La Petite Fadette 9780271080260

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La Petite Fadette

La Petite Fadette

george sand Translated with an introduction by

Gretchen van Slyke

The Pennsylvania State University Press University Park, Pennsylvania

Library of Congress Cataloging-inPublication Data Names: Sand, George, 1804–1876, author. | Van Slyke, Gretchen Jane, translator. Title: La petite Fadette / George Sand ; translated with an introduction by Gretchen van Slyke. Other titles: Petite Fadette. English Description: University Park, Pennsylvania : The Pennsylvania State University Press, [2017] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Summary: “A translation of George Sand’s 1848 novel La Petite Fadette. The translator’s introduction places it in the context of events in France in 1848, from the February Revolution and the establishment of the Second Republic to the failure and aftermath of the June Days Uprising”—Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2017029337| ISBN 9780271079363 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780271079370 (pbk. : alk. paper) Classification: LCC PQ2411.P4 E5 2017 | DDC 843/.7—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc .gov/2017029337

Copyright © 2017 Gretchen van Slyke All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America Published by The Pennsylvania State University Press, University Park, PA 16802-1003 The Pennsylvania State University Press is a member of the Association of American University Presses. It is the policy of The Pennsylvania State University Press to use acid-free paper. Publications on uncoated stock satisfy the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Material, ansi z39.48–1992. This book is printed on paper that contains 30% post-consumer waste.

Contents

Acknowledgments vii Translator’s Note  viii

Introduction 1 La Petite Fadette  33

Appendix 167 Notes 168 Bibliography 179

Acknowledgments This translation has been eight long years in the making. During this time many people and institutions have lent their support to this endeavor, and here I want to give them thanks. Z. Philip Ambrose, a fine translator to whom I have the good fortune to be married, was ever ready to advise me and to pester me with questions that I would often entertain reluctantly, only to understand their value later on. Marie Gendrot Tapia, my longtime friend in Paris, and my sister, Mary Frances Van Slyke–Zaslofsky, pored over every word, eager to help me get the French into English without too many Gallic hangovers. Lucienne Frappier-Mazur and Peter Robinson helped me develop my thoughts in the introduction. Any remaining problems in the translation and introduction are mine alone. The University of Vermont granted me a sabbatical year in 2012–13, giving me precious months so that a piecemeal project pursued over various semesters could achieve some unity of tone. The librarians of Bailey-Howe Library at the University of Vermont helped immeasurably by tracking down various reference materials. The owner of the Jules Breton painting on the cover of this book very graciously allowed me the use of the portrait in his possession, and these arrangements could not have been made without the generous help of Margaret Strode and others at Sotheby’s, Inc. I also want to thank Kendra Boileau and the staff of the Penn State University Press for their help and sage advice. Finally I want to thank the makers of such fine tools as the Trésor de la langue française, the Robert, the Littré, and the Collins-Robert French-English  / English-French dictionaries. Without all their help, this project would never have been realized, and I am profoundly grateful to all.

Translator’s Note This translation is based on the 1869 edition of La Petite Fadette published by Michel-Lévy Frères. Yet in three passages I prefer, for reasons explained in the notes, to use the words of the 1849 edition published by Michel-Lévy Frères. In La Petite Fadette Sand deliberately used language that was sometimes quite archaic and sprinkled with bits of dialect that would have seemed strange to her nineteenth-century readers unfamiliar with the Berry region of central France. I have tried to make my English a bit archaic, and I decided to include every now and then a word or expression of Berrichon dialect so that the reader of the English translation might also feel something of the heterogeneous nature of the original text, vacillating between standard French and Berrichon dialect. Many of my notes are taken from Martine Reid’s 2004 edition of La Petite Fadette, because she did such a fine job of collating Sand’s correspondence, autobiography, and writings about Berrichon folklore with the text of the novel. Forms of address say a lot about relationships in French society. As a rule in the Barbeau family, the father and mother speak to their individual children using the tu form, whereas the children address each individual parent as vous. The mother speaks to her husband using the vous form, while the husband speaks to his wife using the tu form. Landry and Sylvinet use the tu form while addressing each other. Thus, at least in the beginning of the novel, the hierarchical relationships within the patriarchal peasant family are clearly manifested through the forms of address they use with one another, with one curious exception: in one tense paragraph in chapter 29, when old Barbeau and Landry are facing off with regard to Fadette, Barbeau addresses his son, simmering with anger, as vous, then reverts to the more typical tu. Among adults from different families, the use of the vous form seems to be the rule, although it must be stated that the evidence is slight, given the paucity of dialogue between such persons (old

Translator’s Note  ix

Caillaud and old Barbeau talking together in chapters 6 and 31; the Baigneuse from Clavières talking to Barbeau’s wife in chapter 31). The vous form also prevails in the conversations between Barbeau’s wife and Fadette, even in the days before the latter’s marriage to Landry. Among children and unmarried young adults from different families in this peasant community, the tu form takes precedence, with one notable exception: in chapter 21 Madelon uses tu for Fadette, who addresses her as vous; this serves as a stark reminder of their difference in social standing. As for talks between humankind and God, although traditional French prayers address God in the informal mode, Fadette uses the vous form when, in chapter 35, she prays for help in healing Sylvinet. Aside from these fixed and often quite predictable usages, the novel presents, in addition to Barbeau’s curious change of pronoun in speaking to Landry, a few instances of oscillation between the regimes of tu and vous that are worthy of note. The interaction between Fadette and Sylvinet, who address each other as vous in chapters 27–39, despite the fact that these two young people have grown up side by side in a peasant community, first appears as an exception that confirms the rule. This atypical mode of address points to the strained relationship between the two characters, who have become rivals for Landry’s love. It is then all the more remarkable when, toward the end of chapter 39, Fadette promises to love Sylvinet like a twin, in essence replacing the twin who will become hers in marriage, and Sylvinet abandons his competitive stance and asks Fadette to use the tu with him, as a sign of a fundamental change in their relationship. On a more humorous note, Barbeau, helping Fadette count up her fortune in chapter 33, slips out of his use of vous with her in one paragraph, seeming quite overwhelmed by the sum of money before his eyes and the way it changes the prospects of this young unmarried woman. His brief and unexpected use of tu in speaking to Fadette highlights Sand’s ironic play on the pleasure that a view of cold cash excites in a peasant such as Barbeau. In chapters 14 and 15 Madelon and Landry generally address each other as tu, but sometimes as vous, without any discernible method or intent dictating the choice of regime. In chapters 9, 12, 18, 20, and 24, the tu form prevails in most of the exchanges between Landry and Fadette. There are, however,

x  Translator’s Note

a number of passages where one party or the other, or sometimes both together, switch fleetingly to the vous form. Some of these modulations can be explained, as at the beginning of chapter 9, by Fadette’s desire to mock Landry’s haughtiness toward her, but the greater number seem to resist explanation, obeying instead the rhythms of a mysterious ballet of fear and desire in the budding love between these two characters. Among all these modulations from tu to vous and vous to tu, why did I choose to bring into my translation only the one at the end of chapter 39? I had no choice in that particular matter; otherwise, I would have had to rewrite Sand’s text where the change from vous to tu was explicitly discussed, and such rewriting was simply not an option. Some may find the introduction of a few “thees” and “thous” a quaintly charming little touch. So why not go on and translate throughout the novel all the second-person singular forms as “thou” and “thee”? I am of the opinion that so many “thees” and “thous” in the dialogue would constitute a stumbling block for the contemporary reader, unused to handling these forms on a regular basis, and that they might even act as a powerful distraction from the novel’s multiple and slippery messages. In addition to forcing English into an overly French mold, they would cast too much of an archaic feeling over a novel that speaks its modernity in so many other ways. The desire to curtail feelings of futility and frustration moved me in the same direction. While the meaning of some of the more easily explicable modulations in address might be backed up by other signifying features in the passage and thereby made somewhat redundant, what about all the questions raised in the minds of readers about the change of pronoun for reasons, if not totally inexplicable, infinitely debatable and ultimately undecidable? Furthermore, what about the translator’s dreadful burden of trying to explain what is not always susceptible to explanation? For all of these reasons I have chosen to follow the wisdom of the old adage: discretion is the better part of valor.

Introduction George Sand was no man but a quite exceptional woman. 1 Amantine-Aurore-Lucile Dupin, who would take the name George Sand some thirty years later, was born in 1804 to an aristocratic officer in Napoleon’s army and a poor working-class woman who had made her way to this union in shady ways. When the author of La Petite Fadette was writing her autobiography at about the same time as this novel, she would proudly declare that in her veins there commingled the blood of both kings and humble folks. After her father unexpectedly died in 1808, her mother and her paternal grandmother had very different ideas about how Aurore should be reared and fought over the little girl’s upbringing. Finally buying off her daughter-in-law, Aurore’s grandmother gained custody of the girl and raised her on the country estate at Nohant, where Aurore’s father had grown up. Aurore spent a good part of her childhood romping like Fadette with peasant children in nearby fields and woods when she could, receiving lessons from her father’s eccentric preceptor, and grudgingly complying with her grandmother’s rules for ladylike decorum. When Aurore was twelve or thirteen, she began rebelling against her grandmother’s expectations and saying that she wanted to go live with her mother in Paris. Seeing no alternative, her grandmother detailed her suspicions about Aurore’s mother’s promiscuous past and present. These revelations precipitated a crisis for Aurore. Coming to hate herself as well as her mother, the traumatized girl became quite unmanageable. Aurore was subsequently packed off to the convent of the English Augustinian Sisters in Paris, where she spent the next two years dreaming up pranks with other boarders and finally feeling herself called to the religious life. Aurore was not yet sixteen when her elderly and ailing grandmother took her back home to the

