CHAPTER XXIV
AT the moment, Madeleine felt only a slight shock. It took her some time to, realise that the wound was ugly and might rankle. At first she had thought only of herself. "Corbier of the Moulinettes goes to see Violette, the dressmaker!" Well, let him go! This was the second time she had been hurt in this way through Michael. But this second blow hurt less than the first; it didn't really upset her much.
Some girls she knew, in cases like this one, had gone into a decline; others had almost gone insane or had grown old all at once:—she couldn't quite see how such things could happen.
What was a "broken heart" but a fancy, something like a cloud over a mirror that you rubbed away with a cloth? There might be a few tears at first, but afterward!— With both hands busy from morning to night, a girl ought to get over such a small thing quickly enough.
For her own part, Madeleine was convinced of it. But other thoughts had come to trouble her—much more grievous and heart-rending thoughts.
What would become of her brother? He had seen Violette again; Madeleine knew it and she imagined, reasonably enough, that the hussy made a game of searing men's hearts. If she encouraged Michael and Tom, Dick and Harry only to laugh at them afterwards, let her, and no great harm done! Why did the fools let her catch them? But with a cripple it wasn't the same at all; at least, not to Madeleine. Then the game became cruel and cowardly, a very ugly kind of sin.
What would become of poor Trooper? Already he had been doing some foolish things. Every now and again he got drunk; one night at Saint-Ambroise, while drunk, he had beaten up the innkeeper and kicked a door in.
If it were only understood, once and for all, that Violette jilted him! But on the contrary! She had again found means of leading him on, and there was no doubt that she held him in leash closer than any of the other fellows.
When he heard about his sweetheart's behaviour—and Boiseriot would see to it soon enough that he did—there was sure to be trouble. The very thought of it made Madeleine shiver.
Then there was Michael, too. What on earth had come over him? A man of thirty, and fixed as he was! The idea of his falling in love with such a young thing whose head was filled with nothing but tricks! Was he thinking of marrying the girl? Anyhow, even if he was, Violette had no such intention! Just imagine the pretty little dressmaker in a work apron and clumsy wooden shoes!
And what about the children? Couldn't he think of them a little? Could anybody love them more than Madeleine? Could they possibly be torn away from her some day?
"Let them try! Just let them try!"
At the mere thought of it, Madeleine's head buzzed like a swarm of hornets.
"Oh, I'm just a big fool! Michael is only a bad boy having his fun.— If he gets hurt, so much the better! It's all plain foolishness and no more! Besides, how do I know there's any truth in it at all? I'll have to find out."
She began watching Michael.
The death of his father had been a blow to him; on the first Sundays after the funeral, he had stayed at home except to go to rosary prayers. Then, little by little, he resumed his old habits. Now he often didn't return home on Sundays until nightfall.
As he rarely went to the inn, Madeleine concluded that he must be gadding about. She tried to draw him out, but did not succeed.
He received letters outside of the house; twice the postman had asked Madeleine where Michael was at work. That was singular, rather strange
At last the day came when Madeleine could doubt no longer. It was a Saturday in October. At eleven o'clock Madeleine was tasting the soup that she had just seasoned when the postman came in.
"Here's a letter for Michael Corbier!"
He held it high for a moment, sniffing the air.
"My, but it smells good! A pretty girl could use it as a sachet in her waist!"
Not wanting to make any comment, Madeleine asked:
"Can I get you a drink of wine? It's a warm day, walking."
He answered: "I just had a drink at Chestnut Hill—Thank you kindly, all the same. Good day!"
As soon as he had gone, Madeleine looked at the letter. It was on pretty blue notepaper, as smooth as a looking glass, and it did smell heavily of scent. The postmark in the corner was blurred and not easy to make out. Madeleine, however, could trace almost all the letters of the word "Chantepie."
A few minutes later, Michael came in from his ploughing.
"The postman brought a letter for you," said Madeleine. "It's there, on the table."
He seemed annoyed, picked up the letter and went out again without a word.
Instantly Madeleine flew to the window, behind the curtain.
Out in the yard, he was opening the envelop. A flower fell out; he picked it up very carefully and gazed on it; then he took a little notebook from his pocket and actually put his old flower between its leaves—the big silly!
That was a little too much for Madeleine to repress a movement of spite, and even while she tried to laugh, two big tears welled to her lashes.
She turned away, rushed to the soup kettle, threw off the lid with a great clatter, reached into the salt-box and dumped two big handfuls of salt into the soup.
After which she set a small pot to simmer by the fire, for the children.