( PDF ) A Simple Soul

Download PDF

ads:

A Simple Soul

Gustave Flaubert

The Project Gutenberg Etext of A Simple Soul, by Gustave Flaubert

#1 in our series by Flaubert

We will be producing Etexts of this book in the original language

both with and without accents. We would love your assistance for

this project, both in the creation of the files and in conversion

to the various popular formats such as Word, WordPerfect or HTML.

the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!!

Please take a look at the important information in this header.

We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an

electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this.

**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*

Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and

further information is included below. We need your donations.

A Simple Soul

by Gustave Flaubert

March, 1997 [Etext #1253]

The Project Gutenberg Etext of A Simple Soul, by Gustave Flaubert

*******This file should be named sseng10.txt or sseng10.zip******

Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, sseng11.txt.

VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, sseng10a.txt.

Etext prepared by John Bickers, jbickers@templar.actrix.gen.nz

and Dagny, dagnyj@hotmail.com

We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance

of the official release dates, for time for better editing.

ads:

Livros Grátis

http://www.livrosgratis.com.br

Milhares de livros grátis para download.

Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till

midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.

The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at

Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A

preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment

and editing by those who wish to do so. To be sure you have an

up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes

in the first week of the next month. Since our ftp program has

a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a

look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a

new copy has at least one byte more or less.

Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The

fifty hours is one conservative estimate for how long it we take

to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright

searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This

projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value

per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2

million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-two text

files per month, or 384 more Etexts in 1997 for a total of 1000+

If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the

total should reach over 100 billion Etexts given away.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext

Files by the December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000=Trillion]

This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,

which is only 10% of the present number of computer users. 2001

should have at least twice as many computer users as that, so it

will require us reaching less than 5% of the users in 2001.

We need your donations more than ever!

All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are

tax deductible to the extent allowable by law. (CMU = Carnegie-

Mellon University).

For these and other matters, please mail to:

Project Gutenberg

P. O. Box 2782

Champaign, IL 61825

When all other email fails try our Executive Director:

Michael S. Hart <[email protected]m>

We would prefer to send you this information by email

(Internet, Bitnet, Compuserve, ATTMAIL or MCImail).

******

If you have an FTP program (or emulator), please

FTP directly to the Project Gutenberg archives:

[Mac users, do NOT point and click. . .type]

ads:

ftp uiarchive.cso.uiuc.edu

password: your@login

cd etext/etext90 through /etext96

or cd etext/articles [get suggest gut for more information]

dir [to see files]

get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files]

GET INDEX?00.GUT

for a list of books

and

GET NEW GUT for general information

and

MGET GUT* for newsletters.

**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor**

(Three Pages)

***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***

Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.

They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with

your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from

someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our

fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement

disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how

you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT

By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm

etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept

this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive

a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by

sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person

you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical

medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS

This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-

tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor

Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at

Carnegie-Mellon University (the "Project"). Among other

things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright

on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and

distribute it in the United States without permission and

without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth

below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext

under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable

efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain

works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any

medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other

things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or

corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other

intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged

disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer

codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES

But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,

[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this

etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all

liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including

legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR

UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,

INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE

OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE

POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of

receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)

you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that

time to the person you received it from. If you received it

on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and

such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement

copy. If you received it electronically, such person may

choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to

receive it electronically.

THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER

WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS

TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT

LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A

PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or

the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the

above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you

may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY

You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors,

officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost

and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or

indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause:

[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification,

or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"

You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by

disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this

"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,

or:

[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this

requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the

etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however,

if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable

binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,

including any form resulting from conversion by word pro-

cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as

*EITHER*:

[*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and

does *not* contain characters other than those

intended by the author of the work, although tilde

(~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may

be used to convey punctuation intended by the

author, and additional characters may be used to

indicate hypertext links; OR

[*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at

no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent

form by the program that displays the etext (as is

the case, for instance, with most word processors);

[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at

no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the

etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC

or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this

"Small Print!" statement.

[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the

net profits you derive calculated using the method you

already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you

don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are

payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon

University" within the 60 days following each

date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare)

your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?

The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time,

scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty

free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution

you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg

Association / Carnegie-Mellon University".

*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*

Etext prepared by John Bickers, jbickers@templar.actrix.gen.nz

and Dagny, dagnyj@hotmail.com

A SIMPLE SOUL

By Gustave Flaubert

CHAPTER I

For half a century the housewives of Pont-l'Eveque had envied Madame

Aubain her servant Felicite.

For a hundred francs a year, she cooked and did the housework, washed,

ironed, mended, harnessed the horse, fattened the poultry, made the

butter and remained faithful to her mistress--although the latter was

by no means an agreeable person.

Madame Aubain had married a comely youth without any money, who died

in the beginning of 1809, leaving her with two young children and a

number of debts. She sold all her property excepting the farm of

Toucques and the farm of Geffosses, the income of which barely

amounted to 5,000 francs; then she left her house in Saint-Melaine,

and moved into a less pretentious one which had belonged to her

ancestors and stood back of the market-place. This house, with its

slate-covered roof, was built between a passage-way and a narrow

street that led to the river. The interior was so unevenly graded that

it caused people to stumble. A narrow hall separated the kitchen from

the parlour, where Madame Aubain sat all day in a straw armchair near

the window. Eight mahogany chairs stood in a row against the white

wainscoting. An old piano, standing beneath a barometer, was covered

with a pyramid of old books and boxes. On either side of the yellow

marble mantelpiece, in Louis XV. style, stood a tapestry armchair. The

clock represented a temple of Vesta; and the whole room smelled musty,

as it was on a lower level than the garden.

On the first floor was Madame's bed-chamber, a large room papered in a

flowered design and containing the portrait of Monsieur dressed in the

costume of a dandy. It communicated with a smaller room, in which

there were two little cribs, without any mattresses. Next, came the

parlour (always closed), filled with furniture covered with sheets.

Then a hall, which led to the study, where books and papers were piled

on the shelves of a book-case that enclosed three quarters of the big

black desk. Two panels were entirely hidden under pen-and-ink

sketches, Gouache landscapes and Audran engravings, relics of better

times and vanished luxury. On the second floor, a garret-window

lighted Felicite's room, which looked out upon the meadows.

She arose at daybreak, in order to attend mass, and she worked without

interruption until night; then, when dinner was over, the dishes

cleared away and the door securely locked, she would bury the log

under the ashes and fall asleep in front of the hearth with a rosary

in her hand. Nobody could bargain with greater obstinacy, and as for

cleanliness, the lustre on her brass sauce-pans was the envy and

despair of other servants. She was most economical, and when she ate

she would gather up crumbs with the tip of her finger, so that nothing

should be wasted of the loaf of bread weighing twelve pounds which was

baked especially for her and lasted three weeks.

Summer and winter she wore a dimity kerchief fastened in the back with

a pin, a cap which concealed her hair, a red skirt, grey stockings,

and an apron with a bib like those worn by hospital nurses.

Her face was thin and her voice shrill. When she was twenty-five, she

looked forty. After she had passed fifty, nobody could tell her age;

erect and silent always, she resembled a wooden figure working

automatically.

CHAPTER II

Like every other woman, she had had an affair of the heart. Her

father, who was a mason, was killed by falling from a scaffolding.

Then her mother died and her sisters went their different ways; a

farmer took her in, and while she was quite small, let her keep cows

in the fields. She was clad in miserable rags, beaten for the

slightest offence and finally dismissed for a theft of thirty sous

which she did not commit. She took service on another farm where she

tended the poultry; and as she was well thought of by her master, her

fellow-workers soon grew jealous.

One evening in August (she was then eighteen years old), they

persuaded her to accompany them to the fair at Colleville. She was

immediately dazzled by the noise, the lights in the trees, the

brightness of the dresses, the laces and gold crosses, and the crowd

of people all hopping at the same time. She was standing modestly at a

distance, when presently a young man of well-to-do appearance, who had

been leaning on the pole of a wagon and smoking his pipe, approached

her, and asked her for a dance. He treated her to cider and cake,

bought her a silk shawl, and then, thinking she had guessed his

purpose, offered to see her home. When they came to the end of a field

he threw her down brutally. But she grew frightened and screamed, and

he walked off.

