The Martian: A Novel. Du Maurier George
of leeches and water‐spiders. It was in the densest part of the forest, where the trees were so tall and leafy that the sun never fell on it, even at noon. The charcoal‐burners told him that in '93 a young de la Tremblaye was taken there at sunset to be hanged on a giant oak‐tree – but he talked so agreeably and was so pleasant all round that they relented, and sent for bread and wine and cider and made a night of it, and didn't hang him till dawn next day; after which they tied a stone to his ankles and dropped him into the pond, which was called "the pond of the respite" ever since; and his young wife, Claire Élisabeth, drowned herself there the week after, and their bones lie at the bottom to this very day.
And, ghastly to relate, the ringleader in this horrible tragedy was a beautiful young woman, a daughter of the people, it seems – one Séraphine Doucet, whom the young viscount had betrayed before marriage – le droit du seigneur! – and but for whom he would have been let off after that festive night. Ten or fifteen years later, smitten with incurable remorse, she hanged herself on the very branch of the very tree where they had strung up her noble lover; and still walks round the pond at night, wringing her hands and wailing. It's a sad story – let us hope it isn't true.
Barty Josselin evidently had this pond in his mind when he wrote in "Âmes en peine":
Sous la berge hantée
L'eau morne croupit —
Sous la sombre futaie
Le renard glapit,
Et le cerf‐dix‐cors brame, et les daims viennent boire à l'Étang du Répit.
"Lâchez‐moi, Loupgaroux!"
Que sinistre est la mare
Quand tombe la nuit;
La chouette s'effare —
Le blaireau s'enfuit!
L'on y sent que les morts se réveillent – qu'une ombre sans nom vous poursuit.
"Lâchez‐moi, Loup‐garoux!"
Forêt! forêt! what a magic there is in that little French dissyllable! Morne forêt! Is it the lost "s," and the heavy "^" that makes up for it, which lend such a mysterious and gloomy fascination?
Forest! that sounds rather tame – almost cheerful! If we want a forest dream we have to go so far back for it, and dream of Robin Hood and his merrie men! and even then Epping forces itself into our dream – and even Chingford, where there was never a were‐wolf within the memory of man. Give us at least the virgin forest, in some far Guyana or Brazil – or even the forest primeval —
"… where the murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar" —
that we may dream of scalp‐hunting Mingoes, and grizzly‐bears, and moose, and buffalo, and the beloved Bas‐de‐cuir with that magic rifle of his, that so seldom missed its mark and never got out of repair.
"Prom'nons nous dans les bois
Pendant que le loup n'y est pas…"
That's the first song I ever heard. Céline used to sing it, my nurse – who was very lovely, though she had a cast in her eye and wore a black cap, and cotton in her ears, and was pitted with the smallpox. It was in Burgundy, which was rich in forests, with plenty of wolves in them, and wild‐boars too – and that was only a hundred years ago, when that I was a little tiny boy. It's just an old nursery rhyme to lull children to sleep with, or set them dancing – pas aut' chose – but there's a deal of Old France in it!
There I go again – digressing as usual and quoting poetry and trying to be literary and all that! C'est plus fort que moi…
One beautiful evening after dinner we went, the whole lot of us, fishing for crayfish in the meadows beyond the home farm.
As we set about waiting for the crayfish to assemble round the bits of dead frog that served for bait and were tied to the wire scales (which were left in the water), a procession of cows came past us from the farm. One of them had a wound in her flank – a large tumor.
"It's the bull who did that," said Marie. "Il est très méchant!"
Presently the bull appeared, following the herd in sulky dignity. We all got up and crossed the stream on a narrow plank – all but Josselin, who remained sitting on a camp‐stool.
"Josselin! Josselin! venez donc! il est très mauvais, le taureau!"
Barty didn't move.
The bull came by; and suddenly, seeing him, walked straight to within a yard of him – and stared at him for five minutes at least, lashing its tail. Barty didn't stir. Our hearts were in our mouths!
Then the big brindled brute turned quietly round with a friendly snort and went after the cows – and Barty got up and made it a courtly farewell salute, saying, "Bon voyage – au plaisir!"
After which he joined the rest of us across the stream, and came in for a good scolding and much passionate admiration from the ladies, and huggings and tears of relief from Madame Laferté.
"I knew well he wouldn't be afraid!" said M. Laferté; "they are all like that, those English – le sang‐froid du diable! nom d'un Vellington! It is we who were afraid – we are not so brave as the little Josselin! plucky little Josselin! But why did you not come with us? Temerity is not valor, Josselin!"
"Because I wanted to show off [faire le fanfaron]!" said Barty, with extreme simplicity.
"Ah, diable! Anyhow, it was brave of you to sit still when he came and looked at you in the white of the eyes! it was just the right thing to do; ces Anglais! je n'en reviens pas! à quatorze ans! hein, ma femme?"
"Pardi!" said Barty, "I was in such a blue funk [j'avais une venette si bleue] that I couldn't have moved a finger to save my life!"
At this, old Polyphemus went into a Homeric peal of laughter.
"Ces Anglais! what originals – they tell you the real truth at any cost [ils vous disent la vraie vérité, coûte que coûte]!" and his affection for Barty seemed to increase, if possible, from that evening.
Now this was Barty all over – all through life. He always gave himself away with a liberality quite uncalled for – so he ought to have some allowances made for that reckless and impulsive indiscretion which caused him to be so popular in general society, but got him into so many awkward scrapes in after‐life, and made him such mean enemies, and gave his friends so much anxiety and distress.
(And here I think it right to apologize for so much translating of such a well‐known language as French; I feel quite like another Ollendorf – who must have been a German, by‐the‐way – but M. Laferté's grammar and accent would sometimes have puzzled Ollendorf himself!)
Towards the close of September, M. Laferté took it into his head to make a tour of provincial visits en famille. He had never done such a thing before, and I really believe it was all to show off Barty to his friends and relations.
It was the happiest time I ever had, and shines out by itself in that already so unforgettably delightful vacation.
We went in a large charabancs drawn by two stout horses, starting at six in the morning, and driving right through the Forest of la Tremblaye; and just ahead of us, to show us the way, M. Laferté driving himself in an old cabriolet, with Josselin (from whom he refused to be parted) by his side, singing or talking, according to order, or cracking jokes; we could hear the big laugh of Polyphemus!
We travelled very leisurely; I forget whether we ever changed horses or not – but we got over a good deal of ground. We put up at the country houses of friends and relations of the Lafertés; and visited old historical castles and mediæval ruins – Châteaudun and others – and fished in beautiful pellucid tributaries of the Loire – shot over "des chiens anglais" – danced half the night with charming people – wandered in lovely