like every other woman, she had had an affair of the heart. her father, who was a mason, was killed by falling from a scaffolding. then her mother died and her sisters went their different ways; a farmer took her in, and while she was quite small, let her keep cows in the fields. she was clad in miserable rags, beaten for the slightest offence and finally dismissed for a theft of thirty sous which she did not commit. she took service on another farm where she tended the poultry; and as she was well thought of by her master, her fellow-workers soon grew jealous.

one evening in august (she was then eighteen years old), they persuaded her to accompany them to the fair at colleville. she was immediately dazzled by the noise, the lights in the trees, the brightness of the dresses, the laces and gold crosses, and the crowd of people all hopping at the same time. she was standing modestly at a distance, when presently a young man of well-to-do appearance, who had been leaning on the pole of a wagon and smoking his pipe, approached her, and asked her for a dance. he treated her to cider and cake, bought her a silk shawl, and then, thinking she had guessed his purpose, offered to see her home. when they came to the end of a field he threw her down brutally. but she grew frightened and screamed, and he walked off.

one evening, on the road leading to beaumont, she came upon a wagon loaded with hay, and when she overtook it, she recognised theodore. he greeted her calmly, and asked her to forget what had happened between them, as it “was all the fault of the drink.”

she did not know what to reply and wished to run away.

presently he began to speak of the harvest and of the notables of the village; his father had left colleville and bought the farm of les ecots, so that now they would be neighbours. “ah!” she exclaimed. he then added that his parents were looking around for a wife for him, but that he, himself, was not so anxious and preferred to wait for a girl who suited him. she hung her head. he then asked her whether she had ever thought of marrying. she replied, smilingly, that it was wrong of him to make fun of her. “oh! no, i am in earnest,” he said, and put his left arm around her waist while they sauntered along. the air was soft, the stars were bright, and the huge load of hay oscillated in front of them, drawn by four horses whose ponderous hoofs raised clouds of dust. without a word from their driver they turned to the right. he kissed her again and she went home. the following week, theodore obtained meetings.

they met in yards, behind walls or under isolated trees. she was not ignorant, as girls of well-to-do families are—for the animals had instructed her;—but her reason and her instinct of honour kept her from falling. her resistance exasperated theodore’s love and so in order to satisfy it (or perchance ingenuously), he offered to marry her. she would not believe him at first, so he made solemn promises. but, in a short time he mentioned a difficulty; the previous year, his parents had purchased a substitute for him; but any day he might be drafted and the prospect of serving in the army alarmed him greatly. to felicite his cowardice appeared a proof of his love for her, and her devotion to him grew stronger. when she met him, he would torture her with his fears and his entreaties. at last, he announced that he was going to the prefect himself for information, and would let her know everything on the following sunday, between eleven o’clock and midnight.

when the time grew near, she ran to meet her lover.

but instead of theodore, one of his friends was at the meeting-place.

he informed her that she would never see her sweetheart again; for, in order to escape the conscription, he had married a rich old woman, madame lehoussais, of toucques.

the poor girl’s sorrow was frightful. she threw herself on the ground, she cried and called on the lord, and wandered around desolately until sunrise. then she went back to the farm, declared her intention of leaving, and at the end of the month, after she had received her wages, she packed all her belongings in a handkerchief and started for pont-l’eveque.

in front of the inn, she met a woman wearing widow’s weeds, and upon questioning her, learned that she was looking for a cook. the girl did not know very much, but appeared so willing and so modest in her requirements, that madame aubain finally said:

“very well, i will give you a trial.”

and half an hour later felicite was installed in her house.

at first she lived in a constant anxiety that was caused by “the style of the household” and the memory of “monsieur,” that hovered over everything. paul and virginia, the one aged seven, and the other barely four, seemed made of some precious material; she carried them pig-a-back, and was greatly mortified when madame aubain forbade her to kiss them every other minute.

but in spite of all this, she was happy. the comfort of her new surroundings had obliterated her sadness.

every thursday, friends of madame aubain dropped in for a game of cards, and it was felicite’s duty to prepare the table and heat the foot-warmers. they arrived at exactly eight o’clock and departed before eleven.

every monday morning, the dealer in second-hand goods, who lived under the alley-way, spread out his wares on the sidewalk. then the city would be filled with a buzzing of voices in which the neighing of horses, the bleating of lambs, the grunting of pigs, could be distinguished, mingled with the sharp sound of wheels on the cobble-stones. about twelve o’clock, when the market was in full swing, there appeared at the front door a tall, middle-aged peasant, with a hooked nose and a cap on the back of his head; it was robelin, the farmer of geffosses. shortly afterwards came liebard, the farmer of toucques, short, rotund and ruddy, wearing a grey jacket and spurred boots.

both men brought their landlady either chickens or cheese. felicite would invariably thwart their ruses and they held her in great respect.