2  La Petite Fadette

country. Her grandmother died when Aurore was seventeen, at which point she suddenly found herself the proprietor of Nohant and the vast property surrounding it. Within another year Aurore, now the wife of Baron Casimir Dudevant and soon to be a mother, was following the domestic path that most women of her station and wealth took in early nineteenth-century France. The marriage was not a happy one. Casimir drank, hunted, and sought the company of women less complicated than his moody wife. Irritated by the suffocating constraints of her life, Aurore took great interest in books as well as in men who read and wrote them. She began writing a bit herself and met Jules Sandeau, a young man who dreamed of a literary career. After heated quarrels with her husband, in 1831 Aurore worked out an arrangement with him so that she could go off to Paris with Jules Sandeau. There they published, under the pen name “J. Sand,” a few short stories and a novel written mainly by her. Her first big novel, Indiana, published in 1832, was signed “G. Sand.” By the mid-1830s the literary career of the author henceforth known as George Sand, who would become as famous for her novels and plays as for wearing men’s suits, smoking cigars, and collecting famous lovers such as Alfred de Musset and Frédéric Chopin, was well under way. An outspoken feminist, socialist, anticlericalist, and idealist, she would continue writing and publishing until her death in 1876. During her lifetime she enjoyed a reputation as one of the great authors of the nineteenth century and earned the praise of writers such as Honoré de Balzac, Gustave Flaubert, Henry James, Ivan Turgenev, and Fiodor Dostoïevski. Ever since George Sand’s La Petite Fadette first appeared in 1848, one generation of readers after another has fallen under the charm of the story. Set in the French countryside where the author grew up and narrated in the voice of a Berrichon peasant, her novel tells the tale of identical twin boys and the mysterious waif with whom first the one and then the other twin fall in love, a story in which love, courage, and patient design win out over superstition and prejudice, but not without a bittersweet twist in the final pages. Landry and Sylvinet are the twin brothers. Fadette, whose very name suggests that she is a witch and whose deeds

Introduction  3

first tend to confirm these suspicions, starts out as a loathsome outcast, but will, despite all reasonable expectations, succeed in marrying the twin she loves, quietly subverting the patriarchal organization of her husband’s family and planting the seeds of a new social order. Although Sand’s novel has appealed to many readers as a simple country tale, its complex layers of meaning are both understated and staggering. La Petite Fadette is a great and revolutionary novel, subtly referring to the unfinished work of political and sexual equality that began in 1789 and continued to rock nineteenth-century France. Fadette, with Landry at her side, will found a new society in which women and men can love and work to their mutual enrichment and share the fruits of their labor for the health and happiness of all. In the repressive aftermath of the June Days of 1848, George Sand initially thought to dedicate this slippery and seductive narrative to Armand Barbès, the leftist revolutionary who spent much of his life in prison or exile, and the other “captives and vanquished of every nation, . . . martyrs to every stage of progress,”2 in similarly sorry circumstances. In 1848 and throughout her life, Sand left little doubt about which side of history she stood on. In the two prefaces she wrote for La Petite Fadette, Sand asks that her novel be read in the context of the events that immediately preceded its composition: the February Revolution of 1848; the heyday of democracy, socialism, and fraternal feeling that marked the proclamation of the Second French Republic; the growing tensions, amid economic chaos, that ultimately pitted class against class in bloody combat only four months later; the crushing defeat of the Parisian insurrection at the hands of the army; the death, imprisonment, and deportation of many insurgents; and the general demoralization of social reform movements and their supporters. During the time of the Second Republic’s provisional government, George Sand acted as a militant advocate of leftist reforms that were qualified, in the manner of the period, as socialism and communism. A fierce defender of the interests of the masses, she was prepared to declare null and void the results of the April 1848 elections, organized on the basis of universal male suffrage, if they did not foster truth and social justice as she envisioned them. Despite all her activity in politics, which was still an all-male domain, in the same period Sand refused

4  La Petite Fadette

La Voix des Femme’s call that she stand for election to the National Assembly. She maintained that the establishment of women’s political rights should be deferred until the time when reforms in the Civil Code had strengthened women’s rights in the private sphere, thereby providing some guarantee of women’s strength and independence of mind.3 After the commotion of 15 May 1848, she was horrified to see that civil war would be the inevitable upshot of the heated debates about the nature and direction of the new government. Amid rumors that she might be arrested on charges of armed conspiracy against the new Republic, she withdrew from the political scene in Paris and went back to her native Berry, but neither before nor after the June Days did she renounce her solidarity with those whom she called le peuple.4 Full of despair about the June Days, which signified an end to her dream of a socialist republic, and fearing the waves of reaction and repression yet to come, Sand started and finished La Petite Fadette in the summer of 1848. The first preface, dated September 1848, takes the form of a dialogue between a disheartened Sand and a friend, who are discussing “the Republic that we dream about and the one that we are subjected to” (245). By the time of the second preface, dated 21 December 1851, the situation had considerably worsened, and this preface makes it clear that Sand considers “today’s events” to be the “inevitable consequence” (34) of the many repercussions set in motion by the June Days three years earlier. In December 1848, in yet another display of the reactionary tendencies of the newly enfranchised citizens of the Second Republic, Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte was elected president. Three years later he succeeded in overthrowing the Second Republic and began laying the foundations for his reign as Napoleon III (1852– 70). The plebiscite that Bonaparte organized to justify his coup d’état began on 21 December 1851, the very date that Sand assigns to her second preface. His seizing of power was overwhelmingly approved, with some 7,500,000 voting “yes” and less than 650,000 voting “no.” Hence, the plebiscite, like several other exercises of popular will during and after the Second Republic, gave yet another stunning demonstration of how easily the ballot box could play into the hands of the powers that be and betray the ideals that gave birth to revolution.

Introduction  5

In both prefaces Sand laments the destruction of the revolutionary potential that the Second Republic represented, however imperfectly it may have tried to realize its aims. The two prefaces also strive to formulate how a writer with Sand’s political convictions can respond to this sorry state of affairs. Openly expressed confrontation was not an option in the fall of 1848, and even less so in December 1851. Near the end of the first preface Sand states her desire to dedicate her novel to “Armand . . . ,” at which point her friend jumps in to stop her from completing his name: “No need to name him. . . . People would see a hidden meaning in your apologue, and they’d discover some heinous conspiracy down underneath” (251). On the most obvious level, this staging of an act of censorship within the preface evokes the real threat of censorship for novels written in this conjuncture, which Sand some months later compared to a “state of siege.”5 As she wrote to her intended publisher in July 1848, “I’m writing you a sort of Champi, is that all right? . . . Because of the events it would be impossible for me to do something having the color of my ideas, without full freedom.”6 Moreover, the word “apologue,” used in reference to the novel, promises layers of meaning that may not all be readily apparent or easy to interpret. Indeed, when one reviews the various ways in which critics have read La Petite Fadette over the years, it is clear that there is something stubbornly, perhaps purposefully, inscrutable about what may at first sight seem an artless and self-referential tale appropriate for children. Still, it may be that the most important reason not to brandish the name of Armand Barbès was Sand’s desire to put an end to the cycle of explosive tension and violence in Paris, from which she had recently withdrawn. Watching the generosity of some turn to foolhardiness and the egotism of others to ferocity, she was convinced that class warfare could lead to nothing good for either side. Her horror at terror and bloodshed in the name of revolution or repression, “the dreadful instincts, passions, and deeds that revolutions flush up to the surface” (1848 preface, 246), would remain constant throughout her life. Because of outer threats and Sand’s own inner resolve, the novel will make no conspicuous reference to the political context in which it was written, maintaining a deliberately skewed and oblique relation to history.

6  La Petite Fadette

Rather than depicting the battles of workers and artisans on barricades in the streets of Paris in 1848, La Petite Fadette is set among the peasants of central France and the sempiternal rhythms of their work in the fields and pastures. The novel also steps back in time. At some point during the novel the revolution of 1789 has taken place, but nobody seems to pay it much attention, nor has it changed life in the countryside in significant ways. When the midwife catches Sylvinet and Landry in her apron, she insists on marking which twin was born first, even though the right of primogeniture was abolished in 1790. Were the twins born before the revolution, or was the midwife’s gesture one of many temporal hangovers in this isolated provincial hamlet? The franc, which became the national currency in 1795, and the metric system, which France officially adopted in 1799, are acknowledged in Sand’s tale, but even at the end the peasants continue to use their traditional measures and count out money in prerevolutionary units. In step with the scientific theories of the time, the local schoolmaster refers to the phosphorescent lights that can be seen hovering over marshy ground at night as meteors and teaches that they are entirely natural phenomena. Still, children and many adults remain convinced that they are mischievous or threatening imps and elves. Despite the difficulties of discerning historical markers in the text, Margaret Cohen has demonstrated that La Petite Fadette has, in fact, a “discreet but unmistakable” temporal frame. Counting backward from the end of the novel, where Sylvinet has spent ten years moving up the ranks in Napoleon’s Grand Army, she calculates that the twins were probably born between 1779 and 1781.7 Yet she understands the importance of the question as to why a novel asking to be read in the fraught political climate of the summer of 1848 should make such understated references to history, and particularly the revolutionary events starting in 1789. For these reasons and others, many critics, such as Naomi Schor and Reinhold Grimm,8 have concluded that La Petite Fadette chooses to turn away from the disasters of history, putting pastoral dreams in their place. The fact that Sand refers to her work as bergeries, or shepherds’ tales, in both prefaces only seems to lend weight to that conclusion. Indeed, even before 1848, as she explains in the preface to François le Champi, written the year before La

Introduction  7

Petite Fadette, she was sensitive to the seductive appeal of pastorals in times of distress and considered writing a study of the genre through the ages. Yet it is also important to note that she minced no words in expressing how false, silly, and totally incongruous the genre appeared to her back in 1847: “All these Golden-Age characters, these shepherdesses, who are nymphs and then marquises, these shepherdesses from the Astrée . . . , who wear powder and satin during the reign of Louis XV and to whom Sedaine starts giving wooden shoes at the end of the monarchy, they are all more or less false, and today they strike us as silly and ridiculous. We’ve had it with them.” It is clear in Sand’s analysis that the pastorals of earlier times were a shameful escape mechanism in the hands of the privileged classes, “people too well off,” and that their pastoral dreams developed in inverse proportion to the conditions in which most people lived, “becoming pure and sentimental all the more that society was corrupt and impudent” and no doubt prolonging the wretchedness on which such conditions fed.9 Hence, in her mind, the passion of aristocrats for pastorals represented a reactionary flight from history and a refusal to invest their energies in social change.10 These are surely not the shepherds’ tales that Sand is endorsing in her prefaces to La Petite Fadette. She has nothing in common with those who sought to delude their dismay and frustration with hollow fantasies of a bygone Golden Age. Even when confessing her despair in the aftermath of the June Days, she resists the pull of nostalgia and states her unwavering faith in the perfectibility of history, a providential future, and the ultimate success of revolutionary ideals. Nor does she want to sever her relationship with revolutionary comrades languishing in prison or exile in order to put an end to her own pain. Instead, she turns to them in solidarity and compassion, eager to pour balm on their wounds. Serving them up the old style of pastoral would only add insult to injury, making a mockery of the suffering she shares with them. The country tales that Sand has in mind are of an entirely different kind. They are “our sheep and shepherds’ tales” and not those of the past, and they will illustrate “a certain ideal of country life all the more naive and childlike as life in the real world [is] more brutal and thoughts more somber” (1848 preface, 249; my emphasis).