One evening, on the road leading to Beaumont, she came upon a wagon

loaded with hay, and when she overtook it, she recognised Theodore. He

greeted her calmly, and asked her to forget what had happened between

them, as it "was all the fault of the drink."

She did not know what to reply and wished to run away.

Presently he began to speak of the harvest and of the notables of the

village; his father had left Colleville and bought the farm of Les

Ecots, so that now they would be neighbours. "Ah!" she exclaimed. He

then added that his parents were looking around for a wife for him,

but that he, himself, was not so anxious and preferred to wait for a

girl who suited him. She hung her head. He then asked her whether she

had ever thought of marrying. She replied, smilingly, that it was

wrong of him to make fun of her. "Oh! no, I am in earnest," he said,

and put his left arm around her waist while they sauntered along. The

air was soft, the stars were bright, and the huge load of hay

oscillated in front of them, drawn by four horses whose ponderous

hoofs raised clouds of dust. Without a word from their driver they

turned to the right. He kissed her again and she went home. The

following week, Theodore obtained meetings.

They met in yards, behind walls or under isolated trees. She was not

ignorant, as girls of well-to-do families are--for the animals had

instructed her;--but her reason and her instinct of honour kept her

from falling. Her resistance exasperated Theodore's love and so in

order to satisfy it (or perchance ingenuously), he offered to marry

her. She would not believe him at first, so he made solemn promises.

But, in a short time he mentioned a difficulty; the previous year, his

parents had purchased a substitute for him; but any day he might be

drafted and the prospect of serving in the army alarmed him greatly.

To Felicite his cowardice appeared a proof of his love for her, and

her devotion to him grew stronger. When she met him, he would torture

her with his fears and his entreaties. At last, he announced that he

was going to the prefect himself for information, and would let her

know everything on the following Sunday, between eleven o'clock and

midnight.

When the time grew near, she ran to meet her lover.

But instead of Theodore, one of his friends was at the meeting-place.

He informed her that she would never see her sweetheart again; for, in

order to escape the conscription, he had married a rich old woman,

Madame Lehoussais, of Toucques.

The poor girl's sorrow was frightful. She threw herself on the ground,

she cried and called on the Lord, and wandered around desolately until

sunrise. Then she went back to the farm, declared her intention of

leaving, and at the end of the month, after she had received her

wages, she packed all her belongings in a handkerchief and started for

Pont-l'Eveque.

In front of the inn, she met a woman wearing widow's weeds, and upon

questioning her, learned that she was looking for a cook. The girl did

not know very much, but appeared so willing and so modest in her

requirements, that Madame Aubain finally said:

"Very well, I will give you a trial."

And half an hour later Felicite was installed in her house.

At first she lived in a constant anxiety that was caused by "the style

of the household" and the memory of "Monsieur," that hovered over

everything. Paul and Virginia, the one aged seven, and the other

barely four, seemed made of some precious material; she carried them

pig-a-back, and was greatly mortified when Madame Aubain forbade her

to kiss them every other minute.

But in spite of all this, she was happy. The comfort of her new

surroundings had obliterated her sadness.

Every Thursday, friends of Madame Aubain dropped in for a game of

cards, and it was Felicite's duty to prepare the table and heat the

foot-warmers. They arrived at exactly eight o'clock and departed

before eleven.

Every Monday morning, the dealer in second-hand goods, who lived under

the alley-way, spread out his wares on the sidewalk. Then the city

would be filled with a buzzing of voices in which the neighing of

horses, the bleating of lambs, the grunting of pigs, could be

distinguished, mingled with the sharp sound of wheels on the cobble-

stones. About twelve o'clock, when the market was in full swing, there

appeared at the front door a tall, middle-aged peasant, with a hooked

nose and a cap on the back of his head; it was Robelin, the farmer of

Geffosses. Shortly afterwards came Liebard, the farmer of Toucques,

short, rotund and ruddy, wearing a grey jacket and spurred boots.

Both men brought their landlady either chickens or cheese. Felicite

would invariably thwart their ruses and they held her in great

respect.

At various times, Madame Aubain received a visit from the Marquis de

Gremanville, one of her uncles, who was ruined and lived at Falaise on

the remainder of his estates. He always came at dinner-time and

brought an ugly poodle with him, whose paws soiled their furniture. In

spite of his efforts to appear a man of breeding (he even went so far

as to raise his hat every time he said "My deceased father"), his

habits got the better of him, and he would fill his glass a little too

often and relate broad stories. Felicite would show him out very

politely and say: "You have had enough for this time, Monsieur de

Gremanville! Hoping to see you again!" and would close the door.

She opened it gladly for Monsieur Bourais, a retired lawyer. His bald

head and white cravat, the ruffling of his shirt, his flowing brown

coat, the manner in which he took snuff, his whole person, in fact,

produced in her the kind of awe which we feel when we see

extraordinary persons. As he managed Madame's estates, he spent hours

with her in Monsieur's study; he was in constant fear of being

compromised, had a great regard for the magistracy and some

pretensions to learning.

In order to facilitate the children's studies, he presented them with

an engraved geography which represented various scenes of the world;

cannibals with feather head-dresses, a gorilla kidnapping a young

girl, Arabs in the desert, a whale being harpooned, etc.

Paul explained the pictures to Felicite. And, in fact, this was her

only literary education.

The children's studies were under the direction of a poor devil

employed at the town-hall, who sharpened his pocket-knife on his boots

and was famous for his penmanship.

When the weather was fine, they went to Geffosses. The house was built

in the centre of the sloping yard; and the sea looked like a grey spot

in the distance. Felicite would take slices of cold meat from the

lunch basket and they would sit down and eat in a room next to the

dairy. This room was all that remained of a cottage that had been torn

down. The dilapidated wall-paper trembled in the drafts. Madame

Aubain, overwhelmed by recollections, would hang her head, while the

children were afraid to open their mouths. Then, "Why don't you go and

play?" their mother would say; and they would scamper off.

Paul would go to the old barn, catch birds, throw stones into the

pond, or pound the trunks of the trees with a stick till they

resounded like drums. Virginia would feed the rabbits and run to pick

the wild flowers in the fields, and her flying legs would disclose her

little embroidered pantalettes. One autumn evening, they struck out

for home through the meadows. The new moon illumined part of the sky

and a mist hovered like a veil over the sinuosities of the river.

Oxen, lying in the pastures, gazed mildly at the passing persons. In

the third field, however, several of them got up and surrounded them.

"Don't be afraid," cried Felicite; and murmuring a sort of lament she

passed her hand over the back of the nearest ox; he turned away and

the others followed. But when they came to the next pasture, they

heard frightful bellowing.

It was a bull which was hidden from them by the fog. He advanced

towards the two women, and Madame Aubain prepared to flee for her

life. "No, no! not so fast," warned Felicite. Still they hurried on,

for they could hear the noisy breathing of the bull behind them. His

hoofs pounded the grass like hammers, and presently he began to

gallop! Felicite turned around and threw patches of grass in his eyes.

He hung his head, shook his horns and bellowed with fury. Madame

Aubain and the children, huddled at the end of the field, were trying

to jump over the ditch. Felicite continued to back before the bull,

blinding him with dirt, while she shouted to them to make haste.

Madame Aubain finally slid into the ditch, after shoving first

Virginia and then Paul into it, and though she stumbled several times

she managed, by dint of courage, to climb the other side of it.

The bull had driven Felicite up against a fence; the foam from his

muzzle flew in her face and in another minute he would have

disembowelled her. She had just time to slip between two bars and the

huge animal, thwarted, paused.

For years, this occurrence was a topic of conversation in Pont-

l'Eveque. But Felicite took no credit to herself, and probably never

knew that she had been heroic.

