Here, at last, was the ideal Normandy landscape. It was a country with a savage1 look—a savage that had been trained to follow the plough. Even in its color it had retained the true barbarians2' instinct for a good primary. Here were no melting-yellow mustard-fields, nor flame-lit poppied meadows, nor blue-bells lifting their baby-blue eyes out of the grain. All the land was green. Fields, meadows, forests, plains—all were green, green, green. The features of the landscape had changed with this change in coloring. The slim, fragile grace of slim trees and fragile cliffs had been replaced by trees of heroic proportions, and by outlines nobly rounded and full—like the breasts of a mother. The whole country had an astonishing look of vigor3—of the vigor which comes with rude strength; and it had that charm which goes with all untamed beauty—the power to sting one into a sense of agitated4 enjoyment5.
Even the farm-houses had been suddenly transformed into fortresses6. Each one of the groups of the farm enclosures had its outer walls, its miniature turrets7, and here and there its rounded bastions. Each farm, apparently9, in the olden days had been a citadel10 unto itself. The Breton had been a very troublesome neighbor for many a long century; every ploughman, until a few hundred years ago, was quite likely to turn soldier at a second's notice—every true Norman must look to his own sword to defend his hearth-stone. Such is the story those stone turrets that cap the farm walls tell you—each one of these turrets was an open lid through which the farmer could keep his eye on Brittany.
Meanwhile, along the roads as we rushed swiftly by, a quieter life was passing. The farm wagons11 were jogging peacefully along on a high-road as smooth as a fine lady's palm—and as white. The horses were harnessed one before the other, in interminable length of line. Sometimes six, sometimes eight, even so many as ten, marched with great gravity, and with that majestic12 dignity only possible to full-blooded Percherons, one after the other. They each wore a saddle-cloth of blue sheepskin. On their mottled haunches this bit of color made their polished coats to gleam like unto a lizards14' skin.
Meanwhile, also, we were nearing Coutances. The farm-houses were fortresses no longer; the thatched roofs were one once more with the green of the high roads; for even in the old days there was a great walled city set up on a hill, to which refuge all the people about for miles could turn for protection.
A city that is set on a hill! That for me is commonly recommendation enough. Such a city, so set, promises at the very least the dual16 distinction of looking up as well as looking down; it is the nearer heaven, and just so much the farther removed from earth.
Coutances, for a city with its head in the air, was surprisingly friendly. It went out of its way to make us at home. At the very station, down below in the plain, it had sent the most loquacious17 of coach-drivers to put us in immediate18 touch with its present interests. All the city, as the coarse blue blouse, flourishing its whip, took pains to explain, was abroad in the fields; the forests, tiens, down yonder through the trees, we could see for ourselves how the young people were making the woods as crowded as a ball-room. The city, as a city, was stripping the land and the trees bare—it would be as bald as a new-born babe by the morrow. But then, of a certainty, we also had come for the fête—or, and here a puzzled look of doubt beclouded the provincial19's eyes—might we, perchance, instead, have come for the trial? Mais non, pas ?à, these ladies had never come for that, since they did not even know the court was sitting, now, this very instant, at Coutances. And—sapristi! but there was a trial going on—one to make the blood curdle20; he himself had not slept, the rustic21 coachman added, as he shivered beneath his blouse, all the night before—the blood had run so cold in his veins22.
The horse and the road were all the while going up the hill. The road was easily one that might have been the path of warriors23; the walls, still lofty on the side nearest the town, bristled24 with a turret8 or a bastion to remind us Coutances had not been set on a hill for mere25 purposes of beauty. The ramparts of the old fortifications had been turned into a broad promenade26. Even as we jolted27 past, beneath the great breadth of the trees' verdure we could see how gloriously the prospect28 widened—the country below reaching out to the horizon like the waters of a sea that end only in indefiniteness.
The city itself seemed to grow out of the walls and the trees. Here and there a few scattered29 houses grouped themselves as if meaning to start a street; but a maze30 of foliage31 made a straight line impossible. Finally a large group of buildings, with severe stone faces, took a more serious plunge33 away from the vines; they had shaken themselves free and were soon soberly ranging themselves into the parallel lines of narrow city streets.
