CATHERINE’S COQUETRIES

A Tale of French Country Life

BY

CAMILLE DEBANS

TRANSLATED BY LEON MEAD

ILLUSTRATED

New York:

WM. L. ALLISON COMPANY,

Publishers.

Copyright, 1890, by

WORTHINGTON COMPANY.

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CATHERINE’S COQUETRIES.

A TALE OF FRENCH PEASANT LIFE.

CHAPTER I. A GAME THAT ENDS BADLY.

“Bravo, Sidonie!”

“Ah, but he escapes her, the scamp!”

Thus shout the spectators as they watch a poor young lame girl chase, with all her energy, a young fellow of two and twenty, who makes all possible effort to elude her.

Sidonie’s right hand clasps an important adjunct of the homely game—a little cluster of red raspberries. In the absorbed ardor of pursuit the “Little Crook,” as they call her, holds it quite mechanically, and from her tightly clinched fingers trickle drops of the crimson juice as she runs.

“Good, little one, good,” cries the little old man, who is highly amused at the endeavors of the unfortunate lame girl.

Sidonie makes a fresh start—this time determined to catch the fugitive. The aspect of the afflicted girl as she hobbles about on limbs of unequal length does not[Page 4] engender among these peasants any particular feeling of compassion. None of her companions ever dreamed of offering her pity. She perfectly enjoys the game. She would be utterly astounded and piqued if any one manifested an open sympathy on account of her deformity. With that great endurance so natural among hardy peasants, and often so inexplicable to the city born and bred, she pursues the young man. After running in a straight line a short distance, he suddenly changes his tactics. A tree—several for that matter, but one in particular—stands near by. He runs behind it and awaits Sidonie, his hands clasping the trunk. Reaching the tree she fully expects to seize him. But he pretends to go to the right, and as she confidently advances he makes for another tree to the left, and so the game is prolonged. And the brave girl, always smiling, continues the pursuit, until at length Bruno, the young

peasant, slips and falls upon the sward, and before he can recover himself, Sidonie holds him down and daubs his face over and over again with the juice of her crushed raspberries.

Everybody approaches to congratulate “Little Crook,” who laughs in glee at her triumph. Her good-natured adversary joins in the ensuing merriment.

What game are they playing? Indeed, it has no name as yet, for it has just been invented by Catherine, the wife of Madame le Hausseur’s gamekeeper; but its novelty has rendered it at once popular among the country lads and lasses.

The game continues for perhaps an hour, and more than one pretty face is smeared with the bright red juice. If a kiss is taken now and then, who complains of that? Surely not the lovely Catherine, who, though[Page 5] married to the gamekeeper, is not averse to a friendly caress. In truth, it is oftenest after her that the young men give chase—she is so gay, so bright, so little scandalized by the familiarities of her young adorers. Presently her turn comes to play the pursuer’s rôle. She selects Bruno as her victim. Graceful, Diana-like in form, and charming in her abandon, she bounds through the bushes.

In the background of this living picture stand the great trees—chiefly beeches and oaks—as erect as proud sentinels, their wide-spread branches forming a grateful shade where the peasants are sitting in sociable groups. In the clearing, just in front of the older people, who are watching with enjoyment the sport of the younger ones, is a dense mass of raspberry bushes that are fairly loaded down with ripe fruit. Never before have raspberries been so abundant in this locality. Under a tree are ranged all sizes and kinds of baskets. Soon in the hot July sunshine old and young will begin to gather this wild crop, which may be had for the picking. Some have come solely for the purpose of improving each shining hour of this Sunday morning in obtaining as much of the fruit as possible. Others think a little diversion is not out of order on such an occasion. And so the impromptu game proposed by the vivacious wife of the gamekeeper has been eagerly approved by a dozen or more participants.

Bruno now runs breathlessly after Catherine, but she is too fleet of foot to be caught. Animated and happy, the gamekeeper’s wife is wholly absorbed in the sport, and triumphs because she is able to distance her pursuer.

At length, a towering, broad-shouldered fellow, with a confident air, is seen coming along the footpath. By[Page 6] his side walks a queer little being, with uneven steps, misshapen body, short, twisted legs, and enormous arms. Both stop to watch the game—the first like a man who cannot be induced to enter into any such frivolous pastime; the other like a man incapable of doing so by reason of his poor physique.

“Good-morning, Andoche,” salutes Catherine as she passes the deformed little man, who smiles with a wry, disagreeable face.

