LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume II, Issue 183, 9 January 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE FLOWER OF BERNAY. A STORY OF BERNAY DE L'EURE. Chapter I. Continued. 'I try to take good care of her—she is very precious to me,' he says simply, and then, with a genial smile, he adds, ' You must come and see Eugenie, Marie. Your donkey could carry you as far as Thiberville, and then our farm is not far off, and we can give you a bed.' Marie Touchet made a deep oourtesy, and is voluble in thanks, and Monsieur Lagrange waits, smiling, while his wife nods and speaks to all her old acquaintance; and then he offers her his arm and passes on. ' Well, says Marie Touchet, triumphantly, putting her arms akimbo, and her hands spread over her broad hips : • Well, notre mere, did I not say so ? The child is not spoiled by her good fortune. She is as good and loving as ever.' A scowl comes across old Fremont's face; it is a far more withered, battered-looking face than her gossip's is, and there is a sombre fire in the dark eyes that gives it an expression of malevolence ; but it is easy to see there has been great beauty in the shrivelled features; a beauty which looks as if it had suffered premature decay from the ravages which an imperious, undisciplined temper has stamped there. Her dark eyes glow with hatred now. • Bah, bah ! do not praise the little mercenary doll to me. She took the highest bidder, and she looks smiling, because he buys her finery. Thou hadst best be silent, Marie Touchet; any one can see how thy good word can be bought.' Marie Touchet's broad, flat, freckled face twitches, and her dull blue eyes brighten, and her fingers close and unclose nervously. It is fortunate for the peace of the market that Monsieur le cure of Notre Dame de la Couture, has come up to Marie's stall to inquire after her paralysed father, and also

to buy one of her cream cheeses. By the time the cream cheese had been put into a fresh cabbage leaf, and Monsieur te cure had passed on, la. mere Fremont was engaged in trying to cheat an English traveller into buying a bruised melon. Marie Touchet was still sore on the subject of her favourite. ' But what does it matter?' she said to herself. 'She is a malignant old creature !' and this ebullition restored her equanimity. 'I am silly to trouble at her words, poor old woman! She has had a hard life, a drunken husband and an unkind son, and it may be that she knows as well as I do that Eugenie refused to be her son's wife. Yes, yes, she has had as much to sour her as my peaches had this rainy July.' Chapter 11. There is quite a large gathering to-day a$ the table d'hote of the Clieval Blanc, the best and most comfortable inn in Bernay, and Monsieur Roussel, the big burly landlord—pere Roussel, his guests call him—sits in the middle of the long table, nearly full of guests, radiant with welcome. * C'est co, Francois,' he says, to the waiter, whose face is growing very red and shining with the amount of his labor, ' set the chairs closer opposite, these two chairs besides me must be kept for special customers.' He pats them with one fat hand as he speaks, with the otherheclinkshisclaret-glassagainst that of a sharp-faced, sharp-tongued commuvoyageur, who has asked him to drink, and who seems to consume huge platefuls of meat and vegetables by magic, and be always in hungry expectation of a coming dish. ' Your cook is Blow, pere,' he says rudely. But no one had seen Pierre Roussel ruffled. He smiles very blandly, but he does not answer; he is listening to voices outside the glass-door of the salle-a-manager. Madame Roussel is there receiving Monsieur Lagrange and his newly-married wife. There is such a contrast in looks between the landlord and his wife, that you almost wonder how they can travel life's. journey side by side. She is tall, but so thin and anxious-looking that one might fear the Cheval Blanc was on the road to ruin if her husband's jolly face did not tell another tale. Madame Roussel is an excellent and careful housekeeper; but she always meets trouble half way. ' Monsieur and Madame are welcome,' she says with a smile that has no sunshine in it; ' but there is hardly any room at the table d'hote, and I do hope and trust Francois will not be so unhappy as to spill the soup over the beautiful polonaise of Madame. Will Madame take it off and leave it in my room ?' Madame smiles gaily. 'No, thank you,' she says, ' I hope the best of Francois; and our time is short. Monsieur Lagrange says we are to start so soon after our meal that he will' not have the horse taken out of our vehicle.'

She glances back at the half cart, half caleche, which Floris, the ostler of the Cheval Blanc is taking round to the huge stable-yard at the back of the house. A stable-yard full of vehicles and horses, with dogs-and pigs, and long-legged fowls appearing here and there among them—so full, too, of mud; for there has been a fortnight of heavy rain, and Bernay, lying as it does, in a basin formed by circling green hills, is in a moist spongy state. It is this mud which makes Monsieur Lagrange descend at the front door, instead of driving, according to custom, into the stable yard. There is a little hush in the clatter of knives against plates, and in the buzz of talk, as the fair young wife comes into the salle-a-manger. M. Eoussel is carving, so he cannot rise to greet her, but he gives a smiling nod and looks at the empty chairs beside him. Eugenie blushes as she sees all eyes fixed on her, and then she moves on with easy grace and seats herself besides the host. In a moment more, Monsieur Lagrange is beside her, and she smiles up at him and forgets she is shy, She is so filled with the one thought of her husband that there is no room left for self-consciousness.

