THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER
CHAPTER I
THE BETROTHAL
Pere Merlier's mill, one beautiful summer evening, was arranged for a grand
fete. In the courtyard were three tables, placed end to end, which awaited the
guests. Everyone knew that Francoise, Merlier's daughter, was that night to be
betrothed to Dominique, a young man who was accused of idleness but whom the
fair sex for three leagues around gazed at with sparkling eyes, such a fine
appearance had he.
Pere Merlier's mill was pleasing to look upon. It stood exactly in the center
of Rocreuse, where the highway made an elbow. The village had but one street,
with two rows of huts, a row on each side of the road; but at the elbow meadows
spread out, and huge trees which lined the banks of the Morelle covered the
extremity of the valley with lordly shade. There was not, in all Lorraine, a
corner of nature more adorable. To the right and to the left thick woods,
centenarian forests, towered up from gentle slopes, filling the horizon with a
sea of verdure, while toward the south the plain stretched away, of marvelous
fertility, displaying as far as the eye could reach patches of ground divided by
green hedges. But what constituted the special charm of Rocreuse was the
coolness of that cut of verdure in the most sultry days of July and August. The
Morelle descended from the forests of Gagny and seemed to have gathered the cold
from the foliage beneath which it flowed for leagues; it brought with it the
murmuring sounds, the icy and concentrated shade of the woods. And it was not
the sole source of coolness: all sorts of flowing streams gurgled through the
forest; at each step springs bubbled up; one felt, on following the narrow
pathways, that there must exist subterranean lakes which pierced through beneath
the moss and availed themselves of the smallest crevices at the feet of trees or
between the rocks to burst forth in crystalline fountains. The whispering voices
of these brooks were so numerous and so loud that they drowned the song of the
bullfinches. It was like some enchanted park with cascades falling from every
portion.
Below the meadows were damp. Gigantic chestnut trees cast dark shadows. On
the borders of the meadows long hedges of poplars exhibited in lines their
rustling branches. Two avenues of enormous plane trees stretched across the
fields toward the ancient Chateau de Gagny, then a mass of ruins. In this
constantly watered district the grass grew to an extraordinary height. It
resembled a garden between two wooded hills, a natural garden, of which the
meadows were the lawns, the giant trees marking the colossal flower beds. When
the sun's rays at noon poured straight downward the shadows assumed a bluish
tint; scorched grass slept in the heat, while an icy shiver passed beneath the
foliage.
And there it was that Pere Merlier's mill enlivened with its ticktack a
corner of wild verdure. The structure, built of plaster and planks, seemed as
old as the world. It dipped partially in the Morelle, which rounded at that
point into a transparent basin. A sluice had been made, and the water fell from
a height of several meters upon the mill wheel, which cracked as it turned, with
the asthmatic cough of a faithful servant grown old in the house. When Pere
Merlier was advised to change it he shook his head, saying that a new wheel
would be lazier and would not so well understand the work, and he mended the old
one with whatever he could put his hands on: cask staves, rusty iron, zinc and
lead. The wheel appeared gayer than ever for it, with its profile grown odd, all
plumed with grass and moss. When the water beat upon it with its silvery flood
it was covered with pearls; its strange carcass wore a sparkling attire of
necklaces of mother-of-pearl.
The part of the mill which dipped in the Morelle had the air of a barbaric
arch stranded there. A full half of the structure was built on piles. The water
flowed beneath the floor, and deep places were there, renowned throughout the
district for the enormous eels and crayfish caught in them. Below the fall the
basin was as clear as a mirror, and when the wheel did not cover it with foam
schools of huge fish could be seen swimming with the slowness of a squadron.
Broken steps led down to the river near a stake to which a boat was moored. A
wooden gallery passed above the wheel. Windows opened, pierced irregularly. It
was a pell-mell of corners, of little walls, of constructions added too late, of
beams and of roofs, which gave the mill the aspect of an old, dismantled
citadel. But ivy had grown; all sorts of clinging plants stopped the too-wide
chinks and threw a green cloak over the ancient building. The young ladies who
passed by sketched Pere Merlier's mill in their albums.