8  La Petite Fadette

Far from making a total break with history, these new rustic tales relate to history from a position of remove in which an imagined past commingles with dreams of a better future, so that Sand’s story is constantly moving forward into the past and back to the future. The idealism that she expresses here mediates between history and utopian goals for society. Key words in the prefaces to La Petite Fadette are the noun “distraction” and the verb “distract,” which can be taken in two quite different ways. In a pejorative sense, these terms refer to a squandering of people’s energy and focus, as they are turned away from their duties. On the other hand, they can be taken positively, as distraction may provide a necessary and restorative pause in the midst of exhausting work, a time of recreation to stimulate the recovery of mental or physical forces that have run dangerously low, a time-out allowing an opportunity to work through perplexity and discouragement. It is this second meaning that operates in the prefaces of La Petite Fadette, where Sand acknowledges the need to “distract the imagination” (1851 preface, 34) from the disasters of history staring so many in the face. Looking back on the chaotic events of 15 May 1848 and understanding how they contributed to the growing cycle of violence and repression, Sand recognized that revolutionaries like her friend Barbès were then in serious need of some distraction, something that would have calmed “the fever for action in us as well as others” (1848 preface, 249) and afforded them time to come up with better strategies.11 Some months later, when Barbès was already locked away in prison, Sand could appreciate how much enervated revolutionaries, quite like restless children, needed “tales to amuse them or lull them to sleep” (1848 preface, 250). If they could all fall asleep “without fear or suffering” (1851 preface, 34) and be refreshed from their sorrows in dreams, they would have a better chance of facing the challenges of the morrow. On the other hand, there is no possibility of refreshment in the ferocious creations of Dante, mired down in the horrors of history and even magnifying them—“the spectacle of real troubles made still mightier and gloomier by the colors of fiction” (1851 preface, 34). Yet Sand is clearly aware of the limits of her exercise. Though her pastoral dreams can do only a fleeting and modest amount of good for her and for all those who share her pain, and though they may

Introduction  9

have no influence at all on those who have triumphed in reaction, it remains the artist’s duty and mission to the world “to remind those who are callous or disheartened that pure ways of life, tender feelings, and basic fairness are or can still be of this world” (1851 preface, 34). In La Petite Fadette, as in many of Sand’s other novels, what starts out as an unlikely and totally inappropriate match turns into a fruitful and loving partnership. Landry Barbeau is the son of a prosperous, well-respected landowning peasant. There is no doubt that the Barbeau family is organized along traditional patriarchal lines, with a chain of command running from the heavenly father down through the earthly father, and an obedient wife and children neatly tucked under the latter’s authority. Barbeau, whose name suggests a beard, with all its traditional masculine prerogatives, addresses the mother of his children as tu, whereas she speaks to him respectfully as vous, sometimes referring to him as “our master” (43). Signs of patriarchal organization also show up in discussions about the development of Landry and his identical twin brother, Sylvinet. At birth, Landry and Sylvinet are distinguishable only because of a cross that the midwife incised on the arm of the firstborn twin. For some time thereafter, the remarkable similarities between the twins, in body as well as in temperament, challenge anyone except their mother to tell which is which. Then, bit by bit, slight disparities are perceived: Landry turns out to be a little taller and stronger than Sylvinet, and from marks on their right and left cheeks, each appears to be the mirror image of the other (44–45). Out of these minute suggestions of difference between the twins grow hierarchies of value that dovetail with the gender codes of the surrounding society. Landry, deemed the more masculine of the two, becomes the repository of reason, generosity, and virtue. Sylvinet, considered the more effeminate twin, comes to embody unbridled subjectivity, jealousy, egotism, and general debility of body and mind. For their kindly but stern paterfamilias, arriving at the age of reason means recognizing the hierarchical organization of family, society, and religion and then assuming one’s place in it. When Barbeau runs into some years of economic hardship and sees that

10  La Petite Fadette

he can no longer afford to keep both of his twins at home, he asks Landry and his brother to decide for themselves which one will leave home to go work on a neighbor’s farm. Even though Landry alone finds himself capable of deferring to his father’s will and agreeing to live apart from his brother, Barbeau praises both boys to encourage the eventual submission of the reluctant twin: “Children, you have now reached the age of reason—your obedience is the proof—and this pleases me. Remember, when children please their father and mother, they please Almighty God in heaven, who will give them their reward one day or another. Don’t tell me who was the first to yield. But God knows, and he’ll bless the one for saying the right words and the other for marking them in his heart” (52–53). Françoise Fadet, otherwise known as little Fadette, could not come from a more different background. In her family there is no living father, nor any male figure of authority. Fadette’s father is long dead, and he died in a position of great humiliation, leaving his own mother in charge of two children, Fadette and her little crippled brother. For various reasons Fadette’s grandmother lives on the margins of society, literally and figuratively, at quite a distance from the closest farms around her. In a community of landowning peasants she owns nothing except for a little house and a modest garden, straitened circumstances that could have reduced her to begging for her bread. Whatever money she has comes from what she earns as a remégeuse (healer), birthing babies and selling herbal remedies of her own concoction. On the one hand, old Fadet belongs to the venerable tradition of the woman healers, whose talents were not only more accessible to the country people among whom they lived but also considered superior in many cases to those of male doctors. The peasant narrator does not hesitate to recognize her powers as a healer, at least in part. On the other hand, he also thinks that she is deluding herself and others when she claims to cure disorders that have probably never really existed, and he doubts the stories that she can make the milk of a good cow pass into that of an old, malnourished animal. Needed, feared, and despised, old Fadet, who has a much shadier reputation than the other two women healers and midwives in the tale, is considered a witch by the surrounding countryfolk. In several important

Introduction  11

ways she anticipates Jules Michelet’s 1862 characterization of the sorceress as a subject of social and gender oppression as well as an incompletely realized figure of revolt against these conditions. Old Fadet is also widely known for her anger and violence, even toward the crippled orphan in her charge. Regardless of whether he deserves it, old Fadet thrashes Fadette’s little brother every night, and this abuse only adds to the general contempt felt for the old crone. Fadette’s mother, an even shadier figure, stands in sharp contrast to Barbeau’s meek and mild wife. Not much is known about her except for a brief and shocking story, according to which, “after carrying on outrageously and abandoning her husband, she had finally trailed off after the soldiers. Right after the grasshopper was born, she left to become a camp follower. Since then nobody had heard a thing more about her. The husband had died of grief and shame” (97–98). Even Fadette, ostracized as the child of “a loose woman and a camp follower” (128), seems not to know all the details, but some of the language she uses to describe her mother suggests that her story may be considerably more complicated than the pat rumors circulating in this conservative peasant community. When talking about her mother, Fadette says that she “[doesn’t] really know what she did or why she was driven to do it” and even uses the word “cause” (128), pointing toward something beyond a woman’s willful descent into debauchery and promiscuity. Fadette makes her mother’s choice sound more like a matter worthy of debate, a question of principles or ideals. It is clear that the mother left her family when Fadette was ten years old, and she is a year younger than Landry and Sylvinet, who were probably born between 1779 and 1781, according to Cohen’s calculations. So Fadette’s mother left in the early years of the French Revolution, when a small but conspicuous number of militant republican women were marching in the streets of Paris to defend the ideals of the new nation, attempting to organize all-female battalions, and serving the army as sutlers and even soldiers. Bit by bit the revolutionary government attempted to rein in the activity of such women, and by late 1793 the National Convention dissolved their political clubs and dismissed them from official and unofficial functions in the army.12 In the words of Fabre d’Eglantine’s attack

12  La Petite Fadette

upon the group known as the Républicaines révolutionnaires, the women who were drawn to full participation in the political and military affairs of the nation were never good mothers or virtuous daughters, but only “adventuresses, wandering horsewomen, emancipated girls, and female grenadiers.”13 Their service in defense of revolutionary ideals was no longer treated like a noble cause, but seen as the misdeeds of viragos, termagants, and whores. If the revolutionary authorities in Paris could reduce and distort the stories of these militant republican women in such summary fashion, how much easier to do the same thing to Fadette’s mother in a remote provincial town where the revolution was not a major point of reference. In his first significant encounter with Fadette, Landry is going on fifteen, and Fadette is a year younger. After his mother tells him that Sylvinet left home early that morning and might be contemplating suicide since he cannot withstand the pain of separation from his twin, Landry goes desperately searching for his brother. Landry implores old Fadet to help him, only to be gruffly sent packing. It is at this low point that Landry runs into Fadette. Although the similarities in name between old Fadet and Fadette—a feminized form of the grandmother’s married name—insist upon their shared reputation as witches in the countryside, they also obscure the difference between them. Whereas the grandmother will only provide her services against payment on the spot, the granddaughter decides to give Landry what he wants before the terms of their exchange have been established, which puts Landry in her debt and makes him subject to her power. Seeming to have gotten just what she wanted, Fadette sends Landry off to find his brother precisely in accord with her predictions. Landry’s uncharacteristic imprudence in his dealings with Fadette can only be explained by his perception of the girl as a terrifying supernatural creature who can, at will, call up storms, sprout a mane, double in size, and make her eyes glow like the devil himself. In the days just after Fadette helps Landry, he gives some thought to thanking her but finds no opportunity. Not always convinced that she is a witch—at least not in the light of day— he worries that Fadette has extracted a promise of repayment from him in a moment of weakness and put him in an impossible

Introduction  13

position with his father. Landry fully expects that Fadette will soon approach him to demand payment, but this is not the case. Even though she torments Sylvinet at every opportunity, she inexplicably maintains her distance from Landry for several months, avoiding him whenever possible and only giving him the silent treatment when all else fails. Landry’s second significant encounter with Fadette further increases his debt to this mysterious creature. One dark September night a year or so later, Landry is attempting to ford the river near old Fadet’s hovel when he becomes so disoriented and panic-stricken upon seeing a feu follet (will-o’-the-wisp) dancing over the water that he nearly drowns. For Landry, and for the peasant narrator and most of the surrounding community as well, these nocturnal displays do not represent the simple combustion of marsh gas, but the mischievous work of elves and fairies. These supernatural creatures also seem to exist in intimate relation to Fadette, providing yet another basis for her nickname as well as glossing her physical and moral character: “Everybody knows that fairies, called fadets or farfadets in these parts and follets elsewhere, are very nice elves, but mischievous. They can also be called fades. Right around here scarcely anybody believes in them anymore. But whether Fadette’s name meant a little fairy or the elf’s mate, anybody setting eyes on her figured she was a little sprite, for she was so small and skinny, disheveled and sassy” (78). Although Fadette appears out of nowhere to rescue Landry from his distress, the eerie resemblances that he perceives between the waif and the will-o’-the-wisp make him fear that the follet is nothing more than Fadette in another of her diabolical forms. When Fadette stumbles upon Landry in the dark, she is singing to the strange light, which appears to greet her with wriggles of joy. Sounding like something halfway between an incantation and a love song, her words suggest mutual understanding and partnership with the creature that has so terrified Landry. When Fadette realizes that she is not alone with her fadet, she quickly reverts to the kind of taunts and stinging remarks she used with Landry in their last encounter. She makes fun of him for acting like a baby, despite the beard he will soon be sporting, and for letting fear make his voice quake just like her grandmother’s. Delighting in

