Chapter Six.
Cori.—“I have been i’ the market place;
...
...all’s in anger.”
Coriolanus.
Of all French towns, perhaps Charville is the most under female influence. I do not know how the power has grown up, or whether it is of any great antiquity, but it is so hard to conceive any thing modern in connection with the place, that one supposes it to have existed in remote ages. Women’s rights in France are of a more muscular character than in England; women go out into the fields, dig, reap, and plough: it is a severe training, from which they come out brown and weather-beaten. There is plenty of such work in the great monotonous cornfields round Charville all the year round; but inside the town, a more important, and, in their eyes, a more honourable occupation, is intrusted to women. The measuring and selling the grain in the corn-market is carried on by a corporation of their number. They do their work very quickly and efficiently. Their code of laws is of long standing, and seldom meets with a hitch. The owners leave all in their hands; in fact, their trustworthiness is so proverbial, that as soon might the character of a judge be assailed, as the honesty of one of this corporate body. Saturdays are the days when you may see the carts coming in from the farms laden with little golden grain: the Charville sleepiness seems to rouse itself into action; there is activity, energy, sometimes even a little spice of hurry. Those that enter the town at the lower suburb find it no easy matter to get up the narrow steep streets; the carts jolt and creak, the horses labour, while all the time there is an unceasing chorus of the sharp “Heep, heep!”
Inside the market, as I have said, matters move with all imaginable rapidity and gravity. The women receive the grain, weigh it, and the sale goes on so briskly that all is over before the end of an hour. Outside, in the Place, are a crowd of carts, people idling, old women standing about in their stuff gowns and snowy caps; the country people meet their relations; there is a din of good-humoured chatter about the price of corn, the value of samples, the health of the bishop, the ambition of Madame the Préfet’s wife, the chance of gaining a few sous,—all kinds of matters, great and small, but rarely any more serious disturbance. Monsieur Deshoulières was surprised one morning as he passed through the Place to find himself the centre of a hubbub. Quite a crowd had gathered together at the entrance to the market—men and women with grave excited faces, a torrent of shrill voices. People looked out of their windows; the horses, standing unheeded in the carts, tossed their great manes, and stamped and shook themselves to get rid of the tormenting flies. The time when business usually concluded was past; it was evident that something still hindered it, something unusual.
“What is the matter?” asked M. Deshoulières, elbowing his way through a throng of women.
So many voices answered him that he lifted his low hat, and said, with an appealing gesture, “One at a time, if you please, mesdames.”
“Such an affair has never before happened in our town.”
“It is a scandal!”
“One will hear next that one sells short measure one’s self!”
“Could monsieur conceive the audacity of that unhappy boy!”
“Madame Mathurine will assuredly apply to Monsieur le Maire.”
Then they all began again. The doctor could not understand it. He saw, however, that there were two parties, each enthusiastic for their own side; and from what he could gather out of the angry waves of talk, he suspected the town and country people were at variance. Old Nannon was passionately declaiming in the centre, alternately scolding her opponents and hugging a white-faced bullet-headed boy in a blouse who seemed the object of attack. A painter would have been pleased with the scene, there was so much colour and animation about it. The houses looked as if each had its history: there were wonderful Gothic arches with great sombre depths, and above them, perhaps, a scarlet or purple flower flaming out of a window; a crowd, with its patches of indigo, olive green, and rich russets, all in harmony with the background; great white horses, carrying their monstrous collars; yellow corn going away to the water-mills, hot sunshine, striped awnings, pigeons flying up and down from the roofs,—while a clear atmosphere brought out all the tints and soft half-tones, so that it made a beautiful glowing picture. A fat, comfortably dressed farmer’s wife had been leaning against the wall of the market, more silent than the rest; she pushed her companions on one side in the midst of the clatter of tongues,—
“Tenez,” she said, decidedly. “I will explain the affair to monsieur.”
“Is that you, Madame Lemaire?” said the doctor, with a little relief. “Now perhaps there is a chance that I may understand. What is hindering the business to-day? Is the market closed?”
“Mesdames are deliberating,” replied Madame Lemaire in a slow, solid voice. “There has been an inconvenient event. The corn was brought in this morning from Gohon’s, as usual, and delivered to Madame Mathurine. When she came to measure the grain, she found, as she says, three of the sacks deficient. She has a theory,” continued Madame Lemaire, ponderously, “that the boy Jean-Marie, who drove the cart, could explain the matter if he chose. There are plenty to take his part, and plenty to take hers. Voilà tout, monsieur!” There had been a slight lull in the din of voices, accorded to the position of the well-to-do farmer’s wife, as she made this explanation. When she stopped it broke out again. Old Nannon had drawn near to listen, dragging the accused after her, and she took up the cudgels immediately.
