Martine
It came to him one Sunday after mass. He was walking home from churchalong the by-road that led to his house when he saw ahead of him Martine,who was also going home.Her father walked beside his daughter with the important gait of a richfarmer. Discarding the smock, he wore a short coat of gray cloth and onhis head a round-topped hat with wide brim.She, laced up in a corset which she wore only once a week, walked alongerect, with her squeezed-in waist, her broad shoulders and prominenthips, swinging herself a little. She wore a hat trimmed with flowers,made by a milliner at Yvetot, and displayed the back of her full, round,supple neck, reddened by the sun and air, on which fluttered little straylocks of hair.Benoist saw only her back; but he knew well the face he loved, without,however, having ever noticed it more closely than he did now.Suddenly he said: "Nom d'un nom, she is a fine girl, all the same, thatMartine." He watched her as she walked, admiring her hastily, feeling adesire taking possession of him. He did not long to see her face again,no. He kept gazing at her figure, repeating to himself: "Nom d'un nom,she is a fine girl."Martine turned to the right to enter "La Martiniere," the farm of herfather, Jean Martin, and she cast a glance behind her as she turnedround. She saw Benoist, who looked to her very comical. She called out:"Good-morning, Benoist." He replied: "Good-morning, Martine; good-morning, mait Martin," and went on his way.When he reached home the soup was on the table. He sat down opposite hismother beside the farm hand and the hired man, while the maid servantwent to draw some cider.He ate a few spoonfuls, then pushed away his plate. His mother said:"Don't you feel well?""No. I feel as if I had some pap in my stomach and that takes away myappetite."He watched the others eating, as he cut himself a piece of bread fromtime to time and carried it lazily to his mouth, masticating it slowly.He thought of Martine. "She is a fine girl, all the same." And to thinkthat he had not noticed it before, and that it came to him, just likethat, all at once, and with such force that he could not eat.He did not touch the stew. His mother said:"Come, Benoist, try and eat a little; it is loin of mutton, it will doyou good. When one has no appetite, they should force themselves toeat."He swallowed a few morsels, then, pushing away his plate, said:"No. I can't go that, positively."When they rose from table he walked round the farm, telling the farm handhe might go home and that he would drive up the animals as he passed bythem.The country was deserted, as it was the day of rest. Here and there in afield of clover cows were moving along heavily, with full bellies,chewing their cud under a blazing sun. Unharnessed plows were standingat the end of a furrow; and the upturned earth ready for the seed showedbroad brown patches of stubble of wheat and oats that had lately beenharvested.A rather dry autumn wind blew across the plain, promising a cool eveningafter the sun had set. Benoist sat down on a ditch, placed his hat onhis knees as if he needed to cool off his head, and said aloud in thestillness of the country: "If you want a fine girl, she is a fine girl."He thought of it again at night, in his bed, and in the morning when heawoke.He was not sad, he was not discontented, he could not have told whatailed him. It was something that had hold of him, something fastened inhis mind, an idea that would not leave him and that produced a sort oftickling sensation in his heart.Sometimes a big fly is shut up in a room. You hear it flying about,buzzing, and the noise haunts you, irritates you. Suddenly it stops; youforget it; but all at once it begins again, obliging you to look up.You cannot catch it, nor drive it away, nor kill it, nor make it keepstill. As soon as it settles for a second, it starts off buzzing again.The recollection of Martine disturbed Benoist's mind like an imprisonedfly.Then he longed to see her again and walked past the Martiniere severaltimes. He saw her, at last, hanging out some clothes on a line stretchedbetween two apple trees.It was a warm day. She had on only a short skirt and her chemise,showing the curves of her figure as she hung up the towels. He remainedthere, concealed by the hedge, for more than an hour, even after she hadleft. He returned home more obsessed with her image than ever.For a month his mind was full of her, he trembled when her name wasmentioned in his presence. He could not eat, he had night sweats thatkept him from sleeping.On Sunday, at mass, he never took his eyes off her. She noticed it andsmiled at him, flattered at his appreciation.One evening, he suddenly met her in the road. She stopped short when shesaw him coming. Then he walked right up to her, choking with fear andemotion, but determined to speak to her. He began falteringly:"See here, Martine, this cannot go on like this any longer."She replied as if she wanted to tease him:"What cannot go on any longer, Benoist?""My thinking of you as many hours as there are in the day," he answered.She put her hands on her hips."I do not oblige you to do so.""Yes, it is you," he stammered; "I cannot sleep, nor rest, nor eat, noranything.""What do you need to cure you of all that?" she asked.He stood there in dismay, his arms swinging, his eyes staring, his mouthagape.She hit him a punch in the stomach and ran off.From that day they met each other along the roadside, in by-roads or elseat twilight on the edge of a field, when he was going home with hishorses and she was driving her cows home to the stable.He felt himself carried, cast toward her by a strong impulse of his heartand body. He would have liked to squeeze her, strangle her, eat her,make her part of