14  La Petite Fadette

these role reversals that flaunt her strength and prowess at Landry’s expense, Fadette is again playing the witch, a familiar role she has inherited from her grandmother and knows how to perform without hesitation. It is therefore especially noteworthy that in her subsequent discussion with Landry she will step back from this role and distance herself from her elderly guardian. When Landry acknowledges that she has saved him for the second time and reiterates his intention to pay her for her services, Fadette will have none of it. She has clearly understood that taking money or any thing from Landry or his family will only seal her place at the bottom of the social hierarchy: “Ah! How proud you are, . . . figuring you can settle everything with your gifts. You think I’m like my grandmother. Give her some money, and she puts up with everybody being rude and overbearing” (107). Fadette will not be contented as easily as her grandmother, for she is after much more, and playing the witch for financial gain no longer seems the appropriate means to her end. She may know nothing of society beyond the limits of the local peasantry, but what she says about Landry’s ingratitude is clearly rooted in her experience of class hierarchy. If she feels no respect for Landry or any member of his family, it is because they are all “proud because they’re rich and think people are just doing their duty by giving them a hand” (107). Fadette’s harsh, impatient words to Landry sound less like those of a witch than the discourses of the militant revolutionary women who in the early turbulent years of the French Revolution, from 1789 to 1793, participated in bread riots, marched on Versailles, and loudly proclaimed their rights as citizens in the new nation.14 In other words, Fadette uses the rhetoric that her mother may have used years ago. Accusing Landry again and again of having a heart impervious to gratitude, Fadette claims that she wants to see social inequality dissolve into demonstrations of friendship and solidarity. At this juncture Landry turns accusations of hard-heartedness against Fadette, pointing out that the year before she could have simply told him where Sylvinet was hiding, rather than making a game of his pain while negotiating her compensation. Fadette seems momentarily at a loss, and her usual rapid-fire retorts cease, perhaps in silent acknowledgment of the poor fit between the ideals she espouses and the means she is using to achieve them. Indeed,

Introduction  15

she cannot deny having gone to great lengths to extract a promise from Landry before helping him find his wayward brother. The best she can do is to remind Landry that over the past year she has not demanded any compensation from him or taunted him, and then repeat her accusations against him. Although Landry’s good intentions and sense of justice are repeatedly underlined in the course of their discussion, he still finds himself unable to overcome his feelings of disdain for Fadette. This is the first time Landry has heard Fadette or probably anyone else “reason” (107) about the society in which they live, and he is amazed. New to his ears, Fadette’s arguments implicitly challenge the attribution of reason as a man’s prerogative in this peasant community at the same time that they attempt to cast the community’s foundations on new bases. Landry, on the other hand, in this encounter and many subsequent ones, stands on the side of what is “reasonable,” where common sense is firmly allied with convention and hierarchy, and Fadette is so removed from common sense, with her “strange way of thinking” (109), that he feels no trust in her. Their discussion cannot advance any further, and in her exasperation with him and perhaps also with herself, Fadette spits out what she wants from him. If Landry refuses her call for equality, she will attempt to use hierarchy to her advantage. In her vengeance she will give a public demonstration of the power she has gained over Landry in their private dealings. She will mortify his pride. Fadette orders Landry to acknowledge her, the shameful outcast, by dancing seven times with her and no other woman or girl at the village ball for the festival of Saint Andoche the following day. Their third encounter takes place at the ball. Twice before, Fadette has saved Landry, but this time Landry, despite his minimal and half-hearted fulfillment of his obligations, will finally save Fadette and place her in his debt. This role reversal depends, in large part, on the change in her environment. In the realm of nature, Fadette may seem to enjoy supernatural powers and to undergo diabolical transformations at will, but at the village ball, in society, she appears considerably diminished: “She was so ugly and so poorly dressed, even on Sundays, that no boy of Landry’s age would have asked her to dance, especially in front of any others.

16  La Petite Fadette

At best, swineherds and boys who still hadn’t had their first communion thought her worthy of being asked” (110). Because of her poor rags and apparent ignorance of the conventions of femininity, Landry would on any day find public association with Fadette frankly humiliating. Worse yet, her attempts to beautify herself have made her even more grotesque than usual. Decked out like “an old lady in her Sunday best” in clothing way too small and hopelessly out of date, wearing an old, musty bonnet that gave her “a head the size of a bushel basket on a stick-thin neck” (113), Fadette becomes an unwitting parody of her grandmother, who would surely have known better than to present herself in such a venue. But her ignorance of style, a laughable flaw in many contexts, distracts attention from what is a considerably more serious matter: the deliberate flouting of collective moral standards. From all quarters of the community, scorn is heaped upon Fadette’s scandalous runaway mother. Yet, far from covering up this source of shame, Fadette proudly displays a material sign of allegiance to her mother: “She was also wearing a bright red apron of which she was very proud. It had belonged to her mother, but she hadn’t thought to remove the bib, which girls haven’t worn for ten years or more” (113). Neither do Fadette’s provocations stop at matters of dress, with elements of her costume associated with two contemptible roles, the grandmother’s as well as the mother’s. As in her encounter with Landry just the day before, Fadette’s uncompromising, insolent behavior recalls the rhetoric and attitude of militant republican women in the early years of the French Revolution. When Landry tries to wriggle out of fulfilling the terms of his agreement with Fadette, she sounds as brazen as can be and will not hear of any renegotiation: “‘Oh no, you don’t,’ Fadette shot back, unperturbed. ‘Your memory’s slipping, Landry’” (112). After his first dance with Fadette, Landry goes to hide in his family’s garden, so she assembles a mob of little girls to act as her witnesses and pursues him into this private space, where he recognizes that he has no choice but to submit to her demands. In inversion upon inversion, the son of a powerful family must obey the whim of a lowly outcast who hoists herself up into the unaccustomed place of Madelon, the “pretty girl with no lack of means” (115) who seems predestined to become Landry’s bride. While this

Introduction  17

is more carnival than revolution, Fadette’s behavior represents a serious challenge to existing hierarchies of money and position. Fadette’s triumph seems assured when Landry, whose masculine pride Madelon has insulted, stops shirking his obligations and chooses to dance with her out of spite. However, the little swineherds with whom Fadette usually danced now gang up on her, and Madelon encourages her many admirers to join in the attack. Fadette is being punished both by the lower stratum she abandoned and by the higher stratum she invaded. Her attempt to humiliate Landry has culminated in her own humiliation. At this point Landry, “his valiant heart rising up against the injustice” (119), steps in to rescue Fadette from her tormentors, insists that she dance with him again in front of the whole assembly, and challenges anyone who would dare sneer at the victim or her savior. Order has been restored, but less in the name of socialist ideals than to the advantage of Landry, who has reconquered his position of prestige and defended his prerogative as a man. Fadette understands that she too is now back in her place, and she quietly withdraws from the scene in defeat. Their fourth encounter takes place in the middle of the night, just after the ball. When Landry discovers Fadette stretched out among the thistles of an old quarry, he is afraid that he has stumbled upon a corpse. In this place of abandon, which seems a projection of her inner desolation, the weeping girl appears stripped of all supernatural strength and prestige, and her amazing agility of mind and body has given way to the stillness of death. Fadette is clearly in crisis, contemplating her hollow victory at the ball and then her mortified retreat. Having paid off his debt to her, Landry feels free to speak his mind; still in his role as a man of duty and conscience, he offers Fadette kindly but stern advice, in his patriarchal father’s spirit. From Landry’s point of view, Fadette is an object of scorn and ridicule in good part because of her failure to conform to the norms of femininity, and at the age of sixteen, she should jolly well know better. As far as gender roles are concerned, Landry is the soul of convention. Although he is surely passing on to Fadette what he has learned growing up in his father’s household, he also sounds a good deal like the men in the National Convention, who in 1793 excoriated militant republican women for their unnatural masculine

18  La Petite Fadette

behavior, dissolved their political clubs, and confined them to home and hearth. As he explains to Fadette, “You don’t look or act anything like a girl, but like a boy instead” (125). Part of the problem is the way she looks and dresses. Even worse is the way she acts. She climbs trees and rides bareback at full gallop; she’s strong and fearless, smart and curious, and she knows how to defend herself. All this is clearly an advantage for a man, but a girl must learn how to show her gifts sparingly. Far worse, Fadette seeks power over others, and when anyone dares go against her, she gets revenge by cutting them back down to size with her tongue or revealing their most private secrets to the world. In short, Fadette has been rightly made to suffer for her insistence on playing the tomboy, but if she is willing to sacrifice that role for greater conformity, her situation will improve: “If you wanted to be a bit more like other folks, they’d be more grateful to you for knowing more than they do” (126). Fadette, of course, is not dead, but a remarkable change seems to have occurred in her. This is only the second time that Landry has heard Fadette speak “reasonably,” and it is the first time ever that he has seen her be “nice and accommodating” (125). She has not only retired her sharp tongue, but after having listened to Landry “religiously” (126), she compliments him on the polite and tactful way he has analyzed her faults and then requests permission to reply. While all these changes at first suggest that Fadette may be ready to quit her unruly ways and take her place in the conventionally ordered universe of Père Barbeau and his son, something quite different is happening. In her conversation with Landry, Fadette fades from sight and becomes just a voice in the darkness.15 No longer visible, Fadette can slip out of the grotesque costumes in which Landry has always seen her and renegotiate the roles to which she has been confined. Gently revealing the gulf between what the world considers right and good and an analysis founded on truth and love, Fadette’s voice will start turning Landry’s reason inside out. By this means Fadette will slowly but surely gain a power over Landry that the role of the witch or the militant revolutionary woman could never give her. Although Fadette starts out by throwing Landry into the category of “you rich people” (127), her accusatory class rhetoric soon modulates into a very different kind of discourse about God and

