The young wife then went to undo her parcels. Rosalie, also greatly
affected, assisted her. When this was finished and everything had been
put away, the little maid left her mistress, and Jeanne, somewhat
fatigued, sat down.
She asked herself what she was now going to do, seeking some
occupation for her mind, some work for her hands. She did not care to
go down again into the drawing-room, where her mother was asleep, and
she thought she would take a walk. But the country seemed so sad that
she felt a weight at her heart on only looking out of the window.
Then it came to her that she had no longer anything to do, never again
anything to do. All her young life at the convent had been preoccupied
with the future, busied with dreams. The constant excitement of hope
filled her hours at that time, so that she was not aware of their
flight. Then hardly had she left those austere walls, where her
illusions had unfolded, than her expectations of love were at once
realized. The longed-for lover, met, loved and married within a few
weeks, as one marries on these sudden resolves, had carried her off in
his arms, without giving her time for reflection.
But now the sweet reality of the first days was to become the everyday
reality, which closed the door on vague hopes, on the enchanting
worries of the unknown. Yes, there was nothing more to look forward
to. And there was nothing more to do, today, to-morrow, never. She
felt all this vaguely as a certain disillusion, a certain crumbling of
her dreams.
She rose and leaned her forehead against the cold window panes.
Then, after gazing for some time at the sky across which dark clouds
were passing, she decided to go out.
Was this the same country, the same grass, the same trees as in May?
What had become of the sunlit cheerfulness of the leaves and the
poetry of the green grass, where dandelions, poppies and moon daisies
bloomed and where yellow butterflies fluttered as though held by
invisible wires? And this intoxication of the air teeming with life,
with fragrance, with fertilizing pollen, existed no longer!
The avenues, soaked by the constant autumnal downpours, were covered
with a thick carpet of fallen leaves which extended beneath the
shivering bareness of the almost leafless poplars. She went as far as
the shrubbery. It was as sad as the chamber of a dying person. A green
hedge which separated the little winding walks was bare of leaves.
Little birds flew from place to place with a little chilly cry,
seeking a shelter.
The thick curtain of elm trees that formed a protection against the
sea wind, the lime tree and the plane tree with their crimson and
yellow tints seemed clothed, the one in red velvet and the other in
yellow silk.
Jeanne walked slowly up and down petite mère's avenue, alongside the
Couillards' farm. Something weighed on her spirit like a presentiment
of the long boredom of the monotonous life about to begin.