On the side facing the highway the structure was more solid. A stone gateway
opened upon the wide courtyard, which was bordered to the right and to the left
by sheds and stables. Beside a well an immense elm covered half the courtyard
with its shadow. In the background the building displayed the four windows of
its second story, surmounted by a pigeon house. Pere Merlier's sole vanity was
to have this front plastered every ten years. It had just received a new coating
and dazzled the village when the sun shone on it at noon.
For twenty years Pere Merlier had been mayor of Rocreuse. He was esteemed for
the fortune he had acquired. His wealth was estimated at something like eighty
thousand francs, amassed sou by sou. When he married Madeleine Guillard, who
brought him the mill as her dowry, he possessed only his two arms. But Madeleine
never repented of her choice, so briskly did he manage the business. Now his
wife was dead, and he remained a widower with his daughter Francoise. Certainly
he might have rested, allowed the mill wheel to slumber in the moss, but that
would have been too dull for him, and in his eyes the building would have seemed
dead. He toiled on for pleasure.
Pere Merlier was a tall old man with a long, still face, who never laughed
but who possessed, notwithstanding, a very gay heart. He had been chosen mayor
because of his money and also on account of the imposing air he could assume
during a marriage ceremony.
Francoise Merlier was just eighteen. She did not pass for one of the handsome
girls of the district, as she was not robust. Up to her fifteenth year she had
been even ugly.
The Rocreuse people had not been able to understand why the daughter of Pere
and Mere Merlier, both of whom had always enjoyed excellent health, grew ill and
with an air of regret. But at fifteen, though yet delicate, her little face
became one of the prettiest in the world. She had black hair, black eyes, and
was as rosy as a peach; her lips constantly wore a smile; there were dimples in
her cheeks, and her fair forehead seemed crowned with sunlight. Although not
considered robust in the district, she was far from thin; the idea was simply
that she could not lift a sack of grain, but she would become plump as she grew
older—she would eventually be as round and dainty as a quail. Her father's long
periods of silence had made her thoughtful very young. If she smiled constantly
it was to please others. By nature she was serious.
Of course all the young men of the district paid court to her, more on
account of her ecus than her pretty ways. At last she made a choice which
scandalized the community.
On the opposite bank of the Morelle lived a tall youth named Dominique
Penquer. He did not belong to Rocreuse. Ten years before he had arrived from
Belgium as the heir of his uncle, who had left him a small property upon the
very border of the forest of Gagny, just opposite the mill, a few gunshots
distant. He had come to sell this property, he said, and return home. But the
district charmed him, it appeared, for he did not quit it. He was seen
cultivating his little field, gathering a few vegetables upon which he
subsisted. He fished and hunted; many times the forest guards nearly caught him
and were on the point of drawing up proces-verbaux against him. This free
existence, the resources of which the peasants could not clearly discover, at
length gave him a bad reputation. He was vaguely styled a poacher. At any rate,
he was lazy, for he was often found asleep on the grass when he should have been
at work. The hut he inhabited beneath the last trees on the edge of the forest
did not seem at all like the dwelling of an honest young fellow. If he had had
dealings with the wolves of the ruins of Gagny the old women would not have been
the least bit surprised. Nevertheless, the young girls sometimes risked
defending him, for this doubtful man was superb; supple and tall as a poplar, he
had a very white skin, with flaxen hair and beard which gleamed like gold in the
sun.
One fine morning Francoise declared to Pere Merlier that she loved Dominique
and would never wed any other man.
It may well be imagined what a blow this was to Pere Merlier. He said
nothing, according to his custom, but his face grew thoughtful and his internal
gaiety no longer sparkled in his eyes. He looked gruff for a week. Francoise
also was exceedingly grave. What tormented Pere Merlier was to find out how this
rogue of a poacher had managed to fascinate his daughter. Dominique had never
visited the mill. The miller watched and saw the gallant on the other side of
the Morelle, stretched out upon the grass and feigning to be asleep. Francoise
could see him from her chamber window. Everything was plain: they had fallen in
love by casting sheep's eyes at each other over the mill wheel.