Introduction  19

nature. Rather than attacking the wealthy and powerful, Fadette paradoxically seems to pity them for their ignorance. Living in their narrow zone of comfort and beauty, they scorn the ugly weeds encroaching on their lawns and gardens without ever realizing that they are depriving themselves of the most valuable riches in God’s creation. Fadette wants to make sure that Landry understands her metaphor: “This is a lesson, Landry, about Christian souls, not just garden flowers and brambles in a quarry. Too often folks scorn what seems neither beautiful nor good, depriving themselves of what is helpful and salutary” (127). Fadette’s gentle little lesson has a surprising effect on Landry. While he readily admits to not really understanding what she means to say, the pleasure of hearing these strange and beautiful words so disarms him that he draws near to Fadette without trepidation, even though just a few minutes earlier he nervously refused her invitation to sit down beside her. Landry’s arguments clearly put Fadette in the wrong; however, she turns the tables on him and maintains that she is the wronged party in a world that is neither just nor reasonable, but cruel and inhumane. She presents her own refusal, not failure, to conform to established gender roles as a means of preserving and protecting the memory of her unconventional mother. Instead of blaming the fugitive, Fadette supposes that there were overpowering reasons— albeit unbeknownst to her—for her mother’s departure: “I won’t say anything bad about my poor mother. Everybody heaps blame and insult on her, even though she’s not here to defend herself, and I can’t defend her myself since I don’t really know what she did or why she was driven to do it” (128). Instead of endorsing the community’s norms of propriety, she bravely chooses to stand outside these conventions for the sake of justice and filial loyalty: “Maybe in my place a sensible girl, as you say, would have humbled herself in silence, thinking it prudent to abandon her mother’s cause and let people call her names. That way she might save herself from the same fate. But I couldn’t do it, you see. It was just too much. My mother was still my mother, . . . I’ll always love her with all my heart” (128). Recognizing her duty to defend her mother and frustrated to be unable to do a better job of it, she takes revenge on her mother’s attackers by trying to show everybody that they are no better than the target of their abuse.

20  La Petite Fadette

Fadette also makes a spirited defense of herself that further indicts the society in which she lives. Left to her own devices, Fadette, like one of Rousseau’s noble savages, would have chosen to live in solitude, totally dedicated to the study of nature’s healing secrets. But when she shared her remedies with other children, they failed to recognize her generosity and ostracized Fadette like her grandmother: “Instead of thanking me, they would call me a witch, and the ones who came so sweetly begging when they were in need would then say nasty things the first chance they got” (129). Altogether capable of returning evil for their ingratitude, she would relieve her exasperation with just a few choice words and then forgive in a spirit of forbearance. For yet another reason that incriminates the norms of the community, the children call Fadette a witch. Recognizing that she is ugly, Fadette feels community with all the other creatures deemed to be ugly, and she therefore refuses to join the children in their cruel and thoughtless sport of murdering caterpillars, frogs, and bats. Finally, if she doesn’t try to better her situation by hiring herself out, it is not because she is a lazy bum; rather, her grandmother depends on her help in gathering herbs and her little brother would die without her mothering love. Listening to Fadette’s disembodied voice in the dark quarry, Landry undergoes a sudden change of heart and mind that is comparable to a conversion experience: “Landry was still listening to little Fadette, endeavoring to understand and not finding fault with any of her arguments. The way she talked about her little brother made him all of a sudden feel as if he liked her and wanted to take her side against the whole world” (134–35). Just the day before, he was unable to feel any kind of friendship “with a girl who seemed more clever than good” (108), but now his reservations have dissolved before her demonstrations of a good heart as well as a good mind. After embracing her perspective on the world, he soon wants to embrace her person, and the force of his growing desire finally makes Fadette flee into the night. For the space of a week Fadette makes herself scarce, and when Landry finally recognizes her kneeling in prayer during Sunday Mass, she appears utterly “transfigured” (150) in his eyes. No longer a ragamuffin of undecidable species and gender, Fadette is

Introduction  21

unmistakeably female, conventionally feminine, even desirable in the eyes of the old peasant narrator: She was of course still wearing the same old clothes—her drugget petticoat, red apron, and linen bonnet without any lace—but she had laundered, recut, and resewn everything during the week. Her dress was longer and fell more modestly down over her stockings, which, like her bonnet, were ever so white. Now the bonnet was fashionably redone and nicely fastened on her glossy black hair. Her shawl was new, a nice soft yellow that made her swarthy skin look pretty. She had also lengthened her bodice. Instead of looking like a piece of wood with some clothes thrown over it, she had the narrow, supple waist of a lovely honeybee. Plus, she had spent the whole week washing with I don’t know what potion of flowers or herbs, and now her pale face and dainty hands looked as clean and soft as hawthorn blossoms in the spring. (149–50)

Not only her clothes and swarthy skin but even her manners have been cleaned up. Fadette demonstrates a newfound talent for blushing, a required clause in all codes of maidenly decorum. It is also worthy of note that this scene of miscognition/recognition takes place at church, and more precisely in the chapel of the Holy Virgin, certainly an ideologically charged place of transfiguration for a girl deemed to be a witch and seemingly destined to retrace the steps of her camp-follower mother. From this point on, Fadette has “nice ways of talking, dressing, and dealing with everybody” (157), not just Landry, which leads one of the village elders to remark that Fadette, who finally seems to be listening to reason, will “settle down and mend her ways just like the other girls. She’ll see she’s got to earn forgiveness for that disgraceful mother of hers, and she won’t be making any tongues wag” (158). Landry, quite predictably, falls in love with this freshly incarnated and quite traditional ideal of femininity. One week before, while they were talking in the quarry, Landry asked Fadette, “Why don’t you just let people know who you are?” (135), and now the question about what and who she is returns ever stronger. Fadette has shown Landry various faces over the course of their encounters, but who is this new one, and how does this lovely, demure

22  La Petite Fadette

maiden relate to the righteous rebel who explained herself in the quarry? Although there is nothing new in Fadette’s costume aside from a flattering yellow scarf, every out-of-date article of clothing has been carefully recut, restitched, and remodeled in keeping with fashion, including her grandmother’s ridiculous bonnet and her mother’s red pinafore. The pieces are mostly all the same, and yet the effect is significantly different. The transformation that Fadette has undergone in a short amount of time and the tremendous amount of work that she has invested in her clothes and manners look like a stunning reversal of all the arguments she made to Landry in the quarry. At that time she maintained that she had no money or means to make herself look better, nor any desire to do so, but even more importantly that it was her duty to refuse to submit to the cruel and heartless ways of the world. Now the girl who succeeded in turning Landry’s notion of reason inside out appears to be endorsing all the conventions that he was advocating. It will take another year to sort out just what is going on here. Fadette is taking on the challenge of composing a new role for herself, one that will allow her to take her place as Landry’s wife in the community, but without renouncing the important lessons she has learned from her mother and her grandmother. These two sets of goals seem mutually exclusive, for without a good measure of social integration it is highly unlikely that she could marry into Landry’s family, yet that degree of integration would seem to entail sacrificing the models of feminine power that she learned in her family. Fadette’s success will depend on her ability to reshape and redefine the ignominious roles in which her mother’s and grandmother’s lives were confined, much as she has revamped her costume in order to invest it with new associations and overcome her marginalization. Although her costume exhibits many signs of submission to convention, Fadette’s seductive appeal is part and parcel of a long-term strategy of subversion that can only operate from within the hierarchy it means to undermine. In terms that flatter Landry and seem to bow to his superior wisdom, Fadette tells him that she undertook her transformation in order to follow his advice: “I just took your advice, telling myself I had to start dressing sensibly to look sensible” (151). But over the course of the year in which their love develops in secret, their

Introduction  23

roles undergo such a complete reversal of position that Landry will wind up submitting to her authority. Fadette, who has “reason and willpower far beyond her years” (160), masks her great love for Landry as tender friendship and channels his passion by teaching him everything she knows. Defying convention and common sense, Fadette’s knowledge transforms Landry’s perspective on the world. She knows the properties of herbs much better than her grandmother, and under Fadette’s tutelage, Landry learns how to cure bloated cows that veterinarians have condemned to an early death, horses suffering from snakebite, even dogs with rabies. Fadette is also careful to explain that these remedies have nothing at all to do with witchcraft. Once afraid of her grandmother’s spells, the little girl had to learn from her elder’s taunts that nobody believes in black magic less than those who invoke its powers. With her “attentive mind that compared, observed, and put things to the test,” Fadette discovers and divines “like an inventor discovering and divining the God-given virtues of certain herbs and certain uses of them” (164). Far from sorcery, her gift for healing draws on science and religion. In the theology lessons Fadette gives Landry, she boldly asserts that there is only a providential God at work in the universe and no devil, whatever he may be called. When Fadette dismisses Lucifer as “something the priest made up” and Georgeon as “an old wives’ tale” (161), these words at first sound like heresy to Landry’s fearful ears, but soon he cannot help but admire “what a good Christian little Fadette was in all her thoughts and prayers” (162). Landry’s love for Fadette steadily grows in proportion to his gratitude for her various lessons and respect for all that she knows. Once their secret love becomes public knowledge, the powerful role that Fadette has come to play in Landry’s life becomes even more clearly delineated. Having heard about Landry’s involvement with Fadette, Barbeau thinks that he can easily put a stop to it by summoning the wayward boy before a family council. Yet Barbeau is taken aback when he sees that his once-submissive son stands ready to fly in the face of all his objections to Fadette. Sensing that his empire over Landry is no longer rock solid, Barbeau defers discussion of the matter to avoid further compromising his paternal authority. Landry then goes directly to Fadette, who tempers his

24  La Petite Fadette

revolt and gives him a model of courage while she quietly plans to deal with his father. It is clear that Landry is now “obedient” (182) to Fadette, and doubly so, by the passion he feels for her and by the authority he readily accords her. Fadette has taken over the place that Barbeau used to occupy in Landry’s life and become his moral anchor. Only after she has already begun to execute her strategy to overcome Barbeau’s objections to their union can Fadette reveal her passion to Landry and strip away the series of masks she has worn while pursuing him: I think from age thirteen on the poor cricket never had eyes for anybody other than Landry, and when she’d follow him through the fields and down paths, teasing him and saying silly things to get his attention, she still didn’t know what she was doing or why. One day she started looking for Sylvinet, knowing Landry was in distress, and when she found him down along the creek, all lost in thought, with a little lamb in his lap, I think she played the witch with Landry a little so he’d have to thank her. When she called him names at the ford at Les Roulettes, it was because she felt spiteful and sad that he hadn’t ever spoken to her after that. When she wanted to dance with him, I think it was because she was crazy about him and hoped he’d like her for her pretty dancing. When she was weeping in the Chaumois quarry, I think it was because she felt so bad that he didn’t like her. When he wanted to kiss her and she refused, when he’d say words of love and she’d reply with words of friendship, I think it was because she was afraid of losing his love by responding too soon. And if she goes away rending her heart, I think she’s hoping everybody will find her worthy of him when she comes back and that they’ll be able to marry without his family feeling any distress or humiliation. (183–84)