himself. And he trembled with impotence, impatience,rage, to think she did not belong to him entirely, as if they were onebeing.People gossiped about it in the countryside. They said they wereengaged. He had, besides, asked her if she would be his wife, and shehad answered "Yes."They, were waiting for an opportunity to talk to their parents about it.But, all at once, she stopped coming to meet him at the usual hour. Hedid not even see her as he wandered round the farm. He could only catcha glimpse of her at mass on Sunday. And one Sunday, after the sermon,the priest actually published the banns of marriage between Victoire-Adelaide Martin and Josephin-Isidore Vallin.Benoist felt a sensation in his hands as if the blood had been drainedoff. He had a buzzing in the ears; and could hear nothing; and presentlyhe perceived that his tears were falling on his prayer book.For a month he stayed in his room. Then he went back to his work.But he was not cured, and it was always in his mind. He avoided theroads that led past her home, so that he might not even see the trees inthe yard, and this obliged him to make a great circuit morning andevening.She was now married to Vallin, the richest farmer in the district.Benoist and he did not speak now, though they had been comrades fromchildhood.One evening, as Benoist was passing the town hall, he heard that she wasenceinte. Instead of experiencing a feeling of sorrow, he experienced,on the contrary, a feeling of relief. It was over, now, all over. Theywere more separated by that than by her marriage. He really preferredthat it should be so.Months passed, and more months. He caught sight of her, occasionally,going to the village with a heavier step than usual. She blushed as shesaw him, lowered her head and quickened her pace. And he turned out ofhis way so as not to pass her and meet her glance.He dreaded the thought that he might one morning meet her face to face,and be obliged to speak to her. What could he say to her now, after allhe had said formerly, when he held her hands as he kissed her hair besideher cheeks? He often thought of those meetings along the roadside. Shehad acted horridly after all her promises.By degrees his grief diminished, leaving only sadness behind. And oneday he took the old road that led past the farm where she now lived.He looked at the roof from a distance. It was there, in there, that shelived with another! The apple trees were in bloom, the cocks crowed onthe dung hill. The whole dwelling seemed empty, the farm hands had goneto the fields to their spring toil. He stopped near the gate and lookedinto the yard. The dog was asleep outside his kennel, three calves werewalking slowly, one behind the other, towards the pond. A big turkey wasstrutting before the door, parading before the turkey hens like a singerat the opera.Benoist leaned against the gate post and was suddenly seized with adesire to weep. But suddenly, he heard a cry, a loud cry for help comingfrom the house. He was struck with dismay, his hands grasping the woodenbars of the gate, and listened attentively. Another cry, a prolonged,heartrending cry, reached his ears, his soul, his flesh. It was she whowas crying like that! He darted inside, crossed the grass patch, pushedopen the door, and saw her lying on the floor, her body drawn up, herface livid, her eyes haggard, in the throes of childbirth.He stood there, trembling and paler than she was, and stammered:"Here I am, here I am, Martine!"She replied in gasps:"Oh, do not leave me, do not leave me, Benoist!"He looked at her, not knowing what to say, what to do. She began to cryout again:"Oh, oh, it is killing me. Oh, Benoist!"She writhed frightfully.Benoist was suddenly seized with a frantic longing to help her, to quiether, to remove her pain. He leaned over, lifted her up and laid her onher bed; and while she kept on moaning he began to take off her clothes,her jacket, her skirt and her petticoat. She bit her fists to keep fromcrying out. Then he did as he was accustomed to doing for cows, ewes,and mares: he assisted in delivering her and found in his hands a largeinfant who was moaning.He wiped it off and wrapped it up in a towel that was drying in front ofthe fire, and laid it on a bundle of clothes ready for ironing that wason the table. Then he went back to the mother.He took her up and placed her on the floor again, then he changed thebedclothes and put her back into bed. She faltered:"Thank you, Benoist, you have a noble heart." And then she wept a littleas if she felt regretful.He did not love her any longer, not the least bit. It was all over.Why? How? He could not have said. What had happened had cured himbetter than ten years of absence.She asked, exhausted and trembling:"What is it?"He replied calmly:"It is a very fine girl."Then they were silent again. At the end of a few moments, the mother, ina weak voice, said:"Show her to me, Benoist."He took up the little one and was showing it to her as if he were holdingthe consecrated wafer, when the door opened, and Isidore Vallin appeared.He did not understand at first, then all at once he guessed.Benoist, in consternation, stammered out:"I was passing, I was just passing by when f heard her crying out, and Icame--there is your child, Vallin!"Then the husband, his eyes full of tears, stepped forward, took thelittle mite of humanity that he held out to him, kissed it, unable tospeak from emotion for a few seconds; then placing the child on the bed,he held out both hands to Benoist, saying:"Your hand upon it, Benoist. From now on we understand each other. Ifyou are willing, we will be a pair of friends, a pair of friends!" AndBenoist replied: "Indeed I will, certainly, indeed I will."
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