“Voilà tout, madame remarks, but it shall not be all, I say. If Madame Mathurine supposes she is to take away the character of an innocent angel like this, she shall learn her mistake. Speak for thyself, Jean-Marie.”
The innocent angel only answered by a howl. The bystanders laughed. Monsieur Deshoulières interposed,—
“What have you to do with him, Nannon?” he inquired.
“He is her sister’s son.”
“He works for Monsieur Gohon,” replied a chorus of shrill voices. At this moment the great doors were flung open, and the people poured into the market. It all looked grey, cool, business-like: sacks heaped about, great measures, a few men in blue blouses, and a small knot of women, in white frilled caps, and little crossed shawls, standing together in the midst. M. Deshoulières looked on with a little quiet amusement, wondering how the women would conduct themselves. A commotion in the corn-market was almost unprecedented. Just then he saw a figure standing behind two others in the sunlit doorway. Something in form or attitude was so unlike the rest, that he looked again and recognised Thérèse. She had already noticed him, so that it did not surprise her when he came back to her and began, in his quick abrupt manner,—
“You here, mademoiselle?”
She drew back a little, seeing that he was displeased, and lifted her eyes to his face with the expression that always unconsciously touched him. It was quite true that a few months ago she would have shrunk from finding herself among people alone, but since her stay at the Roulleaus, madame had impressed upon her that she was no longer in a position to hold such ideas; she made her useful in this as in every other respect, and Thérèse had been a little proud of overcoming the dislike which all French education and habits implant so strongly that it becomes second nature. She had been passing through the Place, and had paused for a moment at the entrance to the market, to look at the throng within. There the sunlight had betrayed her to M. Deshoulières. The idea of concealing herself from him, or from any one else, would never have entered her head, but now she wished heartily that he had not perceived her. When he went on to ask what had become of her attendant, poor Thérèse coloured crimson with vexation.
“I have no bonne, monsieur,” she answered as composedly as she could. “In my position I do not expect one.”
It was M. Deshoulières’ turn to colour. He walked up to fat Madame Lemaire, who was standing near, and brought her back with a kind of ceremonious formality. “There has been a mistake about mademoiselle’s servant,” he said, hurriedly; “will you do me the kindness to permit her to remain under your protection?” Then he went a little aside from them, and stood watching the proceedings.
The women looked very grave and determined, only Mme. Mathurine was a little pale. She was the most unpopular of her number among the country people, and a good many of them, without any real suspicion of her honesty, were not sorry to inflict a touch of humiliation. Old Nannon, in her wrath, said openly that she had lined her pockets with the price of the corn, and then accused the boy of bringing short measure. Others, who had not the old woman’s personal interest in the matter, would not venture so far, they shook their heads, and shrugged their shoulders. The majority inclined to the belief that the boy had been tampered with, and had sold the grain before he reached the market; but Mme. Mathurine, who was proud and self-reliant, saw only the shakes and shrugs. She was obliged to appear composed and indifferent, but in her heart a fierce indignation was burning. She had made a little mistake in not having at once called one of the other saleswomen to witness the reality of the short measure, and even to have made a mistake was very bitter to her pride. She folded her arms and looked round upon the faces about her with the air of a queen.
“There is no more to be done, messieurs and mesdames,” she said. “The business is concluded. Monsieur Gohon will communicate with the corporation, if he desires it.”
“And our Jean-Marie?” asked Nannon, pressing up and looking warlike.
Madame Mathurine deigned no other answer than a withering glance. Her companions gathered round her; they made a little compact phalanx and moved towards the doors. Old Nannon followed, dragging her reluctant nephew, and pouring out a torrent of words,—
“I appeal to the commissary,—to the mayor,” she cried, thrusting herself before Mme. Mathurine. M. Deshoulières began to think the old woman’s rage would lead her to a personal attack upon her enemy, and the other saleswomen thought so too, for the eldest of the group, perceiving him, came quickly up and said in a low voice,—
“Pray, monsieur, use your influence to prevent scandal.”
“Nannon,” he said, sternly, “this must end. You have been allowed too much licence already. So much as relates to the affair here is finished; for the rest, Jean-Marie and his master must settle it between them.”
There was a little murmur of applause among the town-people, an honest admiration for their doctor made his opinion as decisive as the maire’s. Nannon shook her head, and drew herself up with a certain pathetic dignity.
“That is easy to say, monsieur,” she answered, her poor old voice tremulous with indignation. “We all know the quantity was just when the corn left the farm, and if the poor boy goes back with this story, it does not require to be a witch to know that my sister will have him on her hands again.”
