, the warm energy, the half defiant look of Elise. It was a picture of labour and life.
A dozen thoughts ran through Valmond’s mind. He was responsible, to an extent, for the happiness of these two young creatures. He had promised to make a songstress of the one, to send her to Paris; had roused in her wild, ambitious hopes of fame and fortune—dreams that, in any case, could be little like the real thing: fanciful visions of conquest and golden living, where never the breath of her hawthorn and wild violets entered; only sickly perfumes, as from an odalisque’s fan, amid the enervating splendour of voluptuous boudoirs—for she had read of these things.
Valmond had, in a vague, graceless sort of way, worked upon the quick emotions of Elise. Every little touch of courtesy had been returned to him in half-shy, half-ardent glances; in flushes, which the kiss he had given her the first day of their meeting had made the signs of an intermittent fever; in modest yet alluring waylayings; in restless nights, in half-tuneful, half-silent days; in a sweet sort of petulance. She had kept in mind everything he had said to her; the playfully emotional pressure of her hand, his eloquent talks with her uncle, the old sergeant’s rhapsodies on his greatness; and there was no place in the room where he had sat or stood, which she had not made sacred—she, the mad cap, who had lovers by the dozen. Importuned by the Cure and her mother to marry, she had threatened, if they worried her further, to wed fat Duclosse, the mealman, who had courted her in a ponderous way for at least three years. The fire that corrodes, when it does not make glorious without and within, was in her veins, and when Valmond should call she was ready to come. She could not, at first, see that if he were, in truth, a Napoleon, she was not for him. Seized of that wilful, daring spirit called Love, her sight was bounded by the little field where she strayed.
Elise’s arm paused upon the lever of the bellows, when she saw Valmond watching them from the door. He took off his hat to them, as Madelinette turned towards him, the hammer pausing in the stroke.
“Ah, monseigneur!” she said impulsively, and then paused, confused. Elise did not move, but stood looking at him, her eyes all flame, her cheeks going a little pale, and flushing again. With a quick motion she pushed her hair back, and as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him, she blew the bellows, as if to give a brighter light to the place. The fire flared up, but there were corners in deep shadow. Valmond doffed his hat again and said ceremoniously: “Mademoiselle Madelinette, Mademoiselle Elise, pray do not stop your work. Let me sit here and watch you.”
Taking from his pocket a cigarette, he came over to the forge and was about to light it with the red steel from the fire, when Elise, snatching up a tiny piece of wood, thrust it in the coals, and, drawing it out, held it towards the cigarette, saying:
“Ah, no, your Excellency—this!”
As Valmond reached to take it from her, he heard a sound, as of a hoarse breathing, and turned quickly; but his outstretched hand touched Elise’s fingers, and it involuntarily closed on them, all her impulsive temperament and warm life thrilling through him. The shock of feeling brought his eyes to hers with a sudden burning mastery. For an instant their looks fused and were lost in a passionate affiance. Then, as if pulling himself out of a dream, he released her fingers with a “Pardon—my child!”
As he did so, a cry ran through the smithy. Madelinette was standing, tense and set with terror, her eyes riveted on something that crouched beside a pile of cart-wheels a few feet away; something with shaggy head, flaring eyes, and a devilish face. The thing raised itself and sprang towards hers with a devouring cry. With desperate swiftness leaping forward, Valmond caught the half man, half beast—it seemed that—by the throat. Madelinette fell fainting against the anvil, and, dazed and trembling, Elise hurried to her.
Valmond was in the grasp of a giant, and, struggle as he might, he could not withstand the powerful arms of his assailant. They came to their knees on the ground, where they clutched and strained for a wild minute, Valmond desperately fighting to keep the huge bony fingers from his neck. Suddenly the giant’s knee touched the red-hot steel that Madelinette had dropped, and with a snarl he flung Valmond back against the anvil, his head striking the iron with a sickening thud. Then, seizing the steel, he raised it to plunge the still glowing point into Valmond’s eyes.
Centuries of doom seemed crowded into that instant of time. Valmond caught the giant’s wrist with both hands, and with a mighty effort wrenched himself aside. His heart seemed to strain and burst, and just as he felt the end was come, he heard something crash on the murderer’s skull, and the great creature fell with a gurgling sound, and lay like a parcel of loose bones across his knees. Valmond raised himself, a strange, dull wonder on him, for as the weapon smote this lifeless creature, he had seen another hurl by and strike the opposite wall. A moment afterwards the dead man was pulled away by Parpon. Trying to rise he felt blood trickling down his neck, and he turned sick and blind. As the world slipped away from him, a soft shoulder caught his head, and out of a vast distance there came to him the wailing cry: “He is dying! my love! my love!”