It was a pleasant surprise to find that, for once, a Norman blouse had told the truth; for here were the people of Coutances coming up from the fields to prove it. In all these narrow streets a great multitude of people were passing us; some were laden34 with vines, others with young forest trees, and still others with rude garlands of flowers. The peasant women's faces, as the bent35 figures staggered beneath a young fir-tree, were purple, but their smiles were as gay as the wild flowers with which the stones were thickly strewn. Their words also were as rough:
"Diantre—mais c'e lourd!"
"E-ben, e toi, tu n' bougeons point, toi!"
And the nearest fir-tree carrier to our carriage wheels cracked a swift blow over the head of a vine-bearer, who being but an infant of two, could not make time with the swift foot of its mother.
The smell of the flowers was everywhere. Fir-trees perfumed the air. Every doorstep was a garden. The courtyards were alive with the squat36 figures of capped maidens37, wreathing and twisting greens and garlands. And in the streets there was such a noise as was never before heard in a city on a hill-top.
For Coutances was to hold its great fête on the morrow.
It was a relief to turn in from the noise and hubbub38 to the bright courtyard of our inn. The brightness thereof, and of the entire establishment, indeed, appeared to find its central source in the brilliant eyes of our hostess. Never was an inn-keeper gifted with a vision at once so omniscient39 and so effulgent40. Those eyes were everywhere; on us, on our bags, our bonnets41, our boots; they divined our wants, and answered beforehand our unuttered longings42. We had come far? the eyes asked, burning a hole through our gossamer43 evasions44; from Paris, perhaps—a glance at our bonnets proclaimed the eyes knew all; we were here for the fête, to see the bishop45 on the morrow; that was well; we were going on to the Mont; and the eyes scented47 the shortness of our stay by a swift glance at our luggage.
"Numéro quatre, au troisième!"
There was no appeal possible. The eyes had penetrated48 the disguise of our courtesy; we were but travellers of a night; the top story was built for such as we.
But such a top story, and such a chamber49 therein! A great, wide, low room; beams deep and black, with here and there a brass50 bit hanging; waxed floors, polished to mirrory perfection; a great bed clad in snowy draperies, with a snow-white duvet of gigantic proportions. The walls were gray with lovely bunches of faded rosebuds51 flung abroad on the soft surface; and to give a quaint52 and antique note to the whole, over the chimney was a bit of worn tapestry53 with formidable dungeon54, a Norman keep in the background, and well up in front, a stalwart young master of the hounds, with dogs in leash55, of the heavy Norman type of bulging56 muscle and high cheekbones.
Altogether, there were worse fates in the world than to be travellers of a night, with the destiny of such a room as part of the fate.
When we descended57 the steep, narrow spiral of steps to the dining-room, it was to find the eyes of our hostess brighter than ever. The noise in the streets had subsided58. It was long after dusk, and Coutances was evidently a good provincial. But in the gay little dining-room there was an astonishing bustle59 and excitement.
The fête and the court had brought a crowd of diners to the inn-table; when we were all seated we made quite a company at the long, narrow board. The candles and lamps lit up any number of Vandyke pointed60 beards, of bald heads, of loosely-tied cravats61, and a few matronly bosoms62 straining at the buttons of silk holiday gowns. For the Fête-Dieu had brought visitors besides ourselves from all the country round; and then "a first communion is like a marriage, all the relatives must come, as doubtless we knew," was a baldhead's friendly beginning of his soup and his talk, as we took our seats beside him.
With the appearance of the potage conversation, like a battle between foes63 eager for contest, had immediately engaged itself. The setting of the table and the air of companionship pervading64 the establishment were aiders and abettors to immediate intercourse65. Nothing could be prettier than the Caen bowls with their bunches of purple phlox and spiked66 blossoms. Even a metropolitan67 table might have taken a lesson from the perfection of the lighting68 of the long board. In order that her guests should feel the more entirely69 at home, our brilliant-eyed hostess came in with the soup; she took her place behind it at the head of the table.