Thérèse, standing rather behind fat Madame Lemaire, and her basket, was in a little flame of excitement. Her colour rose, her eye sparkled, one or two people near looked at her with curiosity and admiration, but she did not remark it. She liked the old woman with her ugly, half comical, half-pathetic face, and wanted her to be proved in the right; M. Deshoulières, who found himself, to his amusement, constituted a kind of judge, little knew what a warm partisan of the accused was watching him from the background with flashing eyes. He asked a few necessary questions; the sacks had been brought tied and marked as usual, the bill of the quantity delivered to Madame Mathurine, Jean-Marie stoutly denied any encounters on the road. M. Deshoulières felt convinced that he denied too much; old Nannon, on the contrary, was in triumph.
“Now monsieur sees that he is telling the truth!”
“That is just what he is not doing,” said the doctor severely. “If he can give no other account of himself, and Madame Mathurine does not call in the commissary of police, it will be Gohon’s duty to do so. As for you, Nannon, you should know better than to encourage him.”
“Oh, monsieur!”
Nannon’s face was tragic. Thérèse was altogether on her side against M. Deshoulières’ harshness. No one can be so unjust as a girl when her feelings are brought into the battle-field; Nannon’s young champion would have ridden pell-mell over right and wrong, laws and principles, Madame Mathurine, and the whole corporation, in defence of this old woman with her foolish, unreasonable love. She detested M. Deshoulières when he said:—
“It is true. Listen to me, Jean-Marie. You shall have one chance more. Whom did you see on your road here to-day?”
Something came out which sounded like “the Simons and Michault.” There was a murmur of indignation.
“Imagine the little wicked one vowing that he met no one!”
“Did monsieur conceive the road to be a desert?” said Nannon, drawing herself up defiantly.
“Where was Michault?” asked M. Deshoulières, disregarding.
“He was at Cottereau’s.”
Between obstinacy and fright it was difficult to extract the truth from the unhappy Jean-Marie, but the doctor’s questions at last elicited the facts that he had been persuaded to enter the Cottereaus’ cottage—one of those miserable huts which abound in the department—under pretence of receiving a commission from Mère Cottereau to buy some cotton yarn for her in Charville. Then it came out that Michault, who was sitting there, went away, the others gave the boy cider, and detained him for some time, while no doubt the theft was committed. The Cottereaus’ character was well-known in the district; it all seemed clear enough now that Jean-Marie acknowledged this much, and M. Deshoulières did not think the boy knew more. Notice would be given to the police, but it was not likely he would suffer from them. M. Deshoulières bestowed a few sharp words upon him, meaning all the while to say something to Gohon on his behalf. This neither Nannon nor Thérèse guessed; the old woman’s foolish fondness provoked him, and he would not let her see that he had any compassion for the culprit.
The crowd poured out into the sunshine again, rich colours flashed about here and there, carts were laden and driven off with great creaks and rumblings. People were tolerably satisfied with the ending of the affair, which left them one object for abuse in the treacherous Michault. The saleswomen congratulated themselves, only Madame Mathurine walked away alone with an angry indignant heart. It was nothing to her that her integrity had been proved, since it had once been doubted. She was not even grateful to M. Deshoulières.
Poor Max! He had done a good morning’s work, perhaps warded off a serious evil; if they had been men with whom he had to deal, his good deeds would have held a chance of appreciation. Here, on the contrary, old Nannon walked off, still erect and defiant; Madame Mathurine was unthankful; Thérèse called him unmerciful. Before he had time to look for her she had wished adieu to Madame Lemaire, who wanted to keep her, and had slipped out with the crowd. M. Deshoulières, coming to where he had left her, found her gone. He was obliged to explain something of her story to Madame Lemaire, who, with all her solidity, was curious and a little romantic.
“There must be but one conclusion,” she said, laughing good-humouredly when he had finished; “monsieur should marry her.”
He started with undisguised amazement. “I!”
“But yes. Is it so wonderful?”
“I! What could have put that into your head?”
Madame Lemaire nodded wisely. “Perhaps it was her pretty face, perhaps it was chance. Who knows? After all it is of monsieur we are talking.”
M. Deshoulières shook his head, and went away smiling, yet with a half-hidden sadness in his tone. “You must look for romances elsewhere, madame,” he said. “I have no heart to spare except for my patients.”
No one ever entirely realises how much his life is moulded by what we call trifles. We do not want a lion in our path to turn us, a straw will do it as effectually. It is only an indifferent word occasionally that opens the floodgates and lets the torrent in. A look affects a life; perhaps such insignificant instruments are chosen to keep us humble. Looking back, when we have gone further on our journey, we dimly understand it, but at the time the influences seem too small to be admitted. Yet it is the teaching of all creation, whether physical or spiritual. In the drop of water, in the blade of grass, in the moment of time, in the thought of our heart, God teaches us the immensity of little things.