Peril and horror had brought to Elise’s breast the one being in the world for her, the face which was etched like a picture upon her eyes and heart.
Parpon groaned with a strange horror as he dragged the body from Valmond. For a moment he knelt gasping beside the shapeless being, his great hands spasmodically feeling the pulseless breast.
Soon afterwards in the blacksmith’s house the two girls nestled in each other’s arms, and Valmond, shaken and weak, returned to the smithy.
In the dull glare of the forge fire knelt Parpon, rocking back and forth beside the body. Hearing Valmond, he got to his feet.
“You have killed him,” he said, pointing.
“No, no, not I,” answered Valmond. “Some one threw a hammer.”
“There were two hammers.”
“It was Elise?” asked Valmond, with a shudder. “No, not Elise; it was you,” said the dwarf, with a strange insistence.
“I tell you no,” said Valmond. “It was you, Parpon.”
“By God, it is a lie!” cried the dwarf, with a groan. Then he came close to Valmond. “He was—my brother! Do you not see?” he demanded fiercely, his eyes full of misery. “Do you not see that it was you? Yes, yes, it was you.”
Stooping, Valmond caught the little man in an embrace. “It was I that killed him, Parpon. It was I, comrade. You saved my life,” he added significantly. “The girl threw, but missed,” said Parpon. “She does not know but that she struck him.”
“She must be told.”
“I will tell her that you killed him. Leave it to me—all to me, my grand seigneur.”
A half-hour afterwards the avocat, the Cure, and the Little Chemist, had heard the story as the dwarf told it, and Valmond returned to the Louis Quinze a hero. For hours the habitants gathered under his window and cheered him.
Parpon sat long in gloomy silence by his side, but, raising his voice, he began to sing softly a lament for the gross-figured body, lying alone in a shed near the deserted smithy:
“Children, the house is empty,
The house behind the tall hill;
Lonely and still is the empty house.
There is no face in the doorway,
There is no fire in the chimney.
Come and gather beside the gate,
Little Good Folk of the Scarlet Hills.
“Where has the wild dog vanished?
Where has the swift foot gone?
Where is the hand that found the good fruit,
That made a garret of wholesome herbs?
Where is the voice that awoke the morn,
The tongue that defied the terrible beasts?
Come and listen beside the door,
Little Good Folk of the Scarlet Hills.”
The pathos of the chant almost made his listener shrink, so immediate and searching was it. When the lament ceased, there was a long silence, broken by Valmond.
“He was your brother, Parpon—how? Tell me about it.”
The dwarf’s eyes looked into the distance.
“It was in the far-off country,” he said, “in the hills where the Little Good Folk come. My mother married an outlaw. Ah, he was cruel, and an animal! My brother Gabriel was born—he was a giant, his brain all fumbling and wild. Then I was born, so small, a head as a tub, and long arms like a gorilla. We burrowed in the hills, Gabriel and I. One day my mother, because my father struck her, went mad, left us and came to—” He broke off, pausing an instant. “Then Gabriel struck the man, and he died, and we buried him, and my brother also left me, and I was alone. By and by I travelled to Pontiac. Once Gabriel came down from the hills, and Lajeunesse burnt him with a hot iron, for cutting his bellows in the night, to make himself a bed inside them. To-day he came again to do some terrible thing to the blacksmith or the girl, and you have seen—ah, the poor Gabriel, and I killed him!”
“I killed him,” said Valmond—“I, Parpon, my friend.”
“My poor fool, my wild dog!” wailed the dwarf mournfully.
“Parpon,” asked Valmond suddenly, “where is your mother?”
“It is no matter. She has forgotten—she is safe.”
“If she should see him!” said Valmond tentatively, for a sudden thought had come to him that the mother of these misfits of God was Madame Degardy.
Parpon sprang to his-feet. “She shall not see him. Ah, you know! You have guessed?” he cried. “She is all safe with me.”
“She shall not see him. She shall not know,” repeated the dwarf, his eyes huddling back in his head with anguish.
“Does she not remember you?”
“She does not remember the living, but she would remember the dead. She shall not know,” he said again.
Then, seizing Valmond’s hand, he kissed it, and, without a word, trotted from the room—a ludicrously pathetic figure.
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