TALES. BERTHE'S WEDDING-DAY.

Grey River Argus, Volume XXI, Issue 2723, 5 May 1877, Page 4

TALES. BERTHE'S WEDDING-DAY.

[By the Author of 'Patty.'] IV. There are Seine pilots dwelling at Villequier, on the quay at the foot of the steep hill which leads up to the Chateau perched a top of the lofty '"cote.' The little boat brings passengers from the steamer which plies three times a week between Le Havre and Rouen, and it has just landed its one passenger, a tall, bony, dark-eyed woman, who might well sit for the portrait of Meg Merrilies. The sailors gather round her; they have been idle all day, and her face promises pastime. 'Bon jour, ma mere,' says Jules Sergent, the biggest and burliest of the pilots, 'your are a stranger; you are welcome. What may your business be in Villequier ? Command us we are in authority here.' A shout of laughter from the rest shows her that he is in jest. She mutters a rough word, and pushes by him till she is free of the circle, then she turns round with a scoff on her keen, dark face. ' Lazy vauriens !' — her face softens into a smile — 'I have a sailor son, only he does not spend his leisure in teasing other men's mothers. He is good and kind, is my Auguste, and it is for him I am come to pray at Barre-y-va, that his voyage may be prosperous.' All the men takeoff their caps and look grave. ' Pardon, ma mere,' says Jules Sergent, 'just now we are idle fellows, as you say ; but we are going to drink the health of a bride and bridegroom today, and the prospect makes us merry. "We will drink to your son's safe return too, if you Avill tell us who he is." ' His name will not tell you much' — a glow of pride passes across the wrinkled gipsy face — ' he is called Auguste 'Durand. I cannot tell you where he is ; he has been gone two years ; but I have had news of him, and in his letters he asks me to go to Barre-y-va.' 'I will go along with you, my mother,' says Jules. ' The chapel is a good step on the road. It is nearer to Caiidebec than it is to Villequier.' Jules rolls out of the group and advances towards the mother of Auguste. The sleeves of his dark knitted jersey are rolled up to his elbows and his glazed hat is set at the back of his head ; but the smile fades out of his broad face, and he hesitates ; the old woman's -brows are getting into a frown while she stands scanning his face. 'What is amiss now, my, mother? No offence is meant, so none should be taken. Ido not seek to force my company on thee. My mates and I must all find our way to the chapel presently to meet the bridal procession." The old woman shudders. * I know my way,' she says, ' and I am not angry with you either, my lad. I was looking to be sure I had. not seen jour face before; but no, it was another. Did you say a bridal procession to the chapel ? Tell me'— she looks away from Jules to his companions — ' has there been no one missing here this time two years? Was there not a hue-and-cry after a lost manf ' Two years !' — a blacked-eyed youth laughs merrily at her. ' Why there's not a man among us has been here two years. Some of us come from Quilleboeuf and some from Le Havre. I come myself from Honfleur ; we know naught of what happened here two years ago ; but ma mere, if you want to hear the gossip of Villequier you must step into the Hotel de la Marine. Madame Managet will give it to you — well spiced.' The woman again knits her black eyebrows fiercely. ' Gossip ! Do I look like a gossip, imbecile % I could tell of that which is too terrible to gossip about.' She gives an indignant wave of her lean brown hand, and turns her back on the sailors. The dark-eyed youth laughs loudly, but Jules puts his hand on his shoulder. I Chut ! Victor. She is mad or she may be a witch, and in an instant she may cast an evil eye over her shoulder.' 'Witch! — betise.' Laurent Tournier, the only white-haired man among them, smiles at the awe in Jules' face. ' But j two years ago — did she say two years ago — a man missing 1 Ah ! I remember,' he repeats slowly. 'Was it two years or three years ago that the young gendarme ran away irom old Matthieu's pretty daughter ?' 'Tiens! A pretty girl forsaken. What is the story, Laurent?' Jules speaks first, but two or three others join in entreaty. Laurent shakes his head and walks out of the group. ' No ; to-day is not the day to recall all that sorrow,', he says gravely. " Poor Berthe ! I never thought to have seen her wedding- - day with another.' • The tall woman goes on along the white osier-bordered road. * l A wedding-party at Barre-y-va V she says, and then a look of horror passes over her face. « I thought when I left the place I could never come back to it; but for my Auguste's letter I had never come. Well, it may be-that this bridal procession will wipe out the re membrance. . Ah 5 mon Dieu ! that was a night!'— she shudders and draws the back of one brown hand 'across her eyes, ,

