He hesitatingly replied that they had not yet made
up their minds.
But on the village green people rushed out of all
the houses in a flutter of excitement; and, at the
sight of the gathering crowd, old Boitelle took to
his heels, and regained his abode, while Antoine; swelling
with rage, his sweetheart on his arm, advanced majestically
under the staring eyes, which opened wide in amazement.
He understood that it was at an end, and there was
no hope for him, that he could not marry his negress.
She also understood it; and as they drew near the
farmhouse they both began to weep. As soon as
they had got back to the house, she once more took
off her dress to aid the mother in the household duties,
and followed her everywhere, to the dairy, to the
stable, to the hen house, taking on herself the hardest
part of the work, repeating always: “Let
me do it, Madame Boitelle,” so that, when night
came on, the old woman, touched but inexorable, said
to her son: “She is a good girl, all the
same. It’s a pity she is so black; but indeed
she is too black. I could not get used to it.
She must go back again. She is too, too black!”
And young Boitelle said to his sweetheart:
“She will not consent. She thinks you are
too black. You must go back again. I will
go with you to the train. No matter—don’t
fret. I am going to talk to them after you have
started.”
He then took her to the railway station, still cheering
her with hope, and, when he had kissed her, he put
her into the train, which he watched as it passed
out of sight, his eyes swollen with tears.
In vain did he appeal to the old people. They
would never give their consent.
And when he had told this story, which was known all
over the country, Antoine Boitelle would always add:
“From that time forward I have had no heart
for anything—for anything at all.
No trade suited me any longer, and so I became what
I am—a night scavenger.”
People would say to him:
“Yet you got married.”
“Yes, and I can’t say that my wife didn’t
please me, seeing that I have fourteen children; but
she is not the other one, oh, no—certainly
not! The other one, mark you, my negress, she
had only to give me one glance, and I felt as if I
were in Heaven.”
This story was told during the hunting season at the
Chateau Baneville. The autumn had been rainy
and sad. The red leaves, instead of rustling
under the feet, were rotting under the heavy downfalls.
The forest was as damp as it could be. From it
came an odor of must, of rain, of soaked grass and
wet earth; and the sportsmen, their backs hunched
under the downpour, mournful dogs, with tails between
their legs and hairs sticking to their sides, and
the young women, with their clothes drenched, returned
every evening, tired in body and in mind.