Another week went by. Francoise became more and more grave. Pere Merlier
still said nothing. Then one evening he himself silently brought in Dominique.
Francoise at that moment was setting the table. She did not seem astonished; she
contented herself with putting on an additional plate, knife and fork, but the
little dimples were again seen in her cheeks, and her smile reappeared. That
morning Pere Merlier had sought out Dominique in his hut on the border of the
wood.
There the two men had talked for three hours with doors and windows closed.
What was the purport of their conversation no one ever knew. Certain it was,
however, that Pere Merlier, on taking his departure, already called Dominique
his son-in-law. Without doubt the old man had found the youth he had gone to
seek a worthy youth in the lazy fellow who stretched himself out upon the grass
to make the girls fall in love with him.
All Rocreuse clamored. The women at the doors had plenty to say on the
subject of the folly of Pere Merlier, who had thus introduced a reprobate into
his house. The miller let people talk on. Perhaps he remembered his own
marriage. He was without a sou when he wedded Madeleine and her mill; this,
however, had not prevented him from making a good husband. Besides, Dominique
cut short the gossip by going so vigorously to work that all the district was
amazed. The miller's assistant had just been drawn to serve as a soldier, and
Dominique would not suffer another to be engaged. He carried the sacks, drove
the cart, fought with the old mill wheel when it refused to turn, and all this
with such good will that people came to see him out of curiosity. Pere Merlier
had his silent laugh. He was excessively proud of having formed a correct
estimate of this youth. There is nothing like love to give courage to young
folks. Amid all these heavy labors Francoise and Dominique adored each other.
They did not indulge in lovers' talks, but there was a smiling gentleness in
their glances.
Up to that time Pere Merlier had not spoken a single word on the subject of
marriage, and they respected this silence, awaiting the old man's will. Finally
one day toward the middle of July he caused three tables to be placed in the
courtyard, beneath the great elm, and invited his friends of Rocreuse to come in
the evening and drink a glass of wine with him.
When the courtyard was full and all had their glasses in their hands, Pere
Merlier raised his very high and said:
"I have the pleasure to announce to you that Francoise will wed this young
fellow here in a month, on Saint Louis's Day."
Then they drank noisily. Everybody smiled. But Pere Merlier, again lifting
his voice, exclaimed:
"Dominique, embrace your fiancee. It is your right."
They embraced, blushing to the tips of their ears, while all the guests
laughed joyously. It was a genuine fete. They emptied a small cask of wine. Then
when all were gone but intimate friends the conversation was carried on without
noise. The night had fallen, a starry and cloudless night. Dominique and
Francoise, seated side by side on a bench, said nothing.
An old peasant spoke of the war the emperor had declared against Prussia. All
the village lads had already departed. On the preceding day troops had again
passed through the place. There was going to be hard fighting.
"Bah!" said Pere Merlier with the selfishness of a happy man. "Dominique is a
foreigner; he will not go to the war. And if the Prussians come here he will be
on hand to defend his wife!"
The idea that the Prussians might come there seemed a good joke. They were
going to receive a sound whipping, and the affair would soon be over.
"I have afready seen them; I have already seen them," repeated the old
peasant in a hollow voice.
There was silence. Then they drank again. Francoise and Dominique had heard
nothing; they had gently taken each other by the hand behind the bench, so that
nobody could see them, and it seemed so delightful that they remained where they
were, their eyes plunged into the depths of the shadows.
What a warm and superb night it was! The village slumbered on both edges of
the white highway in infantile quietude. From time to time was heard the crowing
of some chanticleer aroused too soon. From the huge wood near by came long
breaths, which passed over the roofs like caresses. The meadows, with their dark
shadows, assumed a mysterious and dreamy majesty, while all the springs, all the
flowing waters which gurgled in the darkness, seemed to be the cool and
rhythmical respiration of the sleeping country. Occasionally the ancient mill
wheel, lost in a doze, appeared to dream like those old watchdogs that bark
while snoring; it cracked; it talked to itself, rocked by the fall of the
Morelle, the surface of which gave forth the musical and continuous sound of an
organ pipe. Never had more profound peace descended upon a happier corner of
nature.