“Good-morning, Madame Catherine,” he returns, with a look of malice in his eyes. Then turning to the other he remarks, “You will see how she will manage to invite you to join in.”

Bruno, running at a swift pace, passes before the newcomers. The young woman, making a sudden detour, again approaches them, and asks in a voice of admirable nonchalance:

“Would you not like to play for a while, Monsieur Firmin?”

“Ah, what did I tell you?” exclaims Andoche, bursting into laughter.

“Will you be one of us?” continues the young woman.

“I do not know the game, but I will play,” responds Firmin.

Catherine, by an adroit manœuvre, leads the waiting Bruno to one side and smilingly makes him a sign. He throws himself upon Firmin and besmears his face with berry juice. Firmin’s surprise quickly curdles into anger. Like a giant he resents the treatment, but it is quite unnecessary for him to give poor Bruno such a resistless blow. Advancing to interpose hasten Rosalie, Félicité, Suzanne, Justine, Nicholas, Mathieu, Constant,[Page 7] and others. Firmin has not time to give a second blow. He strikes out only once, but that is quite sufficient.

Catherine briefly explains the nature of the game. During her explanation the jeering Andoche regards her insolently, and when she has finished he observes: “It is not a proper or neat game for Sunday, when one is quite clean and fresh.”

“And now,” continues Catherine, coolly, paying no heed to the sneer of Andoche, “it is your turn to run after some one, and decorate her face if you catch her.”

“I will, then, run after you,” declares this young Antinous, rather stupidly.

“How foolish!” exclaims the disagreeable Andoche. “If you expect to catch Madame Catherine, you will have to double your speed.”

Firmin does not notice the evil slur in the old man’s suggestion. As soon as he dashes forth, all seek to evade him.

Catherine, blushing a little in spite of herself, leaves the open glade and gains the forest. In two or three long strides Firmin might overtake her, but she is too quick for him, because she darts first to the right and then to the left so skilfully that the great fellow, each time going as straight as an arrow, overleaps her by several feet and so loses her, much to the amusement of the others.

“What a goose!” grumbles that beast of an Andoche. “She will lead as far as you care to follow her.”

Though the beautiful Catherine is evidently fatigued, Firmin cannot catch her. Now she disappears from view behind the raspberry hedges, some minutes perhaps elapsing before she and her pursuer are again[Page 8] seen. Sometimes the gamekeeper’s wife reappears with a little grimace on her face, for the game begins to pall. The cries of enthusiasm cease.

But Catherine remains indefatigable. Old Andoche continues to jeer, and finally in his garrulous, cynical voice cries: “How interesting it would be should Monsieur Barrau happen to pass this way! He might not be altogether pleased at the sight.”

Scarcely has Andoche finished speaking when through the trees they see the gleam of a musket. The branches are pushed aside, and a man clad in velvet, with long gaiters extending from his knees, makes his appearance, followed by a dog which as he bounds to and fro barks joyously.

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CHAPTER II. THE ALTERCATION.

Savin Barrau was naturally a soldier. As Catherine was a beautiful woman, so was Savin a distinguished-looking man. His regular-featured face wore an expression of hauteur and valor, as though he often had stood in the face of death. But upon his lips one could have fancied there lurked a smile both touching and tender. His handsome dark eyes brightened his face to an extraordinary degree. Brave and noble he seemed as he stood gazing upon the scene.

“Ah, ha,” said the vindictive Andoche, “I have brought trouble to our charming Madame Catherine with my remarks, I fear. Another time I shall hold my tongue.”

Savin approached, carrying his gun in his left hand. His dog Patachaud was still bounding at his side. A feeling of restlessness possessed the crowd, hitherto so joyous. A jealous glitter suddenly came into Barrau’s eyes. He could not disguise his disapproval of his wife’s frivolity.

Every one thought Catherine would discontinue the game and run to meet him. But no. Either bravado or the testy consciousness of her virtue led her to continue it. Firmin, who as yet had not perceived Barrau,[Page 10] darted after her with increased zest. The gamekeeper came forward with even tread.

“Ah, some game seems to be in progress,” said he as he halted.

His wife and Firmin now disappeared from view. A look of displeasure clouded Savin’s features. With a military gesture he rested his hand on his knee. The dog continuing to leap upon him, he shouted: “Down, Patachaud, down, sir!” a little rudely.

