CHAPTER IV
THE MATERNAL HOUSE
"Well," asked Mother Barberin, when we entered, "what did the mayorsay?"
"We didn't see him."
"How! You didn't see him?"
"No, I met some friends at the Notre-Dame cafe and when we came out itwas too late. So we'll go back to-morrow."
So Barberin had given up the idea of driving a bargain with the man withthe dogs.
On the way home I wondered if this was not some trick of his, returningto the house, but his last words drove all my doubts away. As we had togo back to the village the next day to see the mayor, it was certainthat Barberin had not accepted Vitalis' terms.
But in spite of his threats I would have spoken of my fears to MotherBarberin if I could have found myself alone for one moment with her, butall the evening Barberin did not leave the house, and I went to bedwithout getting the opportunity. I went to sleep thinking that I wouldtell her the next day. But the next day when I got up, I did not seeher. As I was running all round the house looking for her, Barberin sawme and asked me what I wanted.
"Mamma."
"She has gone to the village and won't be back till this afternoon."
She had not told me the night before that she was going to the village,and without knowing why, I began to feel anxious. Why didn't she waitfor us, if we were going in the afternoon? Would she be back before westarted? Without knowing quite why, I began to feel very frightened, andBarberin looked at me in a way that did not tend to reassure me. Toescape from his look I ran into the garden.
Our garden meant a great deal to us. In it we grew almost all that weate--potatoes, cabbages, carrots, turnips. There was no ground wasted,yet Mother Barberin had given me a little patch all to myself, in whichI had planted ferns and herbs that I had pulled up in the lanes while Iwas minding the cow. I had planted everything pell mell, one beside theother, in my bit of garden: it was not beautiful, but I loved it. It wasmine. I arranged it as I wished, just as I felt at the time, and when Ispoke of it, which happened twenty times a day, it was "My garden."
Already the jonquils were in bud and the lilac was beginning to shoot,and the wall flowers would soon be out. How would they bloom? Iwondered, and that was why I came to see them every day. But there wasanother part of my garden that I studied with great anxiety. I hadplanted a vegetable that some one had given to me and which was almostunknown in our village; it was Jerusalem artichokes. I was told theywould be delicious, better than potatoes, for they had the taste ofFrench artichokes, potatoes, and turnips combined. Having been toldthis, I intended them to be a surprise for Mother Barberin. I had notbreathed a word about this present I had for her. I planted them in myown bit of garden. When they began to shoot I would let her think thatthey were flowers, then one fine day when they were ripe, while she wasout, I would pull them up and cook them myself. How? I was not quitesure, but I did not worry over such a small detail; then when shereturned to supper I would serve her a dish of Jerusalem artichokes! Itwould be something fresh to replace those everlasting potatoes, andMother Barberin would not suffer too much from the sale of poorRousette. And the inventor of this new dish of vegetables was I, Remi, Iwas the one! So I was of some use in the house.
With such a plan in my head I had to bestow careful attention on myJerusalem artichokes. Every day I looked at the spot where I had plantedthem, it seemed to me that they would never grow. I was kneeling on bothknees on the ground, supported on my hands, with my nose almost touchingthe earth where the artichokes were sown, when I heard Barberin callingme impatiently. I hurried back to the house. Imagine my surprise when Isaw, standing before the fireplace, Vitalis and his dogs.
I knew at once what Barberin wanted of me. Vitalis had come to fetch meand it was so that Mother Barberin should not stop me from going thatBarberin had sent her to the village. Knowing full well that I couldexpect nothing from Barberin, I ran up to Vitalis.
"Oh, don't take me away. Please, sir, don't take me away." I began tosob.
"Now, little chap," he said, kindly enough, "you won't be unhappy withme. I don't whip children, and you'll have the dogs for company. Whyshould you be sorry to go with me?"
"Mother Barberin!..."
"Anyhow, you're not going to stay here," said Barberin roughly, takingme by the ear. "Go with this gentleman or go to the workhouse. Choose!"
"No, no. Mamma! Mamma!"
"So, you're going to make me mad, eh!" cried Barberin. "I'll beat yougood and hard and chase you out of the house."
"The child is sorry to leave his mamma, don't beat him for that. He'sgot feelings, that's a good sign."
"If you pity him he'll cry all the more."
"Well, now to business."
Saying that, Vitalis laid eight five franc pieces on the table, whichBarberin with a sweep of his hand cleared up and thrust into his pocket.
"Where's his bundle?" asked Vitalis.
"Here it is," said Barberin, handing him a blue cotton handkerchieftied up at the four corners. "There are two shirts and a pair of cottonpants."