at various times, madame aubain received a visit from the marquis de gremanville, one of her uncles, who was ruined and lived at falaise on the remainder of his estates. he always came at dinner-time and brought an ugly poodle with him, whose paws soiled their furniture. in spite of his efforts to appear a man of breeding (he even went so far as to raise his hat every time he said “my deceased father”), his habits got the better of him, and he would fill his glass a little too often and relate broad stories. felicite would show him out very politely and say: “you have had enough for this time, monsieur de gremanville! hoping to see you again!” and would close the door.

she opened it gladly for monsieur bourais, a retired lawyer. his bald head and white cravat, the ruffling of his shirt, his flowing brown coat, the manner in which he took snuff, his whole person, in fact, produced in her the kind of awe which we feel when we see extraordinary persons. as he managed madame’s estates, he spent hours with her in monsieur’s study; he was in constant fear of being compromised, had a great regard for the magistracy and some pretensions to learning.

in order to facilitate the children’s studies, he presented them with an engraved geography which represented various scenes of the world; cannibals with feather head-dresses, a gorilla kidnapping a young girl, arabs in the desert, a whale being harpooned, etc.

paul explained the pictures to felicite. and, in fact, this was her only literary education.

the children’s studies were under the direction of a poor devil employed at the town-hall, who sharpened his pocket-knife on his boots and was famous for his penmanship.

when the weather was fine, they went to geffosses. the house was built in the centre of the sloping yard; and the sea looked like a grey spot in the distance. felicite would take slices of cold meat from the lunch basket and they would sit down and eat in a room next to the dairy. this room was all that remained of a cottage that had been torn down. the dilapidated wall-paper trembled in the drafts. madame aubain, overwhelmed by recollections, would hang her head, while the children were afraid to open their mouths. then, “why don’t you go and play?” their mother would say; and they would scamper off.

paul would go to the old barn, catch birds, throw stones into the pond, or pound the trunks of the trees with a stick till they resounded like drums. virginia would feed the rabbits and run to pick the wild flowers in the fields, and her flying legs would disclose her little embroidered pantalettes. one autumn evening, they struck out for home through the meadows. the new moon illumined part of the sky and a mist hovered like a veil over the sinuosities of the river. oxen, lying in the pastures, gazed mildly at the passing persons. in the third field, however, several of them got up and surrounded them. “don’t be afraid,” cried felicite; and murmuring a sort of lament she passed her hand over the back of the nearest ox; he turned away and the others followed. but when they came to the next pasture, they heard frightful bellowing.

it was a bull which was hidden from them by the fog. he advanced towards the two women, and madame aubain prepared to flee for her life. “no, no! not so fast,” warned felicite. still they hurried on, for they could hear the noisy breathing of the bull behind them. his hoofs pounded the grass like hammers, and presently he began to gallop! felicite turned around and threw patches of grass in his eyes. he hung his head, shook his horns and bellowed with fury. madame aubain and the children, huddled at the end of the field, were trying to jump over the ditch. felicite continued to back before the bull, blinding him with dirt, while she shouted to them to make haste.

madame aubain finally slid into the ditch, after shoving first virginia and then paul into it, and though she stumbled several times she managed, by dint of courage, to climb the other side of it.

the bull had driven felicite up against a fence; the foam from his muzzle flew in her face and in another minute he would have disembowelled her. she had just time to slip between two bars and the huge animal, thwarted, paused.

for years, this occurrence was a topic of conversation in pont-l’eveque. but felicite took no credit to herself, and probably never knew that she had been heroic.

virginia occupied her thoughts solely, for the shock she had sustained gave her a nervous affection, and the physician, m. poupart, prescribed the salt-water bathing at trouville. in those days, trouville was not greatly patronised. madame aubain gathered information, consulted bourais, and made preparations as if they were going on an extended trip.

the baggage was sent the day before on liebard’s cart. on the following morning, he brought around two horses, one of which had a woman’s saddle with a velveteen back to it, while on the crupper of the other was a rolled shawl that was to be used for a seat. madame aubain mounted the second horse, behind liebard. felicite took charge of the little girl, and paul rode m. lechaptois’ donkey, which had been lent for the occasion on the condition that they should be careful of it.

the road was so bad that it took two hours to cover the eight miles. the two horses sank knee-deep into the mud and stumbled into ditches; sometimes they had to jump over them. in certain places, liebard’s mare stopped abruptly. he waited patiently till she started again, and talked of the people whose estates bordered the road, adding his own moral reflections to the outline of their histories. thus, when they were passing through toucques, and came to some windows draped with nasturtiums, he shrugged his shoulders and said: “there’s a woman, madame lehoussais, who, instead of taking a young man—” felicite could not catch what followed; the horses began to trot, the donkey to gallop, and they turned into a lane; then a gate swung open, two farm-hands appeared and they all dismounted at the very threshold of the farm-house.