Virginia occupied her thoughts solely, for the shock she had sustained

gave her a nervous affection, and the physician, M. Poupart,

prescribed the salt-water bathing at Trouville. In those days,

Trouville was not greatly patronised. Madame Aubain gathered

information, consulted Bourais, and made preparations as if they were

going on an extended trip.

The baggage was sent the day before on Liebard's cart. On the

following morning, he brought around two horses, one of which had a

woman's saddle with a velveteen back to it, while on the crupper of

the other was a rolled shawl that was to be used for a seat. Madame

Aubain mounted the second horse, behind Liebard. Felicite took charge

of the little girl, and Paul rode M. Lechaptois' donkey, which had

been lent for the occasion on the condition that they should be

careful of it.

The road was so bad that it took two hours to cover the eight miles.

The two horses sank knee-deep into the mud and stumbled into ditches;

sometimes they had to jump over them. In certain places, Liebard's

mare stopped abruptly. He waited patiently till she started again, and

talked of the people whose estates bordered the road, adding his own

moral reflections to the outline of their histories. Thus, when they

were passing through Toucques, and came to some windows draped with

nasturtiums, he shrugged his shoulders and said: "There's a woman,

Madame Lehoussais, who, instead of taking a young man--" Felicite

could not catch what followed; the horses began to trot, the donkey to

gallop, and they turned into a lane; then a gate swung open, two farm-

hands appeared and they all dismounted at the very threshold of the

farm-house.

Mother Liebard, when she caught sight of her mistress, was lavish with

joyful demonstrations. She got up a lunch which comprised a leg of

mutton, tripe, sausages, a chicken fricassee, sweet cider, a fruit

tart and some preserved prunes; then to all this the good woman added

polite remarks about Madame, who appeared to be in better health,

Mademoiselle, who had grown to be "superb," and Paul, who had become

singularly sturdy; she spoke also of their deceased grandparents, whom

the Liebards had known, for they had been in the service of the family

for several generations.

Like its owners, the farm had an ancient appearance. The beams of the

ceiling were mouldy, the walls black with smoke and the windows grey

with dust. The oak sideboard was filled with all sorts of utensils,

plates, pitchers, tin bowls, wolf-traps. The children laughed when

they saw a huge syringe. There was not a tree in the yard that did not

have mushrooms growing around its foot, or a bunch of mistletoe

hanging in its branches. Several of the trees had been blown down, but

they had started to grow in the middle and all were laden with

quantities of apples. The thatched roofs, which were of unequal

thickness, looked like brown velvet and could resist the fiercest

gales. But the wagon-shed was fast crumbling to ruins. Madame Aubain

said that she would attend to it, and then gave orders to have the

horses saddled.

It took another thirty minutes to reach Trouville. The little caravan

dismounted in order to pass Les Ecores, a cliff that overhangs the

bay, and a few minutes later, at the end of the dock, they entered the

yard of the Golden Lamb, an inn kept by Mother David.

During the first few days, Virginia felt stronger, owing to the change

of air and the action of the sea-baths. She took them in her little

chemise, as she had no bathing suit, and afterwards her nurse dressed

her in the cabin of a customs officer, which was used for that purpose

by other bathers.

In the afternoon, they would take the donkey and go to the Roches-

Noires, near Hennequeville. The path led at first through undulating

grounds, and thence to a plateau, where pastures and tilled fields

alternated. At the edge of the road, mingling with the brambles, grew

holly bushes, and here and there stood large dead trees whose branches

traced zigzags upon the blue sky.

Ordinarily, they rested in a field facing the ocean, with Deauville on

their left, and Havre on their right. The sea glittered brightly in

the sun and was as smooth as a mirror, and so calm that they could

scarcely distinguish its murmur; sparrows chirped joyfully and the

immense canopy of heaven spread over it all. Madame Aubain brought out

her sewing, and Virginia amused herself by braiding reeds; Felicite

wove lavender blossoms, while Paul was bored and wished to go home.

Sometimes they crossed the Toucques in a boat, and started to hunt for

sea-shells. The outgoing tide exposed star-fish and sea-urchins, and

the children tried to catch the flakes of foam which the wind blew

away. The sleepy waves lapping the sand unfurled themselves along the

shore that extended as far as the eye could see, but where land began,

it was limited by the downs which separated it from the "Swamp," a

large meadow shaped like a hippodrome. When they went home that way,

Trouville, on the slope of a hill below, grew larger and larger as

they advanced, and, with all its houses of unequal height, seemed to

spread out before them in a sort of giddy confusion.

When the heat was too oppressive, they remained in their rooms. The

dazzling sunlight cast bars of light between the shutters. Not a sound

in the village, not a soul on the sidewalk. This silence intensified

the tranquility of everything. In the distance, the hammers of some

calkers pounded the hull of a ship, and the sultry breeze brought them

an odour of tar.

The principal diversion consisted in watching the return of the

fishing-smacks. As soon as they passed the beacons, they began to ply

to windward. The sails were lowered to one third of the masts, and

with their fore-sails swelled up like balloons they glided over the

waves and anchored in the middle of the harbour. Then they crept up

alongside of the dock and the sailors threw the quivering fish over

the side of the boat; a line of carts was waiting for them, and women

with white caps sprang forward to receive the baskets and embrace

their men-folk.

One day, one of them spoke to Felicite, who, after a little while,

returned to the house gleefully. She had found one of her sisters, and

presently Nastasie Barette, wife of Leroux, made her appearance,

holding an infant in her arms, another child by the hand, while on her

left was a little cabin-boy with his hands in his pockets and his cap

on his ear.

At the end of fifteen minutes, Madame Aubain bade her go.

They always hung around the kitchen, or approached Felicite when she

and the children were out walking. The husband, however, did not show

himself.

Felicite developed a great fondness for them; she bought them a stove,

some shirts and a blanket; it was evident that they exploited her. Her

foolishness annoyed Madame Aubain, who, moreover did not like the

nephew's familiarity, for he called her son "thou";--and, as Virginia

began to cough and the season was over, she decided to return to Pont-

l'Eveque.

Monsieur Bourais assisted her in the choice of a college. The one at

Caen was considered the best. So Paul was sent away and bravely said

good-bye to them all, for he was glad to go to live in a house where

he would have boy companions.

Madame Aubain resigned herself to the separation from her son because

it was unavoidable. Virginia brooded less and less over it. Felicite

regretted the noise he made, but soon a new occupation diverted her

mind; beginning from Christmas, she accompanied the little girl to her

catechism lesson every day.

CHAPTER III

After she had made a curtsey at the threshold, she would walk up the

aisle between the double lines of chairs, open Madame Aubain's pew,

sit down and look around.

Girls and boys, the former on the right, the latter on the left-hand

side of the church, filled the stalls of the choir; the priest stood

beside the reading-desk; on one stained window of the side-aisle the

Holy Ghost hovered over the Virgin; on another one, Mary knelt before

the Child Jesus, and behind the alter, a wooden group represented

Saint Michael felling the dragon.

The priest first read a condensed lesson of sacred history. Felicite

evoked Paradise, the Flood, the Tower of Babel, the blazing cities,

the dying nations, the shattered idols; and out of this she developed

a great respect for the Almighty and a great fear of His wrath. Then,

when she had listened to the Passion, she wept. Why had they crucified

Him who loved little children, nourished the people, made the blind

see, and who, out of humility, had wished to be born among the poor,

in a stable? The sowings, the harvests, the wine-presses, all those

familiar things which the Scriptures mention, formed a part of her

life; the word of God sanctified them; and she loved the lambs with

increased tenderness for the sake of the Lamb, and the doves because

of the Holy Ghost.

She found it hard, however, to think of the latter as a person, for

was it not a bird, a flame, and sometimes only a breath? Perhaps it is

its light that at night hovers over swamps, its breath that propels

the clouds, its voice that renders church-bells harmonious. And

Felicite worshipped devoutly, while enjoying the coolness and the

stillness of the church.

As for the dogma, she could not understand it and did not even try.