"That was not what was agreed; you said you'd give some clothes. Theseare only rags."
"He ain't got no more."
"If I ask the boy I know he'll say that's not true. But I haven't thetime to argue the matter. We must be off. Come on, my little fellow.What's your name?"
"Remi."
"Well, then, Remi, take your bundle and walk along beside Capi."
I held out both my hands to him, then to Barberin. But both men turnedaway their heads. Then Vitalis took me by the wrist. I had to go.
Ah, our poor little house! It seemed to me when I passed over thethreshold that I left a bit of my body there. With my eyes full of tearsI looked around, but there was no one near to help me. No one on theroad, and no one in the field close by. I began to call:
"Mamma ... Mother Barberin!"
But no one replied to my call, and my voice trailed off into a sob. Ihad to follow Vitalis, who had not let go of my wrist.
"Good-by and good luck," cried Barberin. Then he entered the house. Itwas over.
"Come, Remi, hurry along, my child," said Vitalis. He took hold of myarm and I walked side by side with him. Fortunately he did not walkfast. I think he suited his step to mine.
We were walking up hill. As I turned I could still see MotherBarberin's house, but it was getting smaller and smaller. Many a time Ihad walked this road and I knew that for a little while longer I shouldstill see the house, then when we turned the bend, I should see it nomore. Before me the unknown, behind me was the house, where until thatday I had lived such a happy life. Perhaps I should never see it again!Fortunately the hill was long, but at last we reached the top. Vitalishad not let go his hold.
"Will you let me rest a bit?" I asked.
"Surely, my boy," he replied.
He let go of me, but I saw him make a sign to Capi and the dogunderstood. He came close to me. I knew that Capi would grab me by theleg if I attempted to escape. I went up a high grassy mound and satdown, the dog beside me. With tear-dimmed eyes I looked about for MotherBarberin's cottage. Below was the valley and the wood, and away in thedistance stood the little house I had left. Little puffs of yellow smokewere coming out of the chimney, going straight up in the sky, and thenon towards us. In spite of the distance and the height, I could seeeverything very clearly. On the rubbish heap I could see our big fat henrunning about, but she did not look as big as usual; if I had not knownthat it was our hen, I should have taken her for a little pigeon. At theside of the house I could see the twisted pear tree that I used to rideas a horse. In the stream I could just make out the drain that I hadhad so much trouble in digging, so that it would work a mill made by myown hands; the wheel, alas! had never turned, despite all the hours Ihad spent upon it. I could see my garden. Oh, my dear garden!...
Who would see my flowers bloom? and my Jerusalem artichokes, who wouldtend them? Barberin, perhaps, that wicked Barberin! With the next stepmy garden would be hidden from me. Sudd
enly on the road which led to ourhouse from the village, I saw a white sunbonnet. Then it disappearedbehind some trees, then it came in view again. The distance was so greatthat I could only see a white top, like a spring butterfly. It was goingin and out amongst the trees. But there is a time when the heart seesbetter and farther than the sharpest eyes. I knew it was MotherBarberin. It was she. I was sure of it.
"Well," asked Vitalis, "shall we go on now?"
"Oh, sir, no, please no."
"Then it is true what they say, you haven't any legs, tired out already.That doesn't promise very good days for us."
I did not reply, I was looking....
It _was_ Mother Barberin. It was her bonnet. It was her blue skirt. Shewas walking quickly as though she was in a hurry to get home. When shegot to our gate she pushed it open and went quickly up the garden path.I jumped up at once and stood up on the bank, without giving a thoughtto Capi, who sprang towards me. Mother Barberin did not stay long in thehouse. She came out and began running to and fro, in the yard, with herarms stretched out.
She was looking for me. I leaned forwards and, at the top of my voice, Icried:
"Mamma! Mamma!" But my cry could not reach her, it was lost in the air.
"What's the matter? Have you gone crazy?" asked Vitalis.
I did not reply; my eyes were still fixed on Mother Barberin. But shedid not look up, for she did not know that I was there above her. Shewent round the garden, then out into the road, looking up and down. Icried louder, but like my first call it was useless. Then Vitalisunderstood, and he also came up on the bank. It did not take him long tosee the figure with the white sunbonnet.
"Poor little chap," he said softly to himself.
"Oh," I sobbed, encouraged by his words of pity, "do let me go back."But he took me by the wrist and drew me down and onto the road.
"As you are now rested," he said, "we'll move on."
I tried to free myself, but he held me firmly.
"Capi! Zerbino," he said, looking at the dogs. The two dogs came closeto me; Capi behind, Zerbino in front. After taking a few steps I turnedround. We had passed the bend of the hill and I could no longer see thevalley nor our house.