mother liebard, when she caught sight of her mistress, was lavish with joyful demonstrations. she got up a lunch which comprised a leg of mutton, tripe, sausages, a chicken fricassee, sweet cider, a fruit tart and some preserved prunes; then to all this the good woman added polite remarks about madame, who appeared to be in better health, mademoiselle, who had grown to be “superb,” and paul, who had become singularly sturdy; she spoke also of their deceased grandparents, whom the liebards had known, for they had been in the service of the family for several generations.

like its owners, the farm had an ancient appearance. the beams of the ceiling were mouldy, the walls black with smoke and the windows grey with dust. the oak sideboard was filled with all sorts of utensils, plates, pitchers, tin bowls, wolf-traps. the children laughed when they saw a huge syringe. there was not a tree in the yard that did not have mushrooms growing around its foot, or a bunch of mistletoe hanging in its branches. several of the trees had been blown down, but they had started to grow in the middle and all were laden with quantities of apples. the thatched roofs, which were of unequal thickness, looked like brown velvet and could resist the fiercest gales. but the wagon-shed was fast crumbling to ruins. madame aubain said that she would attend to it, and then gave orders to have the horses saddled.

it took another thirty minutes to reach trouville. the little caravan dismounted in order to pass les ecores, a cliff that overhangs the bay, and a few minutes later, at the end of the dock, they entered the yard of the golden lamb, an inn kept by mother david.

during the first few days, virginia felt stronger, owing to the change of air and the action of the sea-baths. she took them in her little chemise, as she had no bathing suit, and afterwards her nurse dressed her in the cabin of a customs officer, which was used for that purpose by other bathers.

in the afternoon, they would take the donkey and go to the roches-noires, near hennequeville. the path led at first through undulating grounds, and thence to a plateau, where pastures and tilled fields alternated. at the edge of the road, mingling with the brambles, grew holly bushes, and here and there stood large dead trees whose branches traced zigzags upon the blue sky.

ordinarily, they rested in a field facing the ocean, with deauville on their left, and havre on their right. the sea glittered brightly in the sun and was as smooth as a mirror, and so calm that they could scarcely distinguish its murmur; sparrows chirped joyfully and the immense canopy of heaven spread over it all. madame aubain brought out her sewing, and virginia amused herself by braiding reeds; felicite wove lavender blossoms, while paul was bored and wished to go home.

sometimes they crossed the toucques in a boat, and started to hunt for sea-shells. the outgoing tide exposed star-fish and sea-urchins, and the children tried to catch the flakes of foam which the wind blew away. the sleepy waves lapping the sand unfurled themselves along the shore that extended as far as the eye could see, but where land began, it was limited by the downs which separated it from the “swamp,” a large meadow shaped like a hippodrome. when they went home that way, trouville, on the slope of a hill below, grew larger and larger as they advanced, and, with all its houses of unequal height, seemed to spread out before them in a sort of giddy confusion.

when the heat was too oppressive, they remained in their rooms. the dazzling sunlight cast bars of light between the shutters. not a sound in the village, not a soul on the sidewalk. this silence intensified the tranquility of everything. in the distance, the hammers of some calkers pounded the hull of a ship, and the sultry breeze brought them an odour of tar.

the principal diversion consisted in watching the return of the fishing-smacks. as soon as they passed the beacons, they began to ply to windward. the sails were lowered to one third of the masts, and with their fore-sails swelled up like balloons they glided over the waves and anchored in the middle of the harbour. then they crept up alongside of the dock and the sailors threw the quivering fish over the side of the boat; a line of carts was waiting for them, and women with white caps sprang forward to receive the baskets and embrace their men-folk.

one day, one of them spoke to felicite, who, after a little while, returned to the house gleefully. she had found one of her sisters, and presently nastasie barette, wife of leroux, made her appearance, holding an infant in her arms, another child by the hand, while on her left was a little cabin-boy with his hands in his pockets and his cap on his ear.

at the end of fifteen minutes, madame aubain bade her go.

they always hung around the kitchen, or approached felicite when she and the children were out walking. the husband, however, did not show himself.

felicite developed a great fondness for them; she bought them a stove, some shirts and a blanket; it was evident that they exploited her. her foolishness annoyed madame aubain, who, moreover did not like the nephew’s familiarity, for he called her son “thou”;—and, as virginia began to cough and the season was over, she decided to return to pont-l’eveque.

monsieur bourais assisted her in the choice of a college. the one at caen was considered the best. so paul was sent away and bravely said good-bye to them all, for he was glad to go to live in a house where he would have boy companions.

madame aubain resigned herself to the separation from her son because it was unavoidable. virginia brooded less and less over it. felicite regretted the noise he made, but soon a new occupation diverted her mind; beginning from christmas, she accompanied the little girl to her catechism lesson every day.