The priest discoursed, the children recited, and she went to sleep,

only to awaken with a start when they were leaving the church and

their wooden shoes clattered on the stone pavement.

In this way, she learned her catechism, her religious education having

been neglected in her youth; and thenceforth she imitated all

Virginia's religious practices, fasted when she did, and went to

confession with her. At the Corpus-Christi Day they both decorated an

altar.

She worried in advance over Virginia's first communion. She fussed

about the shoes, the rosary, the book and the gloves. With what

nervousness she helped the mother dress the child!

During the entire ceremony, she felt anguished. Monsieur Bourais hid

part of the choir from view, but directly in front of her, the flock

of maidens, wearing white wreaths over their lowered veils, formed a

snow-white field, and she recognised her darling by the slenderness of

her neck and her devout attitude. The bell tinkled. All the heads bent

and there was a silence. Then, at the peals of the organ the singers

and the worshippers struck up the Agnes Dei; the boys' procession

began; behind them came the girls. With clasped hands, they advanced

step by step to the lighted altar, knelt at the first step, received

one by one the Host, and returned to their seats in the same order.

When Virginia's turn came, Felicite leaned forward to watch her, and

through that imagination which springs from true affection, she at

once became the child, whose face and dress became hers, whose heart

beat in her bosom, and when Virginia opened her mouth and closed her

lids, she did likewise and came very near fainting.

The following day, she presented herself early at the church so as to

receive communion from the cure. She took it with the proper feeling,

but did not experience the same delight as on the previous day.

Madame Aubain wished to make an accomplished girl of her daughter; and

as Guyot could not teach English or music, she decided to send her to

the Ursulines at Honfleur.

The child made no objection, but Felicite sighed and thought Madame

was heartless. Then, she thought that perhaps her mistress was right,

as these things were beyond her sphere. Finally, one day, an old

fiacre stopped in front of the door and a nun stepped out. Felicite

put Virginia's luggage on top of the carriage, gave the coachman some

instructions, and smuggled six jars of jam, a dozen pears and a bunch

of violets under the seat.

At the last minute, Virginia had a fit of sobbing; she embraced her

mother again and again, while the latter kissed her on the forehead,

and said: "Now, be brave, be brave!" The step was pulled up and the

fiacre rumbled off.

Then Madame Aubain had a fainting spell, and that evening all her

friends, including the two Lormeaus, Madame Lechaptois, the ladies

Rochefeuille, Messieurs de Houppeville and Bourais, called on her and

tendered their sympathy.

At first the separation proved very painful to her. But her daughter

wrote her three times a week and the other days she, herself, wrote to

Virginia. Then she walked in the garden, read a little, and in this

way managed to fill out the emptiness of the hours.

Each morning, out of habit, Felicite entered Virginia's room and gazed

at the walls. She missed combing her hair, lacing her shoes, tucking

her in her bed, and the bright face and little hand when they used to

go out for a walk. In order to occupy herself she tried to make lace.

But her clumsy fingers broke the threads; she had no heart for

anything, lost her sleep and "wasted away," as she put it.

In order to have some distraction, she asked leave to receive the

visits of her nephew Victor.

He would come on Sunday, after church, with ruddy cheeks and bared

chest, bringing with him the scent of the country. She would set the

table and they would sit down opposite each other, and eat their

dinner; she ate as little as possible, herself, to avoid any extra

expense, but would stuff him so with food that he would finally go to

sleep. At the first stroke of vespers, she would wake him up, brush

his trousers, tie his cravat and walk to church with him, leaning on

his arm with maternal pride.

His parents always told him to get something out of her, either a

package of brown sugar, or soap, or brandy, and sometimes even money.

He brought her his clothes to mend, and she accepted the task gladly,

because it meant another visit from him.

In August, his father took him on a coasting-vessel.

It was vacation time and the arrival of the children consoled

Felicite. But Paul was capricious, and Virginia was growing too old to

be thee-and-thou'd, a fact which seemed to produce a sort of

embarrassment in their relations.

Victor went successively to Morlaix, to Dunkirk, and to Brighton;

whenever he returned from a trip he would bring her a present. The

first time it was a box of shells; the second, a coffee-cup; the

third, a big doll of ginger-bread. He was growing handsome, had a good

figure, a tiny moustache, kind eyes, and a little leather cap that sat

jauntily on the back of his head. He amused his aunt by telling her

stories mingled with nautical expressions.

One Monday, the 14th of July, 1819 (she never forgot the date), Victor

announced that he had been engaged on a merchant-vessel and that in

two days he would take the steamer at Honfleur and join his sailer,

which was going to start from Havre very soon. Perhaps he might be

away two years.

The prospect of his departure filled Felicite with despair, and in

order to bid him farewell, on Wednesday night, after Madame's dinner,

she put on her pattens and trudged the four miles that separated Pont-

l'Eveque from Honfleur.

When she reached the Calvary, instead of turning to the right, she

turned to the left and lost herself in coal-yards; she had to retrace

her steps; some people she spoke to advised her to hasten. She walked

helplessly around the harbour filled with vessels, and knocked against

hawsers. Presently the ground sloped abruptly, lights flitted to and

fro, and she thought all at once that she had gone mad when she saw

some horses in the sky.

Others, on the edge of the dock, neighed at the sight of the ocean. A

derrick pulled them up in the air, and dumped them into a boat, where

passengers were bustling about among barrels of cider, baskets of

cheese and bags of meal; chickens cackled, the captain swore and a

cabin-boy rested on the railing, apparently indifferent to his

surroundings. Felicite, who did not recognise him, kept shouting:

"Victor!" He suddenly raised his eyes, but while she was preparing to

rush up to him, they withdrew the gangplank.

The packet, towed by singing women, glided out of the harbour. Her

hull squeaked and the heavy waves beat up against her sides. The sail

had turned and nobody was visible;--and on the ocean, silvered by the

light of the moon, the vessel formed a black spot that grew dimmer and

dimmer, and finally disappeared.

When Felicite passed the Calvary again, she felt as if she must

entrust that which was dearest to her to the Lord; and for a long

while she prayed, with uplifted eyes and a face wet with tears. The

city was sleeping; some customs officials were taking the air; and the

water kept pouring through the holes of the dam with a deafening roar.

The town clock struck two.

The parlour of the convent would not open until morning, and surely a

delay would annoy Madame, so, in spite of her desire to see the other

child, she went home. The maids of the inn were just arising when she

reached Pont-l'Eveque.

So the poor boy would be on the ocean for months! His previous trips

had not alarmed her. One can come back from England and Brittany; but

America, the colonies, the islands, were all lost in an uncertain

region at the very end of the world.

From that time on, Felicite thought solely of her nephew. On warm days

she feared he would suffer from thirst, and when it stormed, she was

afraid he would be struck by lightning. When she harkened to the wind

that rattled in the chimney and dislodged the tiles on the roof, she

imagined that he was being buffeted by the same storm, perched on top

of a shattered mast, with his whole body bend backward and covered

with sea-foam; or,--these were recollections of the engraved geography

--he was being devoured by savages, or captured in a forest by apes,

or dying on some lonely coast. She never mentioned her anxieties,

however.

Madame Aubain worried about her daughter.

The sisters thought that Virginia was affectionate but delicate. The

slightest emotion enervated her. She had to give up her piano lessons.

Her mother insisted upon regular letters from the convent. One

morning, when the postman failed to come, she grew impatient and began

to pace to and fro, from her chair to the window. It was really

extraordinary! No news since four days!

In order to console her mistress by her own example, Felicite said:

"Why, Madame, I haven't had any news since six months!--"

"From whom?--"

The servant replied gently:

"Why--from my nephew."

"Oh, yes, your nephew!" And shrugging her shoulders, Madame Aubain

continued to pace the floor as if to say: "I did not think of it.--

Besides, I do not care, a cabin-boy, a pauper!--but my daughter--what

a difference! just think of it!--"

Felicite, although she had been reared roughly, was very indignant.

Then she forgot about it.

It appeared quite natural to her that one should lose one's head about

Virginia.