It was evident the merchants from Cherbourg who had come as witnesses to the trial, had had many a conversational70 bout15 before now with madame's ready wit. So had two of the town lawyers. Even the commercial gentlemen, for once, were experiencing a brief moment of armed suspense72, before they flung themselves into the arena73 of talk. At first, or it would never have been in the provinces, this talk at the long table, everyone broke into speech at once. There was a flood of words; one's sense of hearing was stunned74 by the noise. Gradually, as the cider and the thin red wine were passed, our neighbors gave digestion75 a chance; the din32 became less thick with words; each listened when the other talked. But, as the volume of speech lessened76, the interest thickened. It finally became concentrated, this interest, into true French fervor77 when the question of the trial was touched on.
"They say D'Alen?on is very clever. He pleads for Filon, the culprit, to-night, does he not?"
"Yes, poor Filon—it will go hard with him. His crime is a black one."
"I should think it was—implicating le petit!"
"Dame71! the judge doesn't seem to be of your mind."
"Ah—h!" cried a florid Vandyke-bearded man, the dynamite78 bomb of the table, exploding with a roar of rage. "Ah—h, cré nom de Dieu!—Messieurs les presidents are all like that; they are always on the side of the innocent—"
"Till they prove them guilty."
"Guilty! guilty!" the bomb exploded in earnest now. "How many times in the annals of crime is a man guilty—really guilty? They should search for the cause—and punish that. That is true justice. The instigator79, the instigator—he is the true culprit. Inheritances—voilà les vrais coupables. But when are such things investigated? It is ever the innocent who are punished. I know something of that—I do."
"Allons—allons!" cried the table, laughing at the beard's vehemence80. "When were you ever under sentence?"
"When I was doing my duty," the beard hurled81 back with both arms in the air; "when I was doing my three years—I and my comrade; we were convicted—punished—for an act of insubordination we never committed. Without a trial, without a chance of defending ourselves, we were put on two crumbs82 of bread and a glass of water for two months. And we were innocent—as innocent as babes, I tell you."
The table was as still as death. The beard had proved himself worthy83 of this compliment; his voice was the voice of drama, and his gestures such as every Frenchman delights in beholding84 and executing. Every ear was his, now.
"I have no rancor85. I am, by nature, what God made me, a peaceable man, but"—here the voice made a wild crescendo—"if I ever meet my colonel—gare à lui! I told him so. I waited two years, two long years, till I was released; then I walked up to him" (the beard rose here, putting his hand to his forehead), "I saluted86" (the hand made the salute), "and I said to him, 'Mon colonel, you convicted me, on false evidence, of a crime I never committed. You punished me. It is two years since then. But I have never forgotten. Pray to God we may never meet in civil life, for then yours would end!"
"Allons, allons! A man after all must do his duty. A colonel—he can't go into details!" remonstrated87 the hostess, with her knife in the air.
"I would stick him, I tell you, as I would a pig—or a Prussian! I live but for that!"
"Monstre!" cried the table in chorus, with a laugh, as it took its wine. And each turned to his neighbor to prove the beard in the wrong.
"Of what crime is the defendant88 guilty—he who is to be tried to-night?" Charm asked of a silent man, with sweet serious eyes and a rough gray beard, seated next her. Of all the beards at the table, this one alone had been content with listening.
"Of fraud—mademoiselle—of fraud and forgery89." The man had a voice as sweet as a church bell, and as deep. Every word he said rang out slowly, sonorously90. The attention of the table was fixed91 in an instant. "It is the case of a Monsieur Filon, of Cherbourg. He is a cider merchant. He has cheated the state, making false entries, etc. But his worst crime is that he has used as his accomplice92 un tout93 petit jeune homme—a lad of barely fifteen—"
"It is that that will make it go hard for him with the jury—"
"Hard!" cried the ex-soldier, getting red at once with the passion of his protest—"hard—it ought to condemn94 him, to guillotine him. What are juries for if they don't kill such rascals95 as he?"
"Doucement, doucement, monsieur," interrupted the bell-note of the merchant. "One doesn't condemn people without hearing both sides. There may be extenuating96 circumstances!"
"Yes—there are. He is a merchant. All merchants are thieves. He does as all others do—only he was found out."
A protesting murmur97 now rose from the table, above which rang once more, in clear vibrations98, the deep notes of the merchant.
