Sons of the Soil. Honore de Balzac

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СКАЧАТЬ was held to the crown by stitches, protected a nearly bald head from the weather; below it fell a quantity of white hair which a painter would gladly have paid four francs an hour to copy—a dazzling mass of snow, worn like that in all the classical representations of Deity. It was easy to guess from the way in which the cheeks sank in, continuing the lines of the mouth, that the toothless old fellow was more given to the bottle than the trencher. His thin white beard gave a threatening expression to his profile by the stiffness of its short bristles. The eyes, too small for his enormous face, and sloping like those of a pig, betrayed cunning and also laziness; but at this particular moment they were gleaming with the intent look he cast upon the river. The sole garments of this curious figure were an old blouse, formerly blue, and trousers of the coarse burlap used in Paris to wrap bales. All city people would have shuddered at the sight of his broken sabots, without even a wisp of straw to stop the cracks; and it is very certain that the blouse and the trousers had no money value at all except to a paper-maker.

      As Blondet examined this rural Diogenes, he admitted the possibility of a type of peasantry he had seen in old tapestries, old pictures, old sculptures, and which, up to this time, had seemed to him imaginary. He resolved for the future not to utterly condemn the school of ugliness, perceiving a possibility that in man beauty may be but the flattering exception, a chimera in which the race struggles to believe.

      “What can be the ideas, the morals, the habits, of such a being? What is he thinking of?” thought Blondet, seized with curiosity. “Is he my fellow-creature? We have nothing in common but shape, and even that!—”

      He noticed in the old man’s limbs the peculiar rigidity of the tissues of persons who live in the open air, accustomed to the inclemencies of the weather and to the endurance of heat and cold—hardened to everything, in short—which makes their leathern skin almost a hide, and their nerves an apparatus against physical pain almost as powerful as that of the Russians or the Arabs.

      “Here’s one of Cooper’s Red-skins,” thought Blondet; “one needn’t go to America to study savages.”

      Though the Parisian was less than ten paces off, the old man did not turn his head, but kept looking at the opposite bank with a fixity which the fakirs of India give to their vitrified eyes and their stiffened joints. Compelled by the power of a species of magnetism, more contagious than people have any idea of, Blondet ended by gazing at the water himself.

      “Well, my good man, what do you see there?” he asked, after the lapse of a quarter of an hour, during which time he saw nothing to justify this intent contemplation.

      “Hush!” whispered the old man, with a sign to Blondet not to ruffle the air with his voice; “You will frighten it—”

      “What?”

      “An otter, my good gentleman. If it hears us it’ll go quick under water. I’m certain it jumped there; see! see! there, where the water bubbles! Ha! it sees a fish, it is after that! But my boy will grab it as it comes back. The otter, don’t you know, is very rare; it is scientific game, and good eating, too. I get ten francs for every one I carry to Les Aigues, for the lady fasts Fridays, and to-morrow is Friday. Years agone the deceased madame used to pay me twenty francs, and gave me the skin to boot! Mouche,” he called, in a low voice, “watch it!”

      Blondet now perceived on the other side of the river two bright eyes, like those of a cat, beneath a tuft of alders; then he saw the tanned forehead and tangled hair of a boy about ten years of age, who was lying on his stomach and making signs towards the otter to let his master know he kept it well in sight. Blondet, completely mastered by the eagerness of the old man and boy, allowed the demon of the chase to get the better of him—that demon with the double claws of hope and curiosity, who carries you whithersoever he will.

      “The hat-makers buy the skin,” continued the old man; “it’s so soft, so handsome! They cover caps with it.”

      “Do you really think so, my old man?” said Blondet, smiling.

      “Well truly, my good gentleman, you ought to know more than I, though I am seventy years old,” replied the old fellow, very humbly and respectfully, falling into the attitude of a giver of holy water; “perhaps you can tell me why conductors and wine-merchants are so fond of it?”

      Blondet, a master of irony, already on his guard from the word “scientific,” recollected the Marechal de Richelieu and began to suspect some jest on the part of the old man; but he was reassured by his artless attitude and the perfectly stupid expression of his face.

      “In my young days we had lots of otters,” whispered the old fellow; “but they’ve hunted ’em so that if we see the tail of one in seven years it is as much as ever we do. And the sub-prefect at Ville-aux-Fayes—doesn’t monsieur know him? though he be a Parisian, he’s a fine young man like you, and he loves curiosities—so, as I was saying, hearing of my talent for catching otters, for I know ’em as you know your alphabet, he says to me like this: ‘Pere Fourchon,’ says he, ‘when you find an otter bring it to me, and I’ll pay you well; and if it’s spotted white on the back,’ says he, ‘I’ll give you thirty francs.’ That’s just what he did say to me as true as I believe in God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. And there’s a learned man at Soulanges, Monsieur Gourdon, our doctor, who is making, so they tell me, a collection of natural history which hasn’t its mate at Dijon even; indeed he is first among the learned men in these parts, and he’ll pay me a fine price, too; he stuffs men and beasts. Now my boy there stands me out that that otter has got the white spots. ‘If that’s so,’ says I to him, ‘then the good God wishes well to us this morning!’ Ha! didn’t you see the water bubble? yes, there it is! there it is! Though it lives in a kind of a burrow, it sometimes stays whole days under water. Ha, there! it heard you, my good gentleman; it’s on its guard now; for there’s not a more suspicious animal on earth; it’s worse than a woman.”

      “So you call women suspicious, do you?” said Blondet.

      “Faith, monsieur, if you come from Paris you ought to know about that better than I. But you’d have done better for me if you had stayed in your bed and slept all the morning; don’t you see that wake there? that’s where she’s gone under. Get up, Mouche! the otter heard monsieur talking, and now she’s scary enough to keep us at her heels till midnight. Come, let’s be off! and good-bye to our thirty francs!”

      Mouche got up reluctantly; he looked at the spot where the water bubbled, pointed to it with his finger and seemed unable to give up all hope. The child, with curly hair and a brown face, like the angels in a fifteenth-century picture, seemed to be in breeches, for his trousers ended at the knee in a ragged fringe of brambles and dead leaves. This necessary garment was fastened upon him by cords of tarred oakum in guise of braces. A shirt of the same burlap which made the old man’s trousers, thickened, however, by many darns, open in front showed a sun-burnt little breast. In short, the attire of the being called Mouche was even more startlingly simple than that of Pere Fourchon.

      “What a good-natured set of people they are here,” thought Blondet; “if a man frightened away the game of the people of the suburbs of Paris, how their tongues would maul him!”

      As he had never seen an otter, even in a museum, he was delighted with this episode of his early walk. “Come,” said he, quite touched when the old man walked away without asking him for a compensation, “you say you are a famous otter catcher. If you are sure there is an otter down there—”

      From the other side of the water Mouche pointed his finger to certain air-bubbles coming up from the bottom of the Avonne and bursting on its surface.

      “It has come back!” said Pere Fourchon; “don’t you see it breathe, СКАЧАТЬ