The two children were of equal importance; they were united in her

heart and their fate was to be the same.

The chemist informed her that Victor's vessel had reached Havana. He

had read the information in a newspaper.

Felicite imagined that Havana was a place where people did nothing but

smoke, and that Victor walked around among negroes in a cloud of

tobacco. Could a person, in case of need, return by land? How far was

it from Pont-l'Eveque? In order to learn these things, she questioned

Monsieur Bourais. He reached for his map and began some explanations

concerning longitudes, and smiled with superiority at Felicite's

bewilderment. At last, he took a pencil and pointed out an

imperceptible black point in the scallops of an oval blotch, adding:

"There it is." She bent over the map; the maze of coloured lines hurt

her eyes without enlightening her; and when Bourais asked her what

puzzled her, she requested him to show her the house Victor lived in.

Bourais threw up his hands, sneezed, and then laughed uproariously;

such ignorance delighted his soul; but Felicite failed to understand

the cause of his mirth, she whose intelligence was so limited that she

perhaps expected to see even the picture of her nephew!

It was two weeks later that Liebard came into the kitchen at market-

time, and handed her a letter from her brother-in-law. As neither of

them could read, she called upon her mistress.

Madame Aubain, who was counting the stitches of her knitting, laid her

work down beside her, opened the letter, started, and in a low tone

and with a searching look said: "They tell you of a--misfortune. Your

nephew--"

He had died. The letter told nothing more.

Felicite dropped on a chair, leaned her head against the back, and

closed her lids; presently they grew pink. Then, with drooping head,

inert hands and staring eyes she repeated at intervals:

"Poor little chap! poor little chap!"

Liebard watched her and sighed. Madame Aubain was trembling.

She proposed to the girl to go to see her sister in Trouville.

With a single motion, Felicite replied that it was not necessary.

There was a silence. Old Liebard thought it about time for him to take

leave.

Then Felicite uttered:

"They have no sympathy, they do not care!"

Her head fell forward again, and from time to time, mechanically, she

toyed with the long knitting-needles on the work-table.

Some women passed through the yard with a basket of wet clothes.

When she saw them through the window, she suddenly remembered her own

wash; as she had soaked it the day before, she must go and rinse it

now. So she arose and left the room.

Her tub and her board were on the bank of the Toucques. She threw a

heap of clothes on the ground, rolled up her sleeves and grasped her

bat; and her loud pounding could be heard in the neighbouring gardens.

The meadows were empty, the breeze wrinkled the stream, at the bottom

of which were long grasses that looked like the hair of corpses

floating in the water. She restrained her sorrow and was very brave

until night; but, when she had gone to her own room, she gave way to

it, burying her face in the pillow and pressing her two fists against

her temples.

A long while afterward, she learned through Victor's captain, the

circumstances which surrounded his death. At the hospital they had

bled him too much, treating him for yellow fever. Four doctors held

him at one time. He died almost instantly, and the chief surgeon had

said:

"Here goes another one!"

His parents had always treated him barbarously; she preferred not to

see them again, and they made no advances, either from forgetfulness

or out of innate hardness.

Virginia was growing weaker.

A cough, continual fever, oppressive breathing and spots on her cheeks

indicated some serious trouble. Monsieur Popart had advised a sojourn

in Provence. Madame Aubain decided that they would go, and she would

have had her daughter come home at once, had it not been for the

climate of Pont-l'Eveque.

She made an arrangement with a livery-stable man who drove her over to

the convent every Tuesday. In the garden there was a terrace, from

which the view extends to the Seine. Virginia walked in it, leaning on

her mother's arm and treading the dead vine leaves. Sometimes the sun,

shining through the clouds, made her blink her lids, when she gazed at

the sails in the distance, and let her eyes roam over the horizon from

the chateau of Tancarville to the lighthouses of Havre. Then they

rested on the arbour. Her mother had bought a little cask of fine

Malaga wine, and Virginia, laughing at the idea of becoming

intoxicated, would drink a few drops of it, but never more.

Her strength returned. Autumn passed. Felicite began to reassure

Madame Aubain. But, one evening, when she returned home after an

errand, she met M. Boupart's coach in front of the door; M. Boupart

himself was standing in the vestibule and Madame Aubain was tying the

strings of her bonnet. "Give me my foot-warmer, my purse and my

gloves; and be quick about it," she said.

Virginia had congestion of the lungs; perhaps it was desperate.

"Not yet," said the physician, and both got into the carriage, while

the snow fell in thick flakes. It was almost night and very cold.

Felicite rushed to the church to light a candle. Then she ran after

the coach which she overtook after an hour's chase, sprang up behind

and held on to the straps. But suddenly a thought crossed her mind:

"The yard had been left open; supposing that burglars got in!" And

down she jumped.

The next morning, at daybreak, she called at the doctor's. He had been

home, but had left again. Then she waited at the inn, thinking that

strangers might bring her a letter. At last, at daylight she took the

diligence for Lisieux.

The convent was at the end of a steep and narrow street. When she

arrived about at the middle of it, she heard strange noises, a funeral

knell. "It must be for some one else," thought she; and she pulled the

knocker violently.

After several minutes had elapsed, she heard footsteps, the door was

half opened and a nun appeared. The good sister, with an air of

compunction, told her that "she had just passed away." And at the same

time the tolling of Saint-Leonard's increased.

Felicite reached the second floor. Already at the threshold, she

caught sight of Virginia lying on her back, with clasped hands, her

mouth open and her head thrown back, beneath a black crucifix inclined

toward her, and stiff curtains which were less white than her face.

Madame Aubain lay at the foot of the couch, clasping it with her arms

and uttering groans of agony. The Mother Superior was standing on the

right side of the bed. The three candles on the bureau made red blurs,

and the windows were dimmed by the fog outside. The nuns carried

Madame Aubain from the room.

For two nights, Felicite never left the corpse. She would repeat the

same prayers, sprinkle holy water over the sheets, get up, come back

to the bed and contemplate the body. At the end of the first vigil,

she noticed that the face had taken on a yellow tinge, the lips grew

blue, the nose grew pinched, the eyes were sunken. She kissed them

several times and would not have been greatly astonished had Virginia

opened them; to souls like this the supernatural is always quite

simple. She washed her, wrapped her in a shroud, put her into the

casket, laid a wreath of flowers on her head and arranged her curls.

They were blond and of an extraordinary length for her age. Felicite

cut off a big lock and put half of it into her bosom, resolving never

to part with it.

The body was taken to Pont-l'Eveque, according to Madame Aubain's

wishes; she followed the hearse in a closed carriage.

After the ceremony it took three quarters of an hour to reach the

cemetery. Paul, sobbing, headed the procession; Monsieur Bourais

followed, and then came the principle inhabitants of the town, the

women covered with black capes, and Felicite. The memory of her

nephew, and the thought that she had not been able to render him these

honours, made her doubly unhappy, and she felt as if he were being

buried with Virginia.

Madame Aubain's grief was uncontrollable. At first she rebelled

against God, thinking that he was unjust to have taken away her child

--she who had never done anything wrong, and whose conscience was so

pure! But no! she ought to have taken her South. Other doctors would

have saved her. She accused herself, prayed to be able to join her

child, and cried in the midst of her dreams. Of the latter, one more

especially haunted her. Her husband, dressed like a sailor, had come

back from a long voyage, and with tears in his eyes told her that he

had received the order to take Virginia away. Then they both consulted

about a hiding-place.

Once she came in from the garden, all upset. A moment before (and she

showed the place), the father and daughter had appeared to her, one

after the other; they did nothing but look at her.

During several months she remained inert in her room. Felicite scolded

her gently; she must keep up for her son and also for the other one,

for "her memory."

"Her memory!" replied Madame Aubain, as if she were just awakening,

"Oh! yes, yes, you do not forget her!" This was an allusion to the

cemetery where she had been expressly forbidden to go

But Felicite went there every day. At four o'clock exactly, she would

go through the town, climb the hill, open the gate and arrive at

Virginia's tomb. It was a small column of pink marble with a flat

stone at its base, and it was surrounded by a little plot enclosed by

chains. The flower-beds were bright with blossoms. Felicite watered

their leaves, renewed the gravel, and knelt on the ground in order to

till the earth properly. When Madame Aubain was able to visit the

cemetery she felt very much relieved and consoled.