At the end of this long confession Fadette gives Landry “a truly passionate kiss that nearly killed him” and leaves him “swooning along the edge of the road” (184). This scene obviously parallels an earlier one, in which Landry declared his love for the newly transfigured Fadette and requested a kiss. Upon hearing these words Fadette grew “deathly pale” (154) and swooned, “for she could not breathe and was falling into a faint” (155). Yet striking

Introduction  25

differences stand out among the similarities. Now it is Fadette, and not Landry, giving the kiss. And while Fadette’s display of weakness was a strategic move to channel her passion and consolidate her position, Landry’s fainting fit expresses his total surrender to her. These are not the only role reversals in this developing love story. A year earlier, in their conversation in the quarry after the Saint Andoche ball, Landry acted as the enforcer of the norms of femininity for the errant Fadette. Now the androgynous Fadette, who totally subverts the dichotomy of gender that Landry learned at home, gives her lover lessons in masculinity when Landry is unable to tolerate the idea of separation from her. Curiously, at this point Landry exhibits behavior that recalls Sylvinet’s expressions of distress when he could not accept living apart from his twin. When Landry’s work at La Priche first imposed distance between the boys, Sylvinet’s fixation on his brother was sometimes described in fraternal terms, like a baby bird snuggling up to his nest-mate to get warm (59), and sometimes in sexual terms, like a pigeon instinctively flying after his hen (58). As Landry began falling in love with Fadette, he was alarmed to discover that his feelings for the girl were stronger than any feelings he had ever had for his family or even his twin brother (142). Moreover, when Fadette later talked to Landry about her love for him, she described that bond in terms of something equal or even superior to Sylvinet’s feelings for Landry: “My feelings for you are like your twin’s, and maybe better” (155). Indeed, the feelings linking Sylvinet to Landry and Landry to Fadette perform a dizzying dance of various types of love—fraternal and erotic, homosexual and heterosexual, endogamic and exogamic. And once Fadette has finally taken Sylvinet’s place in the original dyad with his twin, Landry reacts to the threat of separation from Fadette just as Sylvinet once reacted to his separation from Landry. When Fadette talks about going away for a year or two, Landry takes up Sylvinet’s role and threatens to drown himself: “‘Never will I have that kind of courage,’ said Landry. ‘I’d rather throw myself in the creek’” (179). This threat of suicide is followed by Landry’s reversion to wordless, infantile distress when he learns that Fadette, keeping her own counsel, has already departed for her new life in Château-Meillant. On the spot Landry abandons his oxen tethered to the plow in order to run after her

26  La Petite Fadette

and throw himself across her path: “Though he was unable to say a word, his gestures gave her to understand she would have to trample over his body before continuing on her way” (181). In the face of this panic-stricken adolescent who feels determined that she will leave only over his dead body, Fadette delivers a powerful lesson in manhood and courage: “So be a man, and don’t steal my courage. . . . Ah! I’m begging you, Landry, help me instead of making me stray from my duty. If I don’t go today, I won’t ever, and it’ll be all over for us” (181). Only after Fadette seals this lesson with a passionate kiss can Landry let her go prepare the way for their eventual marriage. Still, there is no way that Fadette can marry Landry without overcoming Barbeau’s opposition to their match. When the patriarch voices his objections, he is clearly speaking for the entire family unit: “First, . . . never would a family respected and honored like mine wish to enter into alliance with the Fadets. Next, the Fadet girl, apart from her family, doesn’t have anybody’s respect or trust. We’ve seen her grow up and know what she’s worth” (175). He fears that Fadette is working hand in glove with her grandmother to seduce his innocent son, besmirch the Barbeau name, and sink her clutches into the family resources. Yet Fadette, with her considerable foresight, has anticipated Barbeau’s reaction right from the beginning, and soon she sets in motion a patient, multifaceted strategy that will allow her to win him over and even take his place at the head of the family. Without any sort of direct confrontation, she will succeed in making her adversary tear down the obstacles he has put in her path and ultimately plead with her to marry his son. First off, Fadette seems to advise nothing more than patience. Landry should just let time take its course and meanwhile obey his father: “So we’ve got to be patient, and bit by bit the prejudices against me will fade away, the nasty lies people are telling will run their course” (178). Knowing that wrongs do not normally right themselves all alone, Fadette means to help things along. With Barbeau she will basically replicate the strategy that worked so well with Landry—disappearing for a time, then reappearing nearly unrecognizable in a new role and costume. While Fadette’s first moves in her maidenly role with Landry lacked confidence—her

Introduction  27

pastiche of an appropriate model of femininity often coming close to unwitting parody—she now carries herself with ease, enjoying the comedy and indulging “her devilish twist of mind” (198). After a year away in domestic service, Fadette no longer looks like “the ugliest, most slovenly and disreputable girl around” (174). The costume that she dons for her surprise visit to Barbeau emphasizes the buxom appeal of a marriageable woman: “Her looks had much improved in the city. With better food and shelter, she now had a good complexion and weighed what she should. No longer seeming a boy in disguise, she had a lovely figure that was a pleasure to see. . . . She was . . . the most comely, the freshest, and perhaps the most desirable in the whole countryside” (196). In reply to Barbeau’s crusty greeting, she acknowledges the strained relations between the two families with a diplomatic touch and flatters him by commenting on his reputation as “the fairest and most trustworthy man in these parts” (196). Echoing the words that Barbeau used with regard to her in the family council, Fadette confidently states, “I know who you are and what stuff you’re made of” (197). Even though Barbeau, as she knows from Landry, always wants to do the right thing, he nonetheless possesses traits predictable for a man of his position—specifically, attitudes about money and women’s need for men’s guidance—and these will give Fadette purchase on her adversary. Bringing Barbeau a basket containing her inheritance from her miserly grandmother, Fadette appeals to him, as a knowledgeable man of the world, to help a defenseless orphan count it all up. After rehearsing old clichés about women’s inabilities to deal with money, the law, and their own lives, she begs Barbeau to step into the place left empty by her mother and act as her legal guardian. At first cool and intimidating with his supplicant, Barbeau finally gives in to his curiosity about Fadette’s basket, then, much to her amusement, breaks into a sweat as he counts up a quantity of cold cash that surpasses the value of his own holdings by a good third. When he manages to lift his eyes from the basket, he compliments Fadette on a most attractive dowry. Yet it was not at all Fadette’s intention to sell herself to Barbeau or anyone else for a dowry, and she makes that perfectly clear by saying, “I fancy getting married for my kind heart and good name, not for my money” (200). The point of this exercise is to make Barbeau

28  La Petite Fadette

understand once and for all that her love for his son has nothing to do with a desire for financial gain: “Now old Barbeau knew that she was rich, and that made her feel a bit cocky since he could no longer accuse her of wanting to take advantage of Landry” (201). At the same time it is important to note that Barbeau was not at all deceived by the way Fadette played up to him in his role as a proud patriarch and property-holding peasant who was scarcely indifferent to money. Instead of taking Fadette for the helpless young woman she knowingly parodied in this scene, he understood “how very . . . clever she was” (201) and admired how adroitly she maneuvered him. After this interview Barbeau feels so encouraged that he makes careful inquiries about Fadette’s time away and asks members of the family to make their own investigations into her behavior. Her dowry is very attractive, but it is clearly not Barbeau’s primary concern: “While the tempting dowry made him stop thinking about Fadette’s disgraceful family, he could not pass so quickly over the honor of the girl he wanted as his daughter-in-law” (202). During her year in Château-Meillant, Fadette served as a maid and companion to an elderly aristocratic nun who found her exemplary in all ways, not only as an herbalist with great powers of healing, but as “a perfect Christian, hardworking, frugal, clean, conscientious, and endowed with such a lovely disposition she would never find another like her” (202). The great affection and strong moral resemblance between the two women suggest a bond of spiritual kinship, and this in turn means that Fadette has managed to recast her family history in terms of a role that corresponds to the costume she is now wearing. It will not be long before Barbeau makes a surprise visit to Fadette and begs her to marry Landry. There remains one more problem that Fadette has to solve before they can marry. Sylvinet’s inability to separate from his twin has led to recurring crises of jealousy, debilitating fevers, and suicidal longings, and his mother in particular fears that Landry’s wedding to Fadette will result in Sylvinet’s death. All the doctors consulted about his case have given contradictory or futile advice, and after Landry and then his mother beg Fadette to try her powers on Sylvinet, she finally agrees. Her first method draws on a combination of love, willpower, and Christian sacrifice that

Introduction  29

has allowed her to save her little brother several times. This cure initially seems to work, but as soon as Sylvinet hears that Landry will be marrying Fadette in the near future, his fevers return. Convinced that Sylvinet’s problem has no physical cause, she next attempts to infuse her mind and spirit into his, but without any certainty of success. All alone with Sylvinet, Fadette commands a full confession from him, initially condemning his self-indulgent and tyrannical ways, then comforting him with these words: “I know you’ve heard far too much talk about the love between twins, everybody saying it’s a law of nature and that you were bound to die if anything stood in its way. So you thought you were fated to carry this love to extremes. But God is not so unjust as to mark us for misery in our mothers’ wombs, nor so cruel as to give us notions we could never overcome. If you believe there’s more might and malediction in your blood than resistance and reason in your mind, you insult God with your superstitions” (218). Taking to heart her tonic advice, Sylvinet vows to submit to her entirely, and she promises to love him like a twin. For half a year “life was sweet indeed for every single one” (223), but one month after the wedding of Landry and Fadette, Sylvinet stuns everybody in the family by announcing that he wants to enlist in Napoleon’s army. There ensues a long, tearful consultation between Sylvinet and Fadette, and without any sort of explanation from either party, Sylvinet goes off to war, where he rises quickly through the ranks and earns a military cross. Whatever Sylvinet’s problem may be—homosexuality, desire for his brother’s wife, or something else—it is clear that there is in him something stubborn that resists will and correction, that eludes Fadette’s analysis, that will not now, if ever, fold into God’s providential designs. Even though Sylvinet felt that much of what Fadette said while attempting to cure him was correct, she was also fundamentally wrong about him: “She seemed to believe that he had never tried to tackle his problem and that he really understood how selfish he was. In fact, he hadn’t wanted to be selfish, nor had he been aware of it” (218). Finally there is no place for Sylvinet in the happiness of the Barbeau family, and his longing for death can only be deferred and displaced, translated and magnified into Napoleon’s machine of war and conquest: “And even though he’d never had the slightest taste for military life, his willpower was