The road has begun to mount ; it has* widened too, and the sun pours down scorching rays on the dusty, stony ground. After a mile or so the woman's steps flag ; she no longer.holds her head so erect ; at last, with almost a groan of fatigue, she makes her way out of tha beaten path to a stile set in the hedge that borders the foot of the steep 'cote,' and sits down to rest. A gurgling sound makes her look about. Close by her feet is a cluster of broad primrose leaves, starting out from among a fringe of ferns, and beyond this issuing from the mossy bank beneath the hedge, a fountain trickles like a thread of sparkling silver in the sunshine. She gets off the stile, stoops to wash her face in the clear waaer, and then hollows the palm of her left hand and drinks thirstly out of it. ' I must make haste to Barre-y-va,' she says, more cheerfully. *It is not very far on to Caudebec, and I shall perhaps find a waggon there going to Yvetot or Beuzeville.' She goes on with a quicker stej) along the road beside the river to offer up prayers for her Auguste at the little | chapel. Two years ago, when the young sailor started on his voyage she had made this pilgrimage. Since then all had prospered with him, and now that his ship, instead of returning home, is' to remain afloat another year, the pious young fellow has written to entreat his mother to take the weary journey once again for his sake, and to make an offering to Notre Dame de Barre-y-va. Last time the Mere Durand fell ill on her way home, and, and stayed some time at Beuzeville before she could retnrn to Le Havre ; but then perhaps it was not to be wondered at, for she had started from Le Havre on one of the late evenings of the little steamer, and it had not landed her at Villequier till past eight o'clock in the midst of pouring rain. She had spent the night in the road, and had been picked up next morning, in a drenched semiconscious state, by the driver of a waggon returning to Beuzeville. Itwas really not wonderful that la Mere Durand should have had a fever after this ; still, the very few acquaintances she jwssessed at Le Havre said it was strange that la Mere Durand should have grown so stern and silent since her journey to B.arre-y-va. Something must surely have happened thei-e. There is a great contrast between the pilgrims bound for Barre-y-va on this sunshiny afternoon. Monsieur and Madame Ha^ilai'd head the procession whon it leaves the church ; the bridegroom is from the south, and he has no relative to stand by him in Caiidebec, so he has asked the tailor to give him countenance. Next to this portly pair come Alphonse Poireau, the clockmaker, and his sister Louise; old Pierre Lebrun, a half-witted brother of Tonine, is the only relative of the bride, for Berthe entreated her mother not to write to any of her father's relatives — they live in Paris, and they are rich, and have shown no sympathy in the troubles which have befallen the DuvaJs in these two sad years. After Pierre come, two gendarmes, sleepy-eyed fellows, who look suitable guardians of order for the peaceful, leisurely town of Caudebec. Then come about seven or eight girls and young women ? for whom Berthe has no special friendship ; but they Jove Berthe for her sweet face and for the patience with which she has borne her sorrow. The procession goes to the house of Monsieur Haulard to breakfast, and it is afternoon before it sets out again towards the little chapel. No one knows whence the custom of going there came. The chapel, as the name implies, was | built to implore the Virgin's help against the fury of the terrible ' barre' j of the Seine, which loses its force just above Caudebec; but whether the bridegroom is or is not a sailor, from time out of the memory of any living inhabitant, every newly-married pair goes on foot from Caudebec to the chapel, and offers up prayers for a blessing on their union. The procession walks in the same order as before, There is no bridal finery displayed in i$ till you reach the bride ; her friends all wear their Sunday garments, and look trim and fresh as for a * fete' day ; but the dresses are chiefly dark-cloured. Berthe looks pale and delicate but charming to-day. She has on a long white muslin gown, which trails on the ground behind, a wreath of white roses on her head, and over this a large white muslin veil. She has a bouquet of white flowers in one hand, and a pockethandkerchief trin^med with lace in the other. These are Jaqotys gjfts^ selected by Madame Haulard. Jacob walks a little in front of the. bride and her mother, swinging Berthe's. parasol in his hand. He looks very pale and grave, paler even than he did during the marriage ceremony, certainly not a joyful bridegroom. ' I did not think Berthe would have looked so well,' madame whispers to her husband, as soon as they are cleai? of the town and fairly on- the Villequier road. 'She miist really have been nice-looking before her illness,' 1 Nice-looking ! dost thou say 1 She was the prettiest girl to be seen for miles; and as for figure!' — here Monsieur Haulard sees a projection of his wife's lower lip, and he stops. Since marriage experience has added much to the tailor's natural sagacity; but he occasionally forgets prudence when he speaks of female beauty. f Pretty !' — madame shrugs her broad shoulders till her handsome shawl nearly pouches her ears. ? Thou art so easy tp tlease ; mv friend; put a head on a