Years passed, all alike and marked by no other events than the return

of the great church holidays: Easter, Assumption, All Saints' Day.

Household happenings constituted the only data to which in later years

they often referred. Thus, in 1825, workmen painted the vestibule; in

1827, a portion of the roof almost killed a man by falling into the

yard. In the summer of 1828, it was Madame's turn to offer the

hallowed bread; at that time, Bourais disappeared mysteriously; and

the old acquaintances, Guyot, Liebard, Madame Lechaptois, Robelin, old

Gremanville, paralysed since a long time, passed away one by one. One

night, the driver of the mail in Pont-l'Eveque announced the

Revolution of July. A few days afterward a new sub-prefect was

nominated, the Baron de Larsonniere, ex-consul in America, who,

besides his wife, had his sister-in-law and her three grown daughters

with him. They were often seen on their lawn, dressed in loose

blouses, and they had a parrot and a negro servant. Madame Aubain

received a call, which she returned promptly. As soon as she caught

sight of them, Felicite would run and notify her mistress. But only

one thing was capable of arousing her: a letter from her son.

He could not follow any profession as he was absorbed in drinking. His

mother paid his debts and he made fresh ones; and the sighs that she

heaved while she knitted at the window reached the ears of Felicite

who was spinning in the kitchen.

They walked in the garden together, always speaking of Virginia, and

asking each other if such and such a thing would have pleased her, and

what she would probably have said on this or that occasion.

All her little belongings were put away in a closet of the room which

held the two little beds. But Madame Aubain looked them over as little

as possible. One summer day, however, she resigned herself to the task

and when she opened the closet the moths flew out.

Virginia's frocks were hung under a shelf where there were three

dolls, some hoops, a doll-house, and a basic which she had used.

Felicite and Madame Aubain also took out the skirts, the

handkerchiefs, and the stockings and spread them on the beds, before

putting them away again. The sun fell on the piteous things,

disclosing their spots and the creases formed by the motions of the

body. The atmosphere was warm and blue, and a blackbird trilled in the

garden; everything seemed to live in happiness. They found a little

hat of soft brown plush, but it was entirely moth-eaten. Felicite

asked for it. Their eyes met and filled with tears; at last the

mistress opened her arms and the servant threw herself against her

breast and they hugged each other and giving vent to their grief in a

kiss which equalised them for a moment.

It was the first time that this had ever happened, for Madame Aubain

was not of an expansive nature. Felicite was as grateful for it as if

it had been some favour, and thenceforth loved her with animal-like

devotion and a religious veneration.

Her kind-heartedness developed. When she heard the drums of a marching

regiment passing through the street, she would stand in the doorway

with a jug of cider and give the soldiers a drink. She nursed cholera

victims. She protected Polish refugees, and one of them even declared

that he wished to marry her. But they quarrelled, for one morning when

she returned from the Angelus she found him in the kitchen coolly

eating a dish which he had prepared for himself during her absence.

After the Polish refugees, came Colmiche, an old man who was credited

with having committed frightful misdeeds in '93. He lived near the

river in the ruins of a pig-sty. The urchins peeped at him through the

cracks in the walls and threw stones that fell on his miserable bed,

where he lay gasping with catarrh, with long hair, inflamed eyelids,

and a tumour as big as his head on one arm.

She got him some linen, tried to clean his hovel and dreamed of

installing him in the bake-house without his being in Madame's way.

When the cancer broke, she dressed it every day; sometimes she brought

him some cake and placed him in the sun on a bundle of hay; and the

poor old creature, trembling and drooling, would thank her in his

broken voice, and put out his hands whenever she left him. Finally he

died; and she had a mass said for the repose of his soul.

That day a great joy came to her: at dinner-time, Madame de

Larsonniere's servant called with the parrot, the cage, and the perch

and chain and lock. A note from the baroness told Madame Aubain that

as her husband had been promoted to a prefecture, they were leaving

that night, and she begged her to accept the bird as a remembrance and

a token of her esteem.

Since a long time the parrot had been on Felicite's mind, because he

came from America, which reminded her of Victor, and she had

approached the negro on the subject.

Once even, she had said:

"How glad Madame would be to have him!"

The man had repeated this remark to his mistress who, not being able

to keep the bird, took this means of getting rid of it.

CHAPTER IV

He was called Loulou. His body was green, his head blue, the tips of

his wings were pink and his breast was golden.

But he had the tiresome tricks of biting his perch, pulling his

feathers out, scattering refuse and spilling the water of his bath.

Madame Aubain grew tired of him and gave him to Felicite for good.

She undertook his education, and soon he was able to repeat: "Pretty

boy! Your servant, sir! I salute you, Marie!" His perch was placed

near the door and several persons were astonished that he did not

answer to the name of "Jacquot," for every parrot is called Jacquot.

They called him a goose and a log, and these taunts were like so many

dagger thrusts to Felicite. Strange stubbornness of the bird which

would not talk when people watched him!

Nevertheless, he sought society; for on Sunday, when the ladies

Rochefeuille, Monsieur de Houppeville and the new habitues, Onfroy,

the chemist, Monsieur Varin and Captain Mathieu, dropped in for their

game of cards, he struck the window-panes with his wings and made such

a racket that it was impossible to talk.

Bourais' face must have appeared very funny to Loulou. As soon as he

saw him he would begin to roar. His voice re-echoed in the yard, and

the neighbours would come to the windows and begin to laugh, too; and

in order that the parrot might not see him, Monsieur Bourais edged

along the wall, pushed his hat over his eyes to hide his profile, and

entered by the garden door, and the looks he gave the bird lacked

affection. Loulou, having thrust his head into the butcher-boy's

basket, received a slap, and from that time he always tried to nip his

enemy. Fabu threatened to ring his neck, although he was not cruelly

inclined, notwithstanding his big whiskers and tattooings. On the

contrary, he rather liked the bird, and, out of devilry, tried to

teach him oaths. Felicite, whom his manner alarmed, put Loulou in the

kitchen, took off his chain and let him walk all over the house.

When he went downstairs, he rested his beak on the steps, lifted his

right foot and then his left one; but his mistress feared that such

feats would give him vertigo. He became ill and was unable to eat.

There was a small growth under his tongue like those chickens are

sometimes afflicted with. Felicite pulled it off with her nails and

cured him. One day, Paul was imprudent enough to blow the smoke of his

cigar in his face; another time, Madame Lormeau was teasing him with

the tip of her umbrella and he swallowed the tip. Finally he got lost.

She had put him on the grass to cool him and went away only for a

second; when she returned, she found no parrot! She hunted among the

bushes, on the bank of the river, and on the roofs, without paying any

attention to Madame Aubain who screamed at her: "Take care! you must

be insane!" Then she searched every garden in Pont-l'Eveque and

stopped the passers-by to inquire of them: "Haven't you perhaps seen

my parrot?" To those who had never seen the parrot, she described him

minutely. Suddenly she thought she saw something green fluttering

behind the mills at the foot of the hill. But when she was at the top

of the hill she could not see it. A hod-carrier told her that he had

just seen the bird in Saint-Melaine, in Mother Simon's store. She

rushed to the place. The people did not know what she was talking

about. At last she came home, exhausted, with her slippers worn to

shreds, and despair in her heart. She sat down on the bench near

Madame and was telling of her search when presently a light weight

dropped on her shoulder--Loulou! What the deuce had he been doing?

Perhaps he had just taken a little walk around the town!

She did not easily forget her scare; in fact, she never got over it.

In consequence of a cold, she caught a sore throat; and some time

later she had an earache. Three years later she was stone deaf, and

spoke in a very loud voice even in church. Although her sins might

have been proclaimed throughout the diocese without any shame to

herself, or ill effects to the community, the cure thought it

advisable to receive her confession in the vestry-room.