30  La Petite Fadette

so strong that he soon distinguished himself as a good soldier, courageous in battle like a man just looking for an opportunity to get himself killed” (226). Fadette’s attempts to deal with Sylvinet’s problems are comparable to Sand’s struggle to make sense of the June Days of 1848 and the disappointments of the Second Republic. How can either one be folded into God’s providential plan? When her friend asks in the 1848 preface whether Sand has lost her faith in social progress, she replies, “On the contrary, I’ve never had more faith in the future of ideas, in the goodness of God, in the destiny of revolution than at this time in my life.” Still she has to recognize, “Never has the human race voiced a more stifled, hoarse, and ominous lament. All this will pass, and the future is ours, that I know; but just now we are being decimated” (247). Sylvinet is a cruel reminder of the disasters of history, past and present, of all the refractory things that resist providence and perfectibility. Fadette, on the other hand, represents a reservoir of dreams and ideals that will be kept alive while awaiting another chance to be worked into the social fabric. What Fadette ultimately manages to do reaches far beyond individual happiness, even though the novel, written in a state of siege, can only hint at the full range of her accomplishments. Despite the fact that Barbeau, before her wedding to Landry, asked Fadette to give “the kiss of peace to the guardian you’ve chosen for yourself or to the father who wants to adopt you” (212), she will not be subsumed under his authority. Quite to the contrary, Fadette comes to be recognized as “the finest head and best adviser in the family” (225) and discreetly takes the place of her father-in-law. In Fadette’s new family the hierarchical relationship between Barbeau and his wife dissolves into companionate conversation. Fadette and Landry’s children “learned from an early age to be cordial and compassionate to those who were neither rich nor coddled” (224), melting the prejudices that stood in the way of their parents’ love for each other. While the old remégeuses are all dead or soon to die, Fadette carries on the tradition of their healing powers, but without any suggestion of secrecy or witchcraft. Instead of selling her remedies and thereby profiting from the miseries of the countryfolk around her, she shares her healing powers free of charge, “just out of love for the good Lord and her neighbor” (204). Despite Fadette’s retreat

Introduction  31

into domesticity in the months before her wedding to Landry, she afterwards comes to occupy a space that subverts the distinction between private and public spaces when she founds a shelter for unfortunate children. There she and her brother teach the children “true religion” (214)—certainly not the dogma of the Catholic Church, which, aside from figures such as Lamennais, upheld conservative values and allied with the forces of reaction. Fadette’s religion, like that of Consuelo,16 is inspired by Pierre Leroux’s religion of humanity, in which the good news of the gospel is revealed as democratic socialism, with sentiment, not violence, acting as the motor of social reform.17 Whoever speaks about children is speaking about the future, and perhaps the children educated by Fadette will change the course of history and allow coming revolutions to realize their full promise without recourse to terror and war. Fadette’s achievements may be construed as resulting from the qualities of one rare and truly exceptional woman. On the other hand, the narrator takes the trouble to underline that her baptismal name is Françoise, an old way of spelling Française, and, as Kathryn Grossman glosses, Fadette is “the quintessential Frenchwoman, the ideal citizen waiting to be born from the ruins of the Second Republic.”18

La Petite Fadette

1848 Preface Why We Are Getting Back to Our Sheep Nohant,1 September 1848 And, all the while discussing the Republic that we dream about2 and the one that we are subjected to,3 we had arrived at the spot in the shady lane where the wild thyme bids one to come have a rest. “Do you remember,” he4 said, “that we were walking along here a year ago and then spent the whole evening in this very place? For this is where you told me the waif’s story5 and I said you ought to write it down in the folksy style you had used with me.” “And where I was imitating the way our hemp dresser talks. I remember, and it seems to me we’ve aged ten years since that day.” “And yet nature is no different,” said my friend. “The night is still pure, the stars still twinkle, the wild thyme still smells good.” “But mankind is now worse, and that goes for us like all the others. The good have become weak, the weak are fainthearted, the fainthearted cowardly; the valiant have turned foolhardy, the skeptical depraved, the selfish ferocious.” “And what about us?” he asked. “What were we, and what have we become?” “We were sad; now we’re miserable,” I replied. He took me to task for feeling disheartened and tried to make me see that revolutions are no beds of roses. I knew that, of course, and scarcely worried for my own sake; but he also attempted to convince me that the school of misfortune was beneficial and developed faculties that only grow cold and numb in tranquility. I was not at all of his opinion at that moment; I could not so easily make up my mind about the dreadful instincts, passions, and deeds that revolutions flush up to the surface. “A few hardships and a bit of extra work can do people in our circumstances a lot of good,” I told him, “but going deeper into poverty is death for the poor. And then, let’s put aside material pain: right

1848 Preface  35

now humanity is feeling spiritual pain that cannot lead to anything good. The wicked are in pain, and that means rage; the righteous are in pain, and that means martyrdom that few men survive.” “So you’re losing faith?” my scandalized friend asked me. “On the contrary, I’ve never had more faith in the future of ideas, in the goodness of God, in the destiny of revolution than at this time in my life. But faith counts by centuries, and ideas embrace time and space, without taking days and hours into account; and we poor humans, we’re counting the moments of our swift passage and savoring the joy and bitterness of it all without being able to shield ourselves from living in our hearts and minds with the people of these times. When they go astray, we are dismayed; when they get lost, we despair; when they are in pain, it is impossible for us to be peaceful and happy. The night is beautiful, you say, and the stars are twinkling. No doubt, and this serenity of sky and earth is the image of the imperishable truth whose divine source can be neither depleted nor troubled. Yet, while we are contemplating the ether and the heavenly bodies, while we are sniffing the sweet scent of wild herbs, and nature surrounds us with the song of her eternal idyll, people are suffocating, languishing, weeping, gasping for breath, and dying in garret rooms and dungeons. Never has the human race voiced a more stifled, hoarse, and ominous lament. All this will pass, and the future is ours, that I know; but just now we are being decimated. God still reigns; but at this hour he does not rule.” “Try and quit this despair,” said my friend. “Think of your art and aim to rediscover some charm for yourself in the leisure it imposes on you.” “Art is like nature,” I told him. “It is always beautiful. It is like God, who is always good; but there are times when art is content to exist as an abstraction, only to be revealed later on when its disciples are worthy. Then the breath of art will revive the lyres long reduced to silence; but those that were shattered in the storm, will it be able to make them sound again? Art today is in the throes of decay to prepare for a new flowering. It is like all things human, in a time of revolution, like plants that die in winter to be reborn in the spring. But bad weather kills lots of tender shoots. Two or three fewer flowers or fruits, what do they matter in nature? A few

36  La Petite Fadette

voices forever silenced, a few hearts frozen in pain or death, what do they matter in humanity? No, art cannot console me for what justice and truth are suffering today over the earth. Art will live on just fine without us. Superb and immortal like poetry, like nature, it will always smile on our ruins. Those of us living through these evil days, let us endeavor to be human beings before artists; we have quite something else to deplore than the silence of the muses.” “Listen to the plow chant,” said my friend to me. “That, at least, does not jeer at anyone’s pain, and maybe for over a thousand years the fine wine of our countryside has been sowing and consecrating, like the witches of Faust,6 under the influence of this simple and solemn melody.” I listened to the plowman’s recitative, interspersed with long silences; I admired the infinite variety that the grave vagaries of his improvisation imposed on the ancient sacramental theme. It was like nature herself in a daydream, or like a mysterious formula by which the earth was heralding each phase of the concert of its strength with man’s work. The daydream into which I myself fell, and to which this chant inclines by an irresistible fascination, changed the course of my thoughts. “What you were saying to me right here last year is altogether true,” I said to my friend. “Poetry is something more than poets; it’s outside of them, above them. It’s beyond revolutions. O those locked away in prison! O those in the jaws of death! The captives and vanquished of every nation, the martyrs to every stage of progress! Always will there be, in any breath of air made to quiver by the human voice, a beneficial harmony to suffuse your souls with religious balm. It does not even take so much: the song of a bird, the buzzing of an insect, the murmuring breeze, the very stillness of nature, always interspersed with a few mysterious sounds of unspeakable eloquence. If this furtive language succeeds in reaching your ear, for even just an instant, your spirit is freed from mankind’s cruel yoke, and your soul soars unfettered throughout creation. There reigns this sovereign charm truly belonging to one and all, which the poor enjoy more often than the rich, and which shows itself more gladly to the victim than to the executioner.” “So you see,” said my friend to me, “that even as distressed and

1848 Preface  37

miserable as we are, nobody can take away our sweet delight in loving nature and finding repose in its poetry. Well then, since we can no longer give anything more than that to all those who are suffering, let’s go on making art as we once understood it. In other words, let’s ever so gently celebrate such sweet poetry; let’s press it out, like the sap of a salutary herb on humanity’s wounds. No doubt, in the search for truths applicable to its material well-being, there would be several different remedies to be discovered. But others will deal with that better than we; and since the vital and urgent question of society is just now a matter of argument, let’s try and calm the fever for action in us as well as others by means of some harmless entertainment. If we were in Paris, we would think nothing of going to hear some music every now and then to refresh our souls. Since we’re out here in the fields, let’s listen to nature’s music.” “That being the case,” I said to my friend, “let’s get back to our sheep and shepherds’ tales. Do you remember that before the revolution we used to philosophize on this very question: Why has every soul anguished by troubles in the public realm always longed to dive back into pastoral dreams, into a certain ideal of country life all the more naive and childlike as life in the real world was more brutal and thoughts more somber?” “That’s true, and never have I felt it better. I confess that I am so weary of turning round and round in a vicious circle with regard to politics, so bored with accusing the governing minority, only to be forced a moment later to acknowledge that this minority has been elected by the majority,7 that I’d rather forget the whole thing, if only for an evening, and turn my ear to the peasant who was chanting a little while ago, or to you yourself, if you wanted to tell me one of those tales that your village hemp dresser teaches you when everybody gets together on autumn evenings.” “The plowman won’t be chanting anymore today,” I replied, “for the sun is already down, and there he goes back on home with his oxen, leaving the plowshare in the furrow. The hemp is still soaking in the creek, and it’s not even time to put it up in sheaves, which look like so many little ghosts lined up for battle in the moonlight, alongside the fences and cottages. But I know the hemp dresser; he is always more than glad to tell stories, and he doesn’t

38  La Petite Fadette

live far from here. We can just go invite him for supper; and, given that he has not been breaking8 for a long while or swallowing flax dust, he’ll be all the more eloquent and better winded.”9 “Well then, let’s go fetch him,” said my friend, delighted by the prospect, “and tomorrow you’ll write down his tale, to continue, with The Devil’s Pool10 and Francis the Waif, a series of rustic tales to which we’ll give the classic title The Hemp Dresser’s Evening Tales.” “And we’ll dedicate this collection to our friends in prison; since we’ve been forbidden to talk politics with them, we can only tell them tales to amuse them or lull them to sleep. I dedicate this one in particular to Armand . . .”11 “No need to name him,” said my friend. “People would see a hidden meaning in your apologue, and they’d discover some heinous conspiracy down underneath. I know, of course, whom you mean, and so will he himself, without your even tracing the first letter of his name.” The hemp dresser, having supped well, and seeing to his right a big pitcher of white wine, to his left a pot of tobacco so that he could fill his pipe whenever he wished that evening, told us the following story.