"Ah—h, mais—tous voleurs—non, not all are thieves. Commerce conducted on such principles as that could not exist. Credit is not founded on fraud, but on trust."
"Très bien, très bien," assented99 the table. Some knives were thumped101 to emphasize the assent100.
"As for stealing"—the rich voice continued, with calm judicial102 slowness—"I can understand a man's cheating the state once, perhaps—yielding to an impulse of cupidity103. But to do as ce Monsieur Filon has done—he must be a consummate104 master of his art—for his processes are organized robbery."
"Ah—h, but robbery against the state isn't the same thing as robbing an individual," cried the explosive, driven into a corner.
"It is quite the same—morally, only worse. For a man who robs the state robs everyone—including himself."
"That's true—perfectly true—and very well put." All the heads about the table nodded admiringly; their hostess had expressed the views of them all. The company was looking now at the gray beard with glistening105 eyes; he had proved himself master of the argument, and all were desirous of proving their homage106. Not one of the nice ethical107 points touched on had been missed; even the women had been eagerly listening, following, criticising. Here was a little company of people gathered together from rustic France, meeting, perhaps, for the first time at this board. And the conversation had, from the very beginning, been such as one commonly expects to hear only among the upper ranks of metropolitan circles. Who would have looked to see a company of Norman provincials108 talking morality, and handling ethics109 with the skill of rhetoricians?
Most of our fellow-diners, meanwhile, were taking their coffee in the street. Little tables were ranged close to the house-wall. There was just room for a bench beside the table, and then the sidewalk ended.
"Shall you be going to the trial to-night?" courteously110 asked the merchant who had proven himself a master in debate, of Charm. He had lifted his hat before he sat down, bowing to her as if he had been in a ball-room.
"It will be fine to-night—it is the opening of the defence," he added, as he placed carefully two lumps of sugar in his cup.
"It's always finer at night—what with the lights and the people," interpolated the landlady111, from her perch13 on the door-sill. "If ces dames112 wish to go, I can show them the way to the galleries. Only," she added, with a warning tone, her growing excitement obvious at the sense of the coming pleasure, "it is like the theatre. The earlier we get there the better the seat. I go to get my hat." And the door swallowed her up.
"She is right—it is like a theatre," soliloquized the merchant—"and so is life. Poor Filon!"
We should have been very content to remain where we were. The night had fallen; the streets, as they lost themselves in dim turnings, in mysterious alleyways, and arches that seemed grotesquely113 high in the vague blur114 of things, were filled for us with the charm of a new and lovely beauty. At one end the street ended in a towering mass of stone; that doubtless was the cathedral. At the right, the narrow houses dipped suddenly; their roof-lines were lost in vagueness. Between the slit115 made by the street a deep, vast chasm116 opened; it was the night filling the great width of sky, and the mists that shrouded117 the hill, rising out of the sleeping earth. There was only one single line of light; a long deep glow was banding the horizon; it was a bit of flame the dusk held up, like a fading torch, to show where the sun had reigned118.
In and out of this dusk the townspeople came and went. Away from the mellow119 lights, streaming past the open inn doors, the shapes were only a part of the blur; they were vague, phantasmal masses, clad in coarse draperies. As they passed into the circle of light, the faces showed features we had grown to know—the high cheekbones, the ruddy tones, the deep-set, serious eyes, and firm mouths, with lips close together. The air on this hill-top must be of excellent quality; the life up here could scarcely be so hard as in the field villages. For the women looked less worn, and less hideously120 old, and in the men's eyes there was not so hard and miserly a glittering.
Almost all, young or old, were bearing strange burdens. Some of the men were carrying huge floral crosses; the women were laden with every conceivable variety of object—with candlesticks, vases, urns121, linen122 sheets, rugs, with chairs even.
"They are helping123 to dress the reposoirs, they must all be in readiness for the morning," answered our friend, still beside us, when we asked the cause of this astonishing spectacle.
Everywhere garlands and firs, leaves, flowers, and wreaths; people moving rapidly; the carriers of the crosses stopping to chat for an instant with groups working at some mysterious scaffolding—all shapes in darkness. Everywhere, also, there was the sweet, aromatic124 scent46 of the greens and the pines abroad in the still, clear air of the summer night.