Imaginary buzzings also added to her bewilderment. Her mistress often

said to her: "My goodness, how stupid you are!" and she would answer:

"Yes, Madame," and look for something.

The narrow circle of her ideas grew more restricted than it already

was; the bellowing of the oxen, the chime of the bells no longer

reached her intelligence. All things moved silently, like ghosts. Only

one noise penetrated her ears; the parrot's voice.

As if to divert her mind, he reproduced for her the tick-tack of the

spit in the kitchen, the shrill cry of the fish-vendors, the saw of

the carpenter who had a shop opposite, and when the door-bell rang, he

would imitate Madame Aubain: "Felicite! go to the front door."

They held conversations together, Loulou repeating the three phrases

of his repertory over and over, Felicite replying by words that had no

greater meaning, but in which she poured out her feelings. In her

isolation, the parrot was almost a son, a love. He climbed upon her

fingers, pecked at her lips, clung to her shawl, and when she rocked

her head to and fro like a nurse, the big wings of her cap and the

wings of the bird flapped in unison. When clouds gathered on the

horizon and the thunder rumbled, Loulou would scream, perhaps because

he remembered the storms in his native forests. The dripping of the

rain would excite him to frenzy; he flapped around, struck the ceiling

with his wings, upset everything, and would finally fly into the

garden to play. Then he would come back into the room, light on one of

the andirons, and hop around in order to get dry.

One morning during the terrible winter of 1837, when she had put him

in front of the fire-place on account of the cold, she found him dead

in his cage, hanging to the wire bars with his head down. He had

probably died of congestion. But she believed that he had been

poisoned, and although she had no proofs whatever, her suspicion

rested on Fabu.

She wept so sorely that her mistress said: "Why don't you have him

stuffed?"

She asked the advice of the chemist, who had always been kind to the

bird.

He wrote to Havre for her. A certain man named Fellacher consented to

do the work. But, as the diligence driver often lost parcels entrusted

to him, Felicite resolved to take her pet to Honfleur herself.

Leafless apple-trees lined the edges of the road. The ditches were

covered with ice. The dogs on the neighbouring farms barked; and

Felicite, with her hands beneath her cape, her little black sabots and

her basket, trotted along nimbly in the middle of the sidewalk. She

crossed the forest, passed by the Haut-Chene, and reached Saint-

Gatien.

Behind her, in a cloud of dust and impelled by the steep incline, a

mail-coach drawn by galloping horses advanced like a whirlwind. When

he saw a woman in the middle of the road, who did not get out of the

way, the driver stood up in his seat and shouted to her and so did the

postilion, while the four horses, which he could not hold back,

accelerated their pace; the two leaders were almost upon her; with a

jerk of the reins he threw them to one side, but, furious at the

incident, he lifted his big whip and lashed her from her head to her

feet with such violence that she fell to the ground unconscious.

Her first thought, when she recovered her senses, was to open the

basket. Loulou was unharmed. She felt a sting on her right cheek; when

she took her hand away it was red, for the blood was flowing.

She sat down on a pile of stones, and sopped her cheek with her

handkerchief; then she ate a crust of bread she had put in her basket,

and consoled herself by looking at the bird.

Arriving at the top of Ecquemanville, she saw the lights of Honfleur

shining in the distance like so many stars; further on, the ocean

spread out in a confused mass. Then a weakness came over her; the

misery of her childhood, the disappointment of her first love, the

departure of her nephew, the death of Virginia; all these things came

back to her at once, and, rising like a swelling tide in her throat,

almost choked her.

Then she wished to speak to the captain of the vessel, and without

stating what she was sending, she gave him some instructions.

Fellacher kept the parrot a long time. He always promised that it

would be ready for the following week; after six months he announced

the shipment of a case, and that was the end of it. Really, it seemed

as if Loulou would never come back to his home. "They have stolen

him," thought Felicite.

Finally he arrived, sitting bold upright on a branch which could be

screwed into a mahogany pedestal, with his foot in the air, his head

on one side, and in his beak a nut which the naturalist, from love of

the sumptuous, had gilded. She put him in her room.

This place, to which only a chosen few were admitted, looked like a

chapel and a second-hand shop, so filled was it with devotional and

heterogeneous things. The door could not be opened easily on account

of the presence of a large wardrobe. Opposite the window that looked

out into the garden, a bull's-eye opened on the yard; a table was

placed by the cot and held a wash-basin, two combs, and a piece of

blue soap in a broken saucer. On the walls were rosaries, medals, a

number of Holy Virgins, and a holy-water basin made out of a cocoanut;

on the bureau, which was covered with a napkin like an altar, stood

the box of shells that Victor had given her; also a watering-can and a

balloon, writing-books, the engraved geography and a pair of shoes; on

the nail which held the mirror, hung Virginia's little plush hat!

Felicite carried this sort of respect so far that she even kept one of

Monsieur's old coats. All the things which Madame Aubain discarded,

Felicite begged for her own room. Thus, she had artificial flowers on

the edge of the bureau, and the picture of the Comte d'Artois in the

recess of the window. By means of a board, Loulou was set on a portion

of the chimney which advanced into the room. Every morning when she

awoke, she saw him in the dim light of dawn and recalled bygone days

and the smallest details of insignificant actions, without any sense

of bitterness or grief.

As she was unable to communicate with people, she lived in a sort of

somnambulistic torpor. The processions of Corpus-Christi Day seemed to

wake her up. She visited the neighbours to beg for candlesticks and

mats so as to adorn the temporary altars in the street.

In church, she always gazed at the Holy Ghost, and noticed that there

was something about it that resembled a parrot. The likenesses

appeared even more striking on a coloured picture by Espinal,

representing the baptism of our Saviour. With his scarlet wings and

emerald body, it was really the image of Loulou. Having bought the

picture, she hung it near the one of the Comte d'Artois so that she

could take them in at one glance.

They associated in her mind, the parrot becoming sanctified through

the neighbourhood of the Holy Ghost, and the latter becoming more

lifelike in her eyes, and more comprehensible. In all probability the

Father had never chosen as messenger a dove, as the latter has no

voice, but rather one of Loulou's ancestors. And Felicite said her

prayers in front of the coloured picture, though from time to time she

turned slightly towards the bird.

She desired very much to enter in the ranks of the "Daughters of the

Virgin." But Madame Aubain dissuaded her from it.

A most important event occurred: Paul's marriage.

After being first a notary's clerk, then in business, then in the

customs, and a tax collector, and having even applied for a position

in the administration of woods and forests, he had at last, when he

was thirty-six years old, by a divine inspiration, found his vocation:

registrature! and he displayed such a high ability that an inspector

had offered him his daughter and his influence.

Paul, who had become quite settled, brought his bride to visit his

mother.

But she looked down upon the customs of Pont-l'Eveque, put on airs,

and hurt Felicite's feelings. Madame Aubain felt relieved when she

left.

The following week they learned of Monsieur Bourais' death in an inn.

There were rumours of suicide, which were confirmed; doubts concerning

his integrity arose. Madame Aubain looked over her accounts and soon

discovered his numerous embezzlements; sales of wood which had been

concealed from her, false receipts, etc. Furthermore, he had an

illegitimate child, and entertained a friendship for "a person in

Dozule."

These base actions affected her very much. In March, 1853, she

developed a pain in her chest; her tongue looked as if it were coated

with smoke, and the leeches they applied did not relieve her

oppression; and on the ninth evening she died, being just seventy-two

years old.

People thought that she was younger, because her hair, which she wore

in bands framing her pale face, was brown. Few friends regretted her

loss, for her manner was so haughty that she did not attract them.

Felicite mourned for her as servants seldom mourn for their masters.

The fact that Madame should die before herself perplexed her mind and

seemed contrary to the order of things, and absolutely monstrous and

inadmissible. Ten days later (the time to journey from Besancon), the

heirs arrived. Her daughter-in-law ransacked the drawers, kept some of

the furniture, and sold the rest; then they went back to their own

home.