A profound silence enveloped the scene. Every one was impressed, for all knew the keeper’s mood. Why indeed should the coquettish Catherine so vex her brave husband? Presently she again came in sight. Merrily she went toward Savin, smiled up at him, and seizing his shoulders swung around him, without a thought of abandoning the game.

Certainly Savin’s look of displeasure should have warned her to desist, but that look she obstinately refused to see. Fortified by her husband’s tall figure, Catherine stood panting and laughing, while Firmin foolishly advanced toward her in pursuit.

At this juncture, the gamekeeper, impatiently tapping the ground with his foot, exclaimed: “Come, come! this is a little too bold.”

“Now for a storm,” murmured Andoche. “Firmin would have passed the time better by drinking a couple of glasses of beer with me.”

Firmin stupidly stared at Barrau, with an air of indifference; while Catherine, vexed at Savin’s interference, addressed him brusquely in these words: “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

“Not much. You have played too long. You must go and rest.”

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“But we have not yet gathered the berries.”

“Well, let the others do that. Come, let us go.”

“Oh, no, indeed,” said Catherine, perversely. “You may go on if you like, but I——”

“Come along, Catherine. Do not provoke me.”

A hard look entered her eyes. To be led away before everybody appeared to her, at that moment, the acme of humiliation. It was wiser to concede to her husband’s wishes, she well knew, for he loved her ardently, and had only her welfare at heart. But she did not wish to seem so meek before her friends. Indeed, she would show them that she was not to be bullied.

“It would have been surprising had you not come to spoil all our sport. But, as I said before, you may go. I shall remain longer.”

“Poor little one,” said Andoche, hatefully.

The gamekeeper’s wife turned toward a group of peasants, some of whom were regarding her approvingly, others with displeasure.

“Catherine,” said Barrau, in vibrating tones, “I am the master, you understand, and never shall I submit to being laughed at by a Firmin.”

“Pooh! You always see evil in everything. Am I doing wrong? Whenever I try to enjoy myself you are angry. In order to please you, I ought always to stay at home. But I don’t care for that sort of life—not I.”

“Come!”

“No.”

Savin was visibly disturbed. His resolute face looked pained. He said nothing, but going straight up to his wife, he took her by the arm and forced her to go by his side. Vexed with rage, she attempted to free herself, but in vain. Her husband held her closely.[Page 12] But rather than go with him she fell to the ground, sobbing.

“Catherine, my girl, come,” urged Savin, more gently. “Do not be a baby; come willingly. People are mocking at us.”

Did the young woman believe her husband would weaken? Or did she think it dramatic to make a scene? Who knows? At all events, she raised her hand to strike her husband on the face, when he, foreseeing the intention, arrested the blow. His movement was so rapid that he did not realize what strength he exerted in seizing her fingers. Held as firmly as though she were in a vice, Catherine uttered a little cry of pain.

“You hurt me, Savin. See! You hurt me!”

But the gamekeeper, swayed by his anger, did not listen to her complaint.

“A blow!” cried he. “You wished to strike me—you! Before all these people!”

Catherine reiterated her complaint.

“Be quiet,” said her husband, in tones of thunder. “Do not forget that I am Savin Barrau. You will have cause to remember this twentieth of July. Ask my pardon!”

At these words Catherine made another effort to release herself from his grasp, but Savin held her all the more firmly.

“Apologize, I tell you!”

“I will not!”

Pride overcame her pain. Her arm was aching terribly, but—she would never yield. Drops of perspiration stood on her forehead. Her heart within her seemed to stop beating. Though ready to faint, she[Page 13] still would have resisted, but her suffering was too great.

“Pardon me,” she cried, at length, in a grieved voice.

“You will not do so again?” demanded Savin, severely.

“No, no. Release me!”

“You will never again do so rude a thing?”

“No. Oh, how you hurt me!”

Savin dropped her arm and pushed her toward the pathway.

“Come, let us go,” said he.

Catherine, humiliated and angry, did not resist. Without once turning her head, Madame Barrau walked away, bewildered and wretched.

No one had thought of interfering between the man and wife. Country people, as a rule, have great respect for strength and authority. Savin’s behavior seemed to them quite the natural sequence of Catherine’s.

A profound silence reigned for several minutes. By tacit consent all waited until the gamekeeper and his wife were beyond hearing, and then soon enough each tongue began to wag. Catherine was very pretty, and therefore could not escape calumny. More than one venomous smile was to be seen on the lips of her enemies.