This was the perfume and these the dim pictures that were our company along the narrow Coutances streets.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A SCENE IN A NORMAN COURT.
The court-room was brightly lighted; the yellow radiance on the white walls made the eyes blink. We had turned, following our guide, from the gloom of the dim streets into the roomy corridors of the Prefecture. Even the gardens about the building were swarming125 with townspeople and peasants waiting for the court to open. When we entered it was to find the hallways and stairs blocked with a struggling mass of people, all eager to get seats. A voice that was softened127 to a purring note, the voice that goes with the pursuit of the five franc piece, spoke128 to our landlady. "The seats to be reserved in the tribune were for these ladies?"
No time had been lost, you perceive. We were strangers; the courtesies of the town were to be extended to us. We were to have of their best, here in Coutances; and their best, just now, was this mise en scène in their court room.
The stage was well set. The Frenchman's instinctive129 sense of fitness was obvious in the arrangements. Long lines of blue drapery from the tall windows brought the groups below into high relief; the scarlet130 of the judges' robes was doubly impressive against this background. The lawyers, in their flowing black gowns and white ties, gained added dignity from the marine131 note behind them. The bluish pallor of the walls made the accused and the group about him pathetically sombre. Each one of this little group was in black. The accused himself, a sharp, shrewd, too keen-eyed man of thirty or so, might have been following a corpse—so black was his raiment. Even the youth beside him, a dull, sodden-eyed lad, with an air of being here not on his own account, but because he had been forced to come, was clad in deepest mourning. By the side of the culprit sat the one really tragic132 figure in all the court—the culprit's wife. She also was in black. In happier times she must have been a fair, fresh-colored blonde. Now all the color was gone from her cheek. She was as pale as death, and in her sweet downcast eyes there were the tell-tale vigils of long nights of weeping. Beside her sat an elderly man who bent over her, talking, whispering, commenting as the trial went on.
Every eye in the tribune was fixed on the slim young figure. A passing glance sufficed, as a rule, for the culprit and his accomplice; but it was on the wife that all the quick French sympathy, that volubly spoke itself out, was lavished133. The blouses and peasants' caps, the tradesmen and their wives crowded close about the railing to pass their comment.
"She looks far more guilty than he," muttered a wizened134 old man next to us, very crooked135 on his three-legged stool.
"Yes," warmly added a stout136 capped peasant, with a basket once on her arm, now serving as a pedestal to raise the higher above the others her own curiosity. "Yes—she has her modesty—too—to speak for her—"
"Bah—all put on—to soften126 the jury." It was our fiery137 one of the table d'h?te who had wedged his way toward us.
"And why not? A woman must make use of what weapons she has at hand—"
"Silence! Silence! messieurs!" The huissier brought down his staff of office with a ring. The clatter138 of sabots over the wooden floor of the tribune and the loud talking were disturbing the court.
This French court, as a court, sat in strange fashion, it seemed to us. The bench was on wonderfully friendly terms with the table about which the clerks sat, with the lawyers, with the foreman of the jury, with even the huissiers. Monsieur le President was in his robes, but he wore them as negligently139 as he did the dignity of his office. He and the lawyer for the defence, a noted140 Coutances orator141, openly wrangled142; the latter, indeed, took little or no pains to show him respect; now they joked together, next a retort flashed forth143 which began a quarrel, and the court and the trial looked on as both struggled for a mastery in the art of personal abuse. The lawyer made nothing of raising his finger, to shake it in open menace in the very teeth of the scarlet robes. And the robes clad a purple-faced figure that retorted angrily, like a fighting school-boy.
But to Coutances, this, it appears, was a proper way for a court to sit.
"Ah, D'Alen?on—il est fort, lui. C'est lui qui agace toujours monsieur le président—"
"He'll win—he'll make a great speech—he is never really fine unless it's a question of life or death—" Such were the criticisms that were poured out from the quick-speaking lips about us.
Presently a simultaneous movement on the part of the jury brought the proceedings144 to confusion. A witness in the act of giving evidence stopped short in his sentence; he twisted his head; looking upward, he asked a question of the foreman, and the latter nodded, as if assenting145. The judge then looked up. All the court looked up. All the heads were twisted. Something obviously was wrong. Then, presently the concierge146 appeared with a huge bunch of keys.