Madame's armchair, foot-warmer, work-table, the eight chairs,

everything was gone! The places occupied by the pictures formed yellow

squares on the walls. They had taken the two little beds, and the

wardrobe had been emptied of Virginia's belongings! Felicite went

upstairs, overcome with grief.

The following day a sign was posted on the door; the chemist screamed

in her ear that the house was for sale.

For a moment she tottered, and had to sit down.

What hurt her most was to give up her room,--so nice for poor Loulou!

She looked at him in despair and implored the Holy Ghost, and it was

this way that she contracted the idolatrous habit of saying her

prayers kneeling in front of the bird. Sometimes the sun fell through

the window on his glass eye, and lighted a spark in it which sent

Felicite into ecstasy.

Her mistress had left her an income of three hundred and eighty

francs. The garden supplied her with vegetables. As for clothes, she

had enough to last her till the end of her days, and she economised on

the light by going to bed at dusk.

She rarely went out, in order to avoid passing in front of the second-

hand dealer's shop where there was some of the old furniture. Since

her fainting spell, she dragged her leg, and as her strength was

failing rapidly, old Mother Simon, who had lost her money in the

grocery business, came very morning to chop the wood and pump the

water.

Her eyesight grew dim. She did not open the shutters after that. Many

years passed. But the house did not sell or rent. Fearing that she

would be put out, Felicite did not ask for repairs. The laths of the

roof were rotting away, and during one whole winter her bolster was

wet. After Easter she spit blood.

Then Mother Simon went for a doctor. Felicite wished to know what her

complaint was. But, being too deaf to hear, she caught only one word:

"Pneumonia." She was familiar with it and gently answered:--"Ah! like

Madame," thinking it quite natural that she should follow her

mistress.

The time for the altars in the street drew near.

The first one was always erected at the foot of the hill, the second

in front of the post-office, and the third in the middle of the

street. This position occasioned some rivalry among the women and they

finally decided upon Madame Aubain's yard.

Felicite's fever grew worse. She was sorry that she could not do

anything for the altar. If she could, at least, have contributed

something towards it! Then she thought of the parrot. Her neighbours

objected that it would not be proper. But the cure gave his consent

and she was so grateful for it that she begged him to accept after her

death, her only treasure, Loulou. From Tuesday until Saturday, the day

before the event, she coughed more frequently. In the evening her face

was contracted, her lips stuck to her gums and she began to vomit; and

on the following day, she felt so low that she called for a priest.

Three neighbours surrounded her when the dominie administered the

Extreme Unction. Afterwards she said that she wished to speak to Fabu.

He arrived in his Sunday clothes, very ill at ease among the funereal

surroundings.

"Forgive me," she said, making an effort to extend her arm, "I

believed it was you who killed him!"

What did such accusations mean? Suspect a man like him of murder! And

Fabu became excited and was about to make trouble.

"Don't you see she is not in her right mind?"

From time to time Felicite spoke to shadows. The women left her and

Mother Simon sat down to breakfast.

A little later, she took Loulou and holding him up to Felicite:

"Say good-bye to him, now!" she commanded.

Although he was not a corpse, he was eaten up by worms; one of his

wings was broken and the wadding was coming out of his body. But

Felicite was blind now, and she took him and laid him against her

cheek. Then Mother Simon removed him in order to set him on the altar.

CHAPTER V

The grass exhaled an odour of summer; flies buzzed in the air, the sun

shone on the river and warmed the slated roof. Old Mother Simon had

returned to Felicite and was peacefully falling asleep.

The ringing of bells woke her; the people were coming out of church.

Felicite's delirium subsided. By thinking of the procession, she was

able to see it as if she had taken part in it. All the school-

children, the singers and the firemen walked on the sidewalks, while

in the middle of the street came first the custodian of the church

with his halberd, then the beadle with a large cross, the teacher in

charge of the boys and a sister escorting the little girls; three of

the smallest ones, with curly heads, threw rose leaves into the air;

the deacon with outstretched arms conducted the music; and two

incense-bearers turned with each step they took toward the Holy

Sacrament, which was carried by M. le Cure, attired in his handsome

chasuble and walking under a canopy of red velvet supported by four

men. A crowd of people followed, jammed between the walls of the

houses hung with white sheets; at last the procession arrived at the

foot of the hill.

A cold sweat broke out on Felicite's forehead. Mother Simon wiped it

away with a cloth, saying inwardly that some day she would have to go

through the same thing herself.

The murmur of the crowd grew louder, was very distinct for a moment

and then died away. A volley of musketry shook the window-panes. It

was the postilions saluting the Sacrament. Felicite rolled her eyes,

and said as loudly as she could:

"Is he all right?" meaning the parrot.

Her death agony began. A rattle that grew more and more rapid shook

her body. Froth appeared at the corners of her mouth, and her whole

frame trembled. In a little while could be heard the music of the bass

horns, the clear voices of the children and the men's deeper notes. At

intervals all was still, and their shoes sounded like a herd of cattle

passing over the grass.

The clergy appeared in the yard. Mother Simon climbed on a chair to

reach the bull's-eye, and in this manner could see the altar. It was

covered with a lace cloth and draped with green wreaths. In the middle

stood a little frame containing relics; at the corners were two little

orange-trees, and all along the edge were silver candlesticks,

porcelain vases containing sun-flowers, lilies, peonies, and tufts of

hydrangeas. This mount of bright colours descended diagonally from the

first floor to the carpet that covered the sidewalk. Rare objects

arrested one's eye. A golden sugar-bowl was crowned with violets,

earrings set with Alencon stones were displayed on green moss, and two

Chinese screens with their bright landscapes were near by. Loulou,

hidden beneath roses, showed nothing but his blue head which looked

like a piece of lapis-lazuli.

The singers, the canopy-bearers and the children lined up against the

sides of the yard. Slowly the priest ascended the steps and placed his

shining sun on the lace cloth. Everybody knelt. There was deep

silence; and the censers slipping on their chains were swung high in

the air. A blue vapour rose in Felicite's room. She opened her

nostrils and inhaled with a mystic sensuousness; then she closed her

lids. Her lips smiled. The beats of her heart grew fainter and

fainter, and vaguer, like a fountain giving out, like an echo dying

away;--and when she exhaled her last breath, she thought she saw in

the half-opened heavens a gigantic parrot hovering above her head.

End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of A Simple Soul, by Flaubert

Livros Grátis
( http://www.livrosgratis.com.br )
 
Milhares de Livros para Download:
 
Baixar livros de Administração
Baixar livros de Agronomia
Baixar livros de Arquitetura
Baixar livros de Artes
Baixar livros de Astronomia
Baixar livros de Biologia Geral
Baixar livros de Ciência da Computação
Baixar livros de Ciência da Informação
Baixar livros de Ciência Política
Baixar livros de Ciências da Saúde
Baixar livros de Comunicação
Baixar livros do Conselho Nacional de Educação - CNE
Baixar livros de Defesa civil
Baixar livros de Direito
Baixar livros de Direitos humanos
Baixar livros de Economia
Baixar livros de Economia Doméstica
Baixar livros de Educação
Baixar livros de Educação - Trânsito
Baixar livros de Educação Física
Baixar livros de Engenharia Aeroespacial
Baixar livros de Farmácia
Baixar livros de Filosofia
Baixar livros de Física
Baixar livros de Geociências
Baixar livros de Geografia
Baixar livros de História
Baixar livros de Línguas

Baixar livros de Literatura
Baixar livros de Literatura de Cordel
Baixar livros de Literatura Infantil
Baixar livros de Matemática
Baixar livros de Medicina
Baixar livros de Medicina Veterinária
Baixar livros de Meio Ambiente
Baixar livros de Meteorologia
Baixar Monografias e TCC
Baixar livros Multidisciplinar
Baixar livros de Música
Baixar livros de Psicologia
Baixar livros de Química
Baixar livros de Saúde Coletiva
Baixar livros de Serviço Social
Baixar livros de Sociologia
Baixar livros de Teologia
Baixar livros de Trabalho
Baixar livros de Turismo
 
 