The English traveller who bought the bruised [melon in the market sits opposite and wonders at the contrast between the charming girl-wife and the middle-aged commonplace-looking husband, and how there can be any sympathy between them. Monsieur Lagrange's face is so square, and his whiskers are so straight and stiff, and his red cheeks and black eyes are so very uninteresting. He is very hungry, and he goes on eating rapidly without speaking, and the traveller thinks how- the sweet girl is thrown away on hinu Francois uncorks a bottle of Bordeaux and sets it before Monsieur Lagrange. He turns. to his wife and fills her glass. The traveller opposite surprises a look in the. black eyes which modifies his opinion; he begins to think the commonplace man is very fond of his pretty wife, after all. ... One by one the guests leave the table. A few others come in and take their places, and. the soup reappears in sundry little white tureens, followed by the whole round of dishes, for this market-day dejeuner at Bernay is as substantial as any dinner. While Madame Lagrange eats her dessert she slips one little soft plump hand into her husband's huge brown nst, and looks up in his face. The English traveller smiles, and wonders how the farmer will like so public a demonstration of fondness; but Lagrange evidently does not mind, or does not choose to vex his wife; he leaves his brown fist on the table. The door of the opens sharply, and some one comes in hurriedly. Eugenie looks up, and draws her hand away. A doep flush flits across her face, but she does not look again at the new comer. The husband, on the contrary, looks at him steadily, and bends his head stiffly, but the uew arrival does not appear to notice his greeting. He is a tall, thin man, handsome, with a worn aquiline face, and eyes, that are full of restless brightness.' He stares hard at Monsieur Roussel, as if he were trying not to see his neighbour. He is the only man who has seated himself at table without an admiring glance at Eugenie, Pierre Roussel says, 'Good day,' but he does not speak genially. The new comer feels this at once, and -ne frowns till his flexible well-defined eyebrows meet. < What is the matter, pere Roussel ? You look dull. An empty house, eh ? I hear the Lion d" Or is over full.'

Roussel laughs. ' I am glad to hear it, Monsieur Fremont; but I fancy therefare folk enough in Bernay to-day to fill two or three inns. Monsieur Lagrange says in a low voice, 'lf you are ready, Eugenie, perhaps we ought to move.'

She nods and smiles a sweet acquiescence. She looks round as she rises ; the smile still lingers on her lips, but it dies away, and a look of fear comes into her eyes. Monsieur; Fremont is gazing at her intensely, and yet it is hard to say whether his look expresses contempt or admiration. ; . , _ No one notices him, because every oo£ is - engaged in returning the courteous j»w "'.. which Eugenie makes in leaving the *dk\s- - but a moment after .Roussel exclaims r "iij ;. lX 'What is the matter, Monsieur Felix 1-4 what ails you ?' .-;i: ; ; r Fremont has turned a **<K he sits twisting his lone thin fingers together V till the bleached knuckles looked as if they t were coming through the skin. He glares at Roussel, but he does not speak. The English traveller is disturbed, bethinks this dark faced, restless Frenchman is subject to epilepsy. It is a relief when Fremont, who had scarcely eaten anything, rises and goes out of the room without taking notice even of the landlord. . The English traveller, asks - Monsieur Roussell who this strange man is. .*■ ' I can tell you little more than his name.' Roussel looks mysterious and lowers his voice. 'He is Felix Fremont; he is supposed to be rich; he lives near Orbec, a good distance from Bernay ; but I do not think he can be as rich as people say, for he.lets his mother live quite in a humble way here.' Meanwhile Eugenie has gone into Madame Roussel's little room, and is setting straight her gaily-trimmed bonnet before the glass. There is a large looking-glass over the fireplace, facing the door; hesides this, there are only four black chairs and a small walnut wood table in the little room, which, with its white walls and spotless lace window curtains, is a marvel of neatness. The glass door leading into the hall is also curtained, but as Eugenie stands before the glass she sees this door open, and there stands M&asieur Fremont with the same evil look in his face. A moment after, he is gone. The girl sees her: own face whiten, and she feels cold and stricken.

Madame Roussel is making out a biU at her desk, she has not remarked anything, and before Eugenie has recovered herself-m comes Monsieur Lagrange. Do you mind waiting a quarter of an hour ?' he speaks, very courteously. : Monsieur le cure of Ste.-Croix has sent for me, but he will not keep me long.' : ta% Eugenie goes up to him and murmurs some fond answer, and then Monsieur Lagrange hurries away—hurries through the. stableyard, for Monsieur le cure has sent to him from the railway-station, and this. is his the nearest way. As he goes along between the crowded lines of vehicles, splashing heedlessly through the mud in his anxiety to get his visit over and to rejoin his wife, he comes suddenly upon a stooping man; he almost stumbles against him, and as he draws back in the effort to prevent this he sees it is Felix Fremont. The eyes of the two men meet, and there is such direct hatred and defiance in Fremont's eyes that Lagrange can hardly keep silence; but he passes on and smiles at himself. • That fellow tries my temper. What would Eugenie say if she knew how I felt just now? She is always so confident of my calmness and patience. It would be simple cowardice to get angry with a wild fellow like Fremont. No doubt he is crazy still at having lost her. Well, he is a trifle nearer her age, and a better-looking fellow than I am; but somehow I would not like to be Felix Fremont's wife. What was he. doing at that end of the yard? He pauses suddenly before a caleche near the gate. 'Here is his vehicle, and he was standing just where Floris put ours.' A misgiving, which he could not have defined, fell over Lagrange like a shadow. Even when he returned the hearty shake of the cure's hand he looked sad and anxious. To le continued.