And all the court waited in perfect stillness while the windows were being closed!
"Il y avait un courant d'air—there was a draught147,"—gravely announced the crooked man, as he rose to let the concierge pass. This latter had her views of a court so susceptible148 to whiffs of night air.
"Ces messieurs are delicate—pity they have to be out at night!"—whereat the tribune snickered.
All went on bravely for a good half-hour. More witnesses were called; each answered with wonderful aptness, ease, and clearness; none were confused or timid; these were not men to be the playthings of others who made tortuous149 cross-questionings their trade. They, also, were Frenchmen; they knew how to speak. The judge and the Coutances lawyer continued their jokes and their squabblings. And still only the poor wife hung her head.
Then all at once the judge began to mop his brow. The jury, to a man, mopped theirs. The witnesses and lawyers each brought forth their big silk handkerchiefs. All the court was wiping its brow.
"It's the heat," cried the judge. "Huissier, call the concierge; tell her to open the windows."
The concierge reappeared. Flushed this time, and with anger in her eye. She pushed her way through the crowd; she took not the least pains in the world to conceal150 her opinion of a court as variable as this one.
"Ah mais, this is too much! if the jury doesn't know its mind better than this!"—and in the fury of her wrath151 she well-nigh upset the crooked little old gentleman and his three-legged stool.
"That's right—that's right. I'm not a fine lady, tip me over. You open and shut me as if I were a bureau drawer; continuez—continuez—"
The concierge had reached the windows now. She was opening and slamming them in the face of the judge, the jury, and messieurs les huissiers, with unabashed violence. The court, except for that one figure in sombre draperies, being men, suffered this violence as only men bear with a woman in a temper. With the letting in of the fresh air, fresh energy in the prosecution152 manifested itself. The witnesses were being subjected to inquisitorial torture; their answers were still glib153, but the faces were studies of the passions held in the leash of self-control. Not twenty minutes had ticked their beat of time when once more the jury, to a man, showed signs of shivering. Half a dozen gravely took out their pocket-handkerchiefs, and as gravely covered their heads. Others knotted the square of linen, thus making a closer head-gear. The judge turned uneasily in his own chair; he gave a furtive154 glance at the still open windows; as he did so he caught sight of his jury thus patiently suffering. The spectacle went to his heart; these gentlemen were again in a draught? Where was the concierge? Then the huissier whispered in the judge's ear; no one heard, but everyone divined the whisper. It was to remind monsieur le president that the concierge was in a temper; would it not be better for him, the huissier, to close the windows? Without a smile the judge bent his head, assenting. And once more all proceedings were at a standstill; the court was patiently waiting, once more, for the windows to be closed.
Now, in all this, no one, not even the wizened old man who was obviously the humorist of the tribune, had seen anything farcical. To be too hot—to be too cold! this is a serious matter in France. A jury surely has a right to protect itself against cold, against la migraine, and the devils of rheumatism155 and pleurisy. There is nothing ridiculous in twelve men sitting in judgment156 on a fellow-man, with their handkerchiefs covering their bare heads. Nor of a judge who gallantly157 remembers the temper of a concierge. Nor of a whole court sitting in silence, while the windows are opened and closed. There was nothing in all this to tickle158 the play of French humor. But then, we remembered, France is not the land of humorists, but of wits. Monsieur d'Alen?on down yonder, as he rises from his chair to address the judge and jury, will prove to you and me, in the next two hours, how great an orator a Frenchman can be, without trenching an inch on the humorist's ground.
The court-room was so still now that you could have heard the fall of a pin.
At last the great moment had come-the moment and the man. There is nothing in life Frenchmen love better than a good speech—un discours; and to have the same pitched in the dramatic key, with a tragic result hanging on the effects of the pleading, this is the very climax159 of enjoyment. To a Norman, oratory160 is not second, but first, nature; all the men of this province have inherited the gift of a facile eloquence161. But this Monsieur d'Alen?on, the crooked man whispered, in hurried explanation, he was un fameux—even the Paris courts had to send for him when they wanted a great orator.