mopstick, and dress it up, and for thee there is a fine-figured woman ! Well, dress does something for most of us. I laughed when Jacob Leduc asked me to buy black silk, and get it made into a gown for Tonine ; but the poor old woman looks quite respectable in it, and those white satin bows that Eugenic trimmed her cap with are really becoming.' Monsieur Haulard looks displeased. •It is well, .my wife,' he says, 'in the midst of prosperity, to remember the ups and downs of fortune. There was a time when Tonine Duval always had a silk gown to her back, though, may be, she seldom wore it.' But madame never allows her husband the last word; she shrugs her . shoulders, a little higher. ' Ah, perI haps so, my friend ; and it might have I been better for Tonine and Berthe now if that poor Matthieur had been more thrifty.' Here Madame Haulard finds the sun so scorching that, although she wears a bonnet, she is glad to ask her husband to shade her with his huge blue umbrella. ' Courage, my friend !' He stands still a minute, his white trowsered bolster legs wide apart, takes off his grey felt hat and wipes his bald broad forehead. ' Truly the heat "is oppressive ; but we are almost arrived, and there is shade just around the chapel.' Berthe walks silently. The sun beats ficerly on her head, but she will not ask for her parasol. She cannot force herself to speak to Jacob ; he keeps a little in front, and never once looks over his shoulder,, even when he answers the questions of his mother-in-law ; for Tonine is in a very gay and garrulous mood ; she has accomplished her purpose, and she feels satisfied with herself and all the world besides,. Her child looks well, and has received some useful presents ; and the breakfast provided by Madame Haulard was excellent. Tonine has drunk more wine than she ever drank in her life. She is in far too merry a mood to notice the silence of the bride or the ghastly pallor of the bridegrqom ? for as they now come in sight of the turn in the road where the chapel stands Jacob's face has grown awful to behold ) his lips have lost all colour, and he continually wipes his clammy forehead with his handkerchief. Just then comes a sound home along from Villequier, and Jacob starts violently and looks round. No one notices him except Berthe ; for the wailing sound becomes distinct in another instant, and the procession greet it with a merry laugh. It is the group of sailors from Villequier, and Jules is playing ' Marlbrook' on an accordion very much out of tune. The sailors halt at the turning which leads to the chapel, and the procession also halts ; it is customary for the bride and bridegroom to pass on together and kneel side by side on the bench in front of the shrine. Also it is customary fqr the newly-married }sair to advance hand-in-hand and to kneel down together an instant as they pass the Calvary which is just oxitside the chapel. But Jacob either does not know or intends to set aside these customs. He stands back that Berthe may pass in, and he waits while she kneels at the Calvary, then he follows her slowly and unwillingly to the little shrine at right angles with the high road, but completely hidden from it by a massive group of trees ; the ground is level for some little way to the left of the shrine and then, instead of the steeply-sloping bank, which they have been skirting on their way from Caudebec, thfere is a precipitous descent to the river. The water is very deep here, so deep that when the ' barre' is expected to be at its worst the Caudebec boats go quickly down to Barre-y-va, and lie snugly in the creek made by the projecting point till the furious s wave has passed by. ! The fishermen say there are holes here of fearful depth. The procession stands waiting; they will all go up to the shrine to offer their prayers by-andbye, but they give precedence to Jacob and Berthe. Suddenly a loud shriek bursts through the thick trees, and at once Mpnsieur Haulard and Jules Sergent sprang forward to the chapel. Alphons Poireaeu hanss back, but the women and the two gendarmes press on eagerly, for the silence that follows the shriek has been broken by fierce, shrill words that increase each moment in vehemence When Madame Haulard arrives in front of the chapel she sees this : • A tall dark woman stands pointing and frowning fiercely at Jacob Leduc ; Berthe has flushed cheeks and wild excited eyes, and Monsieur Haulard and the sailor look full of hbrcoj?. "Are you men, either of you ?" the dark-eyed woman asks, in her fierce, highpitched voice. "Do you hear what I say ? Listen then you others"— she turns to the new-comers and points to the shrinking figure of the stout gendarme. " Two years ago I came to Barre-y-va to pray for a prosperous voyage for my son Auguste Durand. I came by the latest tide; if 1 had waited a day the boat would have started in the carry morning, but I was impatient, and I left Havre in the afternoon. It was a rainy evening and the light went early • it was growing dark by the time I reached Yillequier. I was told I had bptter sleep -there, and make my pilgrimage in the morning ; but I was restless, I could not sleep ; I asked my way and went on in the dark till I reached this place. I saw the light of the lamp through the trees, and thought I would stay on through the night beside thfl chapei, in prayer for my Auguste, and not go on to Caudebec till the morning, for I believed I was much farther off than I really was. I went in and knelt kown there" T she points her long

