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words, coughing frequently, and repeating at each attack of coughing:
“It is the air of the Val, which is cool, and has struck my chest.”
He led them on a by-path beneath enormous chestnut trees. Suddenly he stopped and said in his monotonous voice: “It is here that my cousin, Jean Rinaldi, was killed by Mathieu Lori. See, I was there, close to Jean, when Mathieu appeared at ten paces from us. ‘Jean,’ he cried, ‘do not go to Albertacce; do not go, Jean, or I will kill you. I warn you!’
“I took Jean’s arm: ‘Do not go there, Jean; he will do it.’
“It was about a girl whom they were both after, Paulina Sinacoupi.
“But Jean cried out: ‘I am going, Mathieu; you will not be the one to prevent me.’
“Then Mathieu unslung his gun, and before I could adjust mine, he fired.
“Jean leaped two feet in the air, like a child skipping, yes, monsieur, and he fell back full on me, so that my gun went off and rolled as far as the big chestnut tree over yonder.
“Jean’s mouth was wide open, but he did not utter a word; he was dead.”
The young people gazed in amazement at the calm witness of this crime. Jeanne asked:
“And what became of the assassin?”
Paoli Palabretti had a long fit of coughing and then said:
“He escaped to the mountain. It was my brother who killed him the following year. You know, my brother, Philippi Palabretti, the bandit.”
Jeanne shuddered.
“Your brother a bandit?”
With a gleam of pride in his eye, the calm Corsican replied:
“Yes, madame. He was celebrated, that one. He laid low six gendarmes. He died at the same time as Nicolas Morali, when they were trapped in the Niolo, after six days of fighting, and were about to die of hunger.
“The country is worth it,” he added with a resigned air in the same tone in which he said: “It is the air of the Val, which is cool.”
Then they went home to dinner, and the little Corsican woman behaved as if she had known them for twenty years.
But Jeanne was worried. When Julien again held her in his arms, would she experience the same strange and intense sensation that she had felt on the moss beside the spring? And when they were alone together that evening she trembled lest she should still be insensible to his kisses. But she was reassured, and this was her first night of love.
The next day, as they were about to set out, she decided that she would not leave this humble cottage, where it seemed as though a fresh happiness had begun for her.
She called her host’s little wife into her room and, while making clear that she did not mean it as a present, she insisted, even with some annoyance, on sending her from Paris, as soon as she arrived, a remembrance, a remembrance to which she attached an almost superstitious significance.
The little Corsican refused for some time, not wishing to accept it. But at last she consented, saying:
“Well, then, send me a little pistol, a very small one.”
Jeanne opened her eyes in astonishment. The other added in her ear, as one confides a sweet and intimate secret: “It is to kill my brother-in-law.” And smiling, she hastily unwound the bandages around the helpless arm, and showing her firm, white skin with the scratch of a stiletto across it, now almost healed, she said: “If I had not been almost as strong as he is, he would have killed me. My husband is not jealous, he knows me; and, besides, he is ill, you know, and that quiets your blood. And, besides, madame, I am an honest woman; but my brother-in-law believes all that he hears. He is jealous for my husband and he will surely try it again. Then I shall have my little pistol; I shall be easy, and sure of my revenge.”
Jeanne promised to send the weapon, kissed her new friend tenderly and they set out on their journey.
The rest of the trip was nothing but a dream, a continual series of embraces, an intoxication of caresses. She saw nothing, neither the landscape, nor the people, nor the places where they stopped. She saw nothing but Julien.
On arriving at Bastia, they had to pay the guide. Julien fumbled in his pockets. Not finding what he wanted, he said to Jeanne: “As you are not using your mother’s two thousand francs, give them to me to carry. They will be safer in my belt, and it will avoid my having to make change.”
She handed him her purse.
They went to Leghorn, visited Florence, Genoa and all the Cornici. They reached Marseilles on a morning when the north wind was blowing. Two months had elapsed since they left the “Poplars.” It was now the 15th of October.
Jeanne, affected by the cold wind that seemed to come from yonder, from far-off Normandy, felt sad. Julien had, for some time, appeared changed, tired, indifferent, and she feared she knew not what.
They delayed their return home four days longer, not being able to make up their minds to leave this pleasant land of the sun. It seemed to her that she had come to an end of her happiness.
At length they left. They were to make all their purchases in Paris, prior to settling down for good at the “Poplars,” and Jeanne looked forward to bringing back some treasures, thanks to her mother’s present. But the first thing she thought of was the pistol promised to the little Corsican woman of Evisa.
The day after they arrived she said to Julien: “Dear, will you give me that money of mamma’s? I want to make my purchases.”
He turned toward her with a look of annoyance.
“How much do you want?”
“Why — whatever you please.”
“I will give you a hundred francs,” he replied, “but do not squander it.”
She did not know what to say, amazed and confused. At length she faltered: “But — I — handed you the money to — — “
He did not give her time to finish.
“Yes, of course. Whether it is in my pocket or yours makes no difference from the moment that we have the same purse. I do not refuse you, do I, since I am giving you a hundred francs?”
She took the five gold pieces without saying a word, but she did not venture to ask for any more, and she bought nothing but the pistol.
Eight days later they set out for the “Poplars.”
VI
The family and servants were awaiting them outside the white gate with brick supports. The post-chaise drew up and there were long and affectionate greetings. Little mother wept; Jeanne, affected, wiped away some tears; father nervously walked up and down.
Then, as the baggage was being unloaded, they told of their travels beside the parlor fire. Jeanne’s words flowed freely, and everything was told, everything, in a half hour, except, perhaps, a few little details forgotten in this rapid account.
The young wife then went to undo her parcels. Rosalie, also greatly affected, assisted her. When this was finished and everything had been put away, the little maid left her mistress, and Jeanne, somewhat fatigued, sat down.
She asked herself what she was now going to do, seeking some occupation for her mind, some work for her hands. She did not care to go down again into the drawingroom, where her mother was asleep, and she thought she would take a walk. But the country seemed so sad that she felt a weight at her heart on only looking out of the window.
Then it came to her that she had no longer anything to do, never again anything to do. All her young life at the convent had been preoccupied with the future, busied with dreams. The constant excitement of hope