The famous lawyer understood the alphabet of his calling. He knew the value of effect. He threw himself at once into the orator's pose. His gown took sculptural lines; his arms were waved majestically162, as arms that were conscious of having great sleeves to accentuate163 the lines of gesture.
Then he began to speak. The voice was soft; at first one was chiefly conscious of the music in its cadences165. But as it warmed and grew with the ardor166 of the words, the room was filled with such vibrations as usually come only with the sounding of rich wind-instruments. With such a voice a man could do anything. D'Alen?on played with it as a man plays with a power he has both trained and conquered. It was firmly modulated167, with no accent of sympathy when he opened his plea for his client. It warmed slightly when he indignantly repelled168 the charges brought against the latter. It took the cadence164 of a lover when he pointed to the young wife's figure and asked if it were likely a husband could be guilty of such crimes, year after year, with such a woman as that beside him? It was tenderly explanatory as he went on enlarging on the young wife's perfections, on her character, so well known to them all here in Coutances, on the influence she had given the home-life yonder in Cherbourg. Even the children were not forgotten, as an aid to incidental testimony169. Was it even conceivable a father of a young family would lead an innocent lad into error, fraud, and theft? "It is he who knows how to touch the heart!"
"Quel beau moment!" cried the wizened man, in a transport.
"See—the jury weep!"
All the court was in tears, even monsieur le president sniffled, and yet there was no draught. As for the peasant women and the shop keepers, they could not have been more moved if the culprit had been a blood relation. How they enjoyed their tears! What a delight it was to thus thrill and shiver! The wife was sobbing171 now, with her head on her uncle's shoulder. And the culprit was acting172 his part, also, to perfection. He had been firmly stoical until now. But at this parade of his wife's virtues173 he broke down, his head was bowed at last. It was all the tribune could do to keep its applause from breaking forth. It was such a perfect performance! it was as good as the theatre—far better—for this was real—this play-with a man's whole future at stake!
Until midnight the lawyer held all in the town in a trance. He ended at last with a Ciceronian, declamatory outburst. A great buzz of applause welled up from the court. The tribune was in transports; such a magnificent harangue174 he had not given them in years. It was one of his greatest victories.
"And his victories, madame, they are the victories of all Coutances."
The crooked man almost stood upright in the excitement of his enthusiasm. Great drops of sweat were on his wrinkled old brow. The evening had been a great event in his life, as his twisted frame, all a-tremble with pleasurable elation170, exultingly175 proved. The women's caps were closer together than ever; they were pressing in a solid mass close to the railing of the tribune to gain one last look at the figure of the wife.
"It is she who will not sleep—"
"Poor soul, are her children with her?"
"No—and no women either. There is only the uncle."
"He is a good man, he will comfort her!"
"Faut prier le bon Dieu!"
At the court-room door there was a last glimpse of the stricken figure. She disappeared into the blackness of the night, bent and feeble, leaning with pitiful attempt at dignity on the uncle's arm. With the dawn she would learn her husband's fate. The jury would be out all night.
"You see, madame, it is she who must really suffer in the end." We were also walking into the night, through the bushes of the garden, to the dark of the streets. Our landlady was guiding us, and talking volubly. She was still under the influence of the past hour's excitement. Her voice trembled audibly, and she was walking with brisk strides through the dim streets.
"If Filon is condemned176, what would happen to them?"
"Oh, he would pass a few years in prison—not many. The jury is always easy on the rich. But his future is ruined. They—the family—would have to go away. But even then, rumor177 would follow them. It travels far nowadays—it has a thousand legs, as they say here. Wherever they go they will be known. But Monsieur d'Alen?on, what did you think of him, hein? There's a great man—what an orator! One must go as far as Paris—to the theatre; one must hear a great play—and even there, when does an actor make you weep as he did? Henri, he was superb. I tell you, superb! d'une éloquence!" And to her husband, when we reached the inn door, our vivacious178 landlady was still narrating179 the chief points of the speech as we crawled wearily up to our beds.
It was early the next morning when we descended into the inn dining-room. The lawyer's eloquence had interfered180 with our rest. Coffee and a bite of fresh air were best taken together, we agreed. Before the coffee came the news of the culprit's fate. Most of the inn establishment had been sent to court to learn the jury's verdict. Madame confessed to a sleepless181 night. The thought of that poor wife had haunted her pillow. She had deemed it best—but just to us all, in a word, to despatch182 Auguste—the one inn waiter, to hear the verdict. Tiens, there he was now, turning the street corner.