brown hand to the bench in front of the grating — " and after a bit I think I fell askep. Suddenly I heard a crashing rumbling sound and a loud cry ; the crashing goes on and on, and I hold my breath in ! terror. Then comes a heavy fall, I listen, but thero is only ailence. I say to myself ' Someone has fallen down the steep cliff, and has perhaps stunned himself ; I must give what help I can ? In an instant, before I can move, I hear a stealthly cautious Bound, nearer to me than the fall was ; it is as if someone pushes through the bushes on the other side of the road. I wait — something in this sound frightens me more than the other." Jacob rouses himself abruptly. " What, is this folly ? Are we men T' he utters an oath, and looks at the two gendarmes as if he had a right to their support " did we listen to a mad woman 1 JSlo sensible woman would think of sleeping | outside the chapel all night in the rain, and because this old witch did this, and because she had a bad dream she is to fly at me like a wild cat with impunity ?" He tries to stand erect ; but he almost reels while he speaks, and hammers out the next words : " Come Berthe, come then ; we have wasted time enough here. If our friends like to amuse themselves with this fury they can do it ; but if she follows me to Caudebec she will be locked up." No one heeds him ; all the staring faces are full of horror and expectation. Berthe moves closer to Monsieur Haulard, her eyes are full of menace. Madame Durand breaks in on Jacob's first pause. " Mad ! mou Dieu. I have thought all this time that it might.be a bad dream, or that the fever had made me mad. I have thought this, but I am not a witch nor a fury. No, brigand ; 1 was not mad when I saw you— -Yes, you — come slowly past me, dragging something after yon, something which sounded heavy before you came in sight. Ah, mon Dieu ! well for me if I had never stirred — never looked that night ! 1 should have spared myself many a night of horror since. He " — she turned from Monsieur Haulard—" left his burden and went forward to the edge of the steep bank yonder, and there I — l could not help it — I went forward and I saw what he had dragged so slowly — it was the body of a man, and it lay just 'there — there, where you stand. I hid myself out of sight . before the murderer came back, and then I heard again the heavy dragging over the ground" — there's a movement among the listeners — "and then the sudden splash below. I tried to cry out, but I could not. I could not even move. When at last I roused myself, | dawn had broken ; 1 looked through the trees, and there on the ground was the cap of a gendarme, with a sprig of myrtle fastened into the band" " What became of that cap ?" says Haulard, sternly ;" you should have come on at once to Caudebec with that, and have made your deposition." The woman looks at him grimly. " Monsieur, wa cannot do all we should do. For me, that day I had but strength enough to crawl back to the road, and there a kind wapgoner picked me up and look me on to Benzeville ; there I had fever on the brain, and I was scarcely sure until today if what I had seen was real or a bad dream. But today, when I saw his face, I huew all was true." She points at Jacob, but no one looks at him, they are too much -excited in listening to her. ".For the cap, I know nothing— l left it where it lay. No doubt ho took care it §hou|d never be seen — rrr She stops with a sudden awe on her face. Berthe has come forward and stands facing Jacob — bo pale, so calm, so stern, that excitement dies out of the group ; the still is so frofound that the girls voice strikes a chill into her listeners : "My friends, she speaks the truth— this man, Jacob Leduc. is a murderer ; he murdered my Francois. He told him the high path along the cote was safe, and not dangerous, ' as I had told him it was, and he was watphing for him when he fell. I have felt that he kne,w something, whenever I looked at ihat man ; and all th\s time — all this time " (she turns and looks sternly at the group behind her) "you have pronounced my Francois a faithless coward. This man is his murdsrder; here is the proof : that evening when — when Francois parted from me I fixed a sprig of myrtle in his cap." An angry murmur rises round her, and Jules and another of the sailors take a firm hold of Jacob. He offers no resistance — he. seems paralysed with fear. At Berthe's first worda he has begun to tremble ; the ghastly pallor has come back to his face, and now he shrinks from the blue eyes which fix sternly on him. '•Take me away," he muamurs, "take me anywhere away from her." Mon3ieur Haulard too, shrinks away from Berthe j there is something awful and unnatural in the terrible calm that possesses her. The sailors lead J aoob away tp Caudebec, and there is ah instaut'of silence." Then Monsieur Haulard looks at Berthe. f Mon L>ieu !" he says, and advances qubkly to her. He is ;oo late ; Berthe totters, puts one hand to her heart and falls at her mother's feet. "Best so," the tailor says to his wife, when at last they reach home in the Grande Place of Caudebec ; " better that poor Berthe should pass away at once and be spared the end of thi& tragedy."