“Did you see what a look she gave him when they started?”

“And how vexed she was because he came?”

“She could have strangled him,” said Andoche, wickedly.

“Poor Barrau! how sad!”

Bruno alone was silent. Now and then he opened his mouth as though he had something to say, but he[Page 14] closed it again without speaking. Amid the babble Firmin ventured a word. He had been a valet in Paris, and more than one pretty chambermaid had smiled upon him: so he felt himself to be quite a squire of dames.

“Madame Barrau is such a fine-looking woman that her husband ought to be satisfied if—if—don’t you know?”

Every one save Bruno burst into laughter. He turned pale, clinched his fists, and muttered something to himself. Finally he said with vehemence, as he planted himself before Firmin: “You are a scoundrel. You, at least, have no right to say anything. I repeat, you are a scoundrel!”

“Ah, my dear fellow, how excited you are!”

“You know very well that Madame Catherine is an honest woman. I will answer for it, and I forbid you to say a word to the contrary.”

“You forbid me! You forbid me!” retorted Firmin, pale and exasperated. “And what if I laugh in your face?”

“I will break your head as I would a cat’s,” cried Bruno, more and more enraged.

“Ah, ha!” said Andoche, in his maddening way: “you are then in love with Madame Catherine?”

“I also forbid you to speak like that, Andoche. Indeed, one ought never to allow drunkards in company.”

He must be a hot-brained fellow to speak like that—this young Bruno.

Fair-skinned, slight, graceful, and blond, the son of Mother Mathurine would have been taken anywhere for a gentleman. But he could not boast that strength of limb and muscle which distinguished the young fellows[Page 15] with whom he had often come in contact, and who were always ready for a quarrel.

Firmin was as strong as an ox, and Andoche, the old blacksmith, had sinews of steel. Young Bruno could hardly expect to enter the lists with either, and he was rather foolhardy to challenge a dispute. Firmin and Andoche Grignon were both well enough settled in life, in a pecuniary way; while young Bruno was but the son of a poor mother, who passed as a good woman, though his father had insisted upon remaining away from home for over twenty years.

Bruno’s last remark lent a sharp piquancy to the situation. The women were quite elated at the prospect of a dispute; while the men crowded around, fearing lest they should lose a word. Andoche frowned and his face assumed an ugly expression. He never hesitated to give a blow, and his two short arms had a terrible reputation at Quarré, Rouvray, and Trinquelin.

“Who ever saw such an insolent cur?” said he, livid with rage.

For an answer Bruno struck his fist full upon the fat, red face of the stupefied Andoche. The blacksmith, for such he was, in his ill-fitting clothes, stood gaping, with his mouth and eyes wide open—struck dumb for a moment by the young man’s temerity. Had he been inebriated, as was often the case, he would not have hesitated. But now he seemed half afraid, until Firmin’s jeering voice goaded him to violence.

“Good heavens!” roared Andoche, desperately, “take that!” And he planted a cruel blow upon Bruno’s chest. Poor Bruno! he fell in a heap upon the grass. Andoche, making the most of his advantage, then leaped upon his adversary. The unfortunate fellow, brave to the last,[Page 16] rose to his knees only to receive another stinging blow. Firmin, meanwhile, showed himself the coward by urging the blacksmith to greater violence. Andoche again furiously seized the young man by the throat and would have strangled him, but for a new-comer, a man brawny and wiry, who stepped forward, suddenly took the blacksmith himself by the throat and pressed him so hard that, muttering a cry of pain, he relaxed his hold upon Bruno and tried to get away.

“The Bear!” he cried, in a stifled voice. He scarcely found himself released, when in a spasm of rage Bruno’s adversary started to punish the man who had interfered. But the tables were turned. With no great effort “the Bear” took Andoche between his iron hands, raised and hurled him to the ground. A stronger man than Andoche was master of the field.

“It is cowardly,” said he, “to beat a fellow like that. Andoche, let Firmin and Bruno settle the dispute. Bruno is courageous, and Firmin is cowardly. That statement is but just. But you! I should have thought you more honorable!”

“What a shock you gave me!” pitifully cried Andoche, who had no desire to prolong the fight.

“What caused the row? Bruno is not the lad to be incensed for nothing.”

“They were doubting the purity of Madame Catherine,” said Bruno.

“The gamekeeper’s wife?” queried “the Bear,” with some agitation.

“Yes, Madame Barrau, if you please.”