"Il est acquitté!" rang through the streets.
"He is acquitted183—he is acquitted! Le bon Dieu soit loué! Henri—Ernest—Monsieur Terier, he is acquitted—he is acquitted! I tell you!"
The cry rang through the house. Our landlady was shouting the news out of doors, through windows, to the passers-by, to the very dogs as they ran. But the townspeople needed no summoning. The windows were crowded full of eager heads, all asking the same question at once. A company of peasants coming up from the fields for breakfast stopped to hear the glad tidings. The shop-keepers all the length of the street gathered to join them. Everyone was talking at once. Every shade of opinion was aired in the morning sun. On one subject alone there was a universal agreement.
"What good news for the poor wife!"
"And what a night she must have passed!"
All this sympathy and interest, be it remembered, was for one they barely knew. To be the niece of a Coutances uncle—this was enough, it appears, for the good people of this cathedral city, to insure the flow of their tears and the gift of their prayers.
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1
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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2
barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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fortresses
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| 堡垒，要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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9
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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12
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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13
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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14
lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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15
bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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dual
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| adj.双的；二重的，二元的 | |
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loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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19
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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20
curdle
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| v.使凝结，变稠 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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22
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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23
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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24
bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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25
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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26
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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27
jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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29
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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30
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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31
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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32
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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33
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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34
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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35
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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36
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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37
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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38
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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39
omniscient
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| adj.无所不知的；博识的 | |
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40
effulgent
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| adj.光辉的；灿烂的 | |
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41
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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42
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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43
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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44
evasions
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| 逃避( evasion的名词复数 )； 回避； 遁辞； 借口 | |
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45
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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46
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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47
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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48
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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49
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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50
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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51
rosebuds
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| 蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女，初入社交界的少女( rosebud的名词复数 ) | |
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52
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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53
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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54
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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55
leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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56
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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57
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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58
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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59
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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60
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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61
cravats
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| n.（系在衬衫衣领里面的）男式围巾( cravat的名词复数 ) | |
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62
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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63
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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64
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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66
spiked
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| adj.有穗的；成锥形的；有尖顶的 | |
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67
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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68
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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69
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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70
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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71
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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72
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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73
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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74
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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75
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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76
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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77
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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78
dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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79
instigator
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| n.煽动者 | |
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80
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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81
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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82
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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83
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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84
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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85
rancor
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| n.深仇，积怨 | |
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86
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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87
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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88
defendant
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| n.被告；adj.处于被告地位的 | |
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89
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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90
sonorously
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| adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；堂皇地；朗朗地 | |
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91
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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92
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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93
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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94
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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95
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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96
extenuating
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| adj.使减轻的，情有可原的v.（用偏袒的辩解或借口）减轻( extenuate的现在分词 )；低估，藐视 | |
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97
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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98
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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99
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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101
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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103
cupidity
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| n.贪心，贪财 | |
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104
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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105
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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106
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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107
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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108
provincials
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| n.首都以外的人，地区居民( provincial的名词复数 ) | |
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109
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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110
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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111
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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112
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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113
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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114
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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115
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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116
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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117
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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118
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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119
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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120
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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121
urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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122
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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123
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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124
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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125
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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126
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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127
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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128
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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129
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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130
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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131
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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132
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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133
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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135
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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137
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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138
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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139
negligently
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140
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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141
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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142
wrangled
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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144
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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145
assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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146
concierge
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| n.管理员；门房 | |
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147
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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148
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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149
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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150
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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151
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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152
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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153
glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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154
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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155
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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156
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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157
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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158
tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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159
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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160
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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161
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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162
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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163
accentuate
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| v.着重，强调 | |
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164
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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165
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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166
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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167
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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168
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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169
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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170
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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171
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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172
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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173
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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174
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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175
exultingly
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| 兴高采烈地，得意地 | |
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176
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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177
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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178
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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179
narrating
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| v.故事( narrate的现在分词 ) | |
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180
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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181
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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182
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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183
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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