1851 Preface

After the dreadful June Days of 18481 I felt troubled and dismayed, down to the depths of my soul, by the storms outside and struggled to rediscover in solitude at least faith, if not tranquility. If I professed to be a philosopher, I could believe or claim that faith in ideas induces inner calm when facing the disasters of contemporary history, but that’s not the way it is for me, and I humbly confess that the certainty of a providential future cannot preserve an artist’s soul from the pain of living through a here and now that civil war has darkened and torn asunder. For the men of action who are personally involved in politics, there is, in every party, in every situation, a fever of hope or anguish, fury or joy, intoxicating triumph or indignant defeat. But for the poor poet, as for the idle woman, both of whom contemplate the events without having any direct or personal stake in them, no matter what the outcome of the conflict, there is the profound horror of bloodshed on one side or the other, and a sort of despair at the sight of the hatred, insults, threats, and calumnies that rise up to the heavens like an impure sacrifice in the wake of social convulsions. In such moments a stormy and powerful genius like Dante writes a terrifying poem with his tears, bile, and nerves, a drama brimming with torture and groans. You have to be tempered like that soul of iron and flame to train your imagination on the horrors of a symbolic hell when your eyes are witnessing the miserable purgatory of earthly desolation. In our day, the artist, weaker and more delicate—the mere reflection and echo of a generation rather like himself—feels the imperious need to look away and to distract the imagination by harking back to an ideal of calm, innocence, and dreams. It is his infirmity that makes him act this way, but he mustn’t blush because of it, for this is also his duty. In times when evil results from men misjudging and despising one another, it

40  La Petite Fadette

is the artist’s mission to celebrate gentleness, trust, and affection and so to remind those who are callous or disheartened that pure ways of life, tender feelings, and basic fairness are or can still be of this world. Direct allusions to present-day calamities, an appeal to fermenting passions—these are not the way to salvation. A sweet song, a tone from a shepherd’s reed pipe, a tale to lull little children to sleep without fear or suffering are better than the spectacle of real troubles, made still mightier and gloomier by the colors of fiction. Preaching union when people are cutting one another’s throats is shouting in the desert. There are times when souls are so stirred up that they have grown deaf to any direct exhortation. Ever since the June Days, of which today’s events2 are the inevitable consequence, the author of the tale that you are going to read has chosen to take on the task of being nice, even if that means dying of despair. He3 has let people scoff at his shepherds’ tales, as he let them scoff at all the rest, without worrying about certain critics’ decrees. He knows that he has given pleasure to those who love just that note, and that giving pleasure to those who suffer from the same affliction as he does, namely a horror of hatred and revenge, is doing them all the good that they can take: an ephemeral benefit, some short-term relief, true enough, but more real than impassioned ranting, and more gripping than a classic demonstration. Nohant, 21 December 1851

chapter 1 Old Barbeau from La Cosse1 was doing pretty well, proof being his seat on the town council. He had two fields that fed his family and turned a profit to boot. He cut enough hay in his meadows to fill cart after cart, and except for the grass along the edge of the stream that was choked by the rushes, it was considered first-rate fodder in these parts. Old Barbeau’s house was well built with a tile roof.2 The air was wholesome up on the hill, and there was a garden with a good yield and a vineyard that took a man six days to work. Down behind the barn he had a fine orchard, or ouche,3 as we call it around here, full of plums, wild cherries, pears, and sorb apples. The walnut trees along the edges were the oldest and biggest for two leagues around. Old Barbeau was a hardworking man, not mean, and much attached to his family, without being unfair to his neighbors and fellow parishioners. He already had three children when his wife, seeing she could no doubt handle five and had better hurry up since she was getting on in years, took it into her head to give him two at once, two fine boys. They were so much alike that people could scarcely tell them apart, and soon it was recognized that they were two bessons, meaning identical twins. Sagette,4 who caught them in her apron as they were coming into the world, took her needle and marked the firstborn’s arm with a little cross, for, as she was wont to say, a bit of ribbon or a necklace can go astray and lead to a lost birthright.5 When the child is stronger, she added, he’ll have to have an indelible mark, which indeed was made. The elder was named Sylvain, which soon became Sylvinet, to distinguish him from his older brother, who was his godfather. The younger was Landry, baptized with the name of his godfather uncle, who had been called Landriche from childhood.6 Upon his return from market, old Barbeau was surprised to see two little heads in the cradle. “Oh, oh!” he said. “This cradle’s too narrow. Tomorrow morning I’ve got to widen it.” He knew a thing or two about woodworking without ever having been taught how, and he’d made half his own furniture. But not all that surprised, he

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went to look after his wife, who, after a big glass of mulled wine, only felt better for it. “You work so hard, wife,” he said, “and now I’ve really got to put my nose to the grindstone. Here we are with two extra mouths to feed, which we truly didn’t need, and that means I’ve got to keep tilling our fields and tending to our beasts. Don’t worry; we’ll just carry on. But next time don’t give me three more, for that would be too much.” His wife started to cry, which made old Barbeau mighty upset. “Now, now,” he said, “don’t be sad, my fine wife. I meant no reproach, but thanks, quite the contrary. These are two handsome babes. I’d say there’s nothing wrong with them. They look just fine.” “Alas! My God,” said his wife. “I know you’re not scolding me, master;7 but I’m worried, for I hear there’s nothing so tricky as bringing up identical twins. They do each other harm, and nearly always one has got to die for the other to thrive.” “You don’t say!” said the father. “Is that so? These are the first two I’ve ever seen. They’re not all that common. But Sagette knows about such things, and she’ll tell us what’s what.” When they called her over, she said, “Trust me, these twins will be just fine. They won’t get sick any more than other youngsters. I’ve been birthing babies for fifty years, and I’ve seen all the little ones in these parts come into this world, live or die. These aren’t the first twins I’ve caught in my apron. First, it does them no harm to look just alike. Some don’t look any more alike than the rest of us. When one is hardy and the other feeble, then one lives and the other dies. But just look at your two. They’re as strong and handsome as one alone would be. So they didn’t do each other any harm in the womb. They both came out fine without making their mother suffer too much, and without suffering themselves. They’re wonderfully pretty and only want to live. So take comfort, Mother Barbeau, it will be a pleasure watching them grow. And if they keep on this way, only you and the folks who see them every day will be able to tell them apart, for I’ve never seen two twins look so much the same. You’d think they were two little partridges just out of the egg, so nice and so alike that only the mother partridge can reckon which is which.” “Great!” said old Barbeau, scratching his head. “But I’ve heard

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tell such twins can get so attached to each other that when they’re separated, they just can’t go on, and one at least will pine away and die.” “That’s the gospel truth,” said Sagette. “But listen to a woman of experience, and don’t forget what I’m saying, for when these youngsters are old enough to leave home, I may no longer be around to tell you a thing or two. As soon as your twins start knowing which one is which, be sure not to keep them always together. Take one out to work while the other stays home. When one goes fishing, send the other out hunting; when one is looking after the sheep, let the other go see about the oxen in the pasture; when you give one a sip of wine, give the other a glass of water, and so forth. Don’t scold or punish the two of them at the same time; don’t dress them the same way. When one has a hat, give the other a cap, and above all, don’t let them have smocks the same shade of blue. Lastly, do everything you can so they don’t think they’re one and the same and get used to depending on each other for every single thing. I fear you’ll go stick what I’m telling you in the cat’s ear. If you don’t heed my words, one day you’ll really regret it.” Sagette was speaking words of gold, and they believed her. They promised to do what she said and sent her home with a fine present. Given her strong recommendation that the twins not be nursed from the same breast, they started asking around for a wet nurse. But there weren’t any thereabouts. Barbeau’s wife, who had nursed all her other children herself, hadn’t been counting on two at once, and that’s why she hadn’t already taken measures. Old Barbeau had to go out searching around the countryside. In the meantime, the mother couldn’t just let her little ones suffer, so she nursed them both. People in these parts don’t make up their minds fast, and however rich you are, you’ve always got to bargain a bit. Everybody knew the Barbeaus weren’t short of money, and they all thought the mother, who was no spring chicken, couldn’t nurse two babies at once without wearing herself out. So all the wet nurses old Barbeau could find asked for eighteen pounds a month,8 no more and no less than they would have asked from a bourgeois. Old Barbeau didn’t want to pay more than twelve or fifteen,

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thinking this was a lot for a peasant. He went all over the place haggling to no avail. But this was no pressing matter, for two such little babies couldn’t drain their mother, and they were both so healthy and even-tempered, so rarely given to bawling, that the two in the house were scarcely more trouble than just one. When one slept, so did the other. Their father had fixed up the cradle, and when both of them cried, they were rocked and comforted at the same time. Finally old Barbeau found a wet nurse for fifteen pounds, and everything was settled aside from a little tip to seal the deal. But then his wife said, “Hmph! I really don’t see, master, why we should spend a hundred eighty or two hundred pounds a year, as though we were gentlemen and ladies and I were too old to nurse my own babies. I’ve got more than enough milk for that. They’re already a month old, our boys, and look what fine shape they’re in! That Merlaud woman you want as a wet nurse isn’t half as hale and hearty as I am; her milk has already been in for a year and a half, and that’s not what a little baby needs. True, Sagette told us not to suckle our twins at the same breast so they wouldn’t get too attached to each other, but she also said, didn’t she, that they had to have the same good care, since identical twins aren’t quite as strong as other babies? I’d sooner see ours get too attached to each other than to have to sacrifice one to the other. And besides, which one would we send away? I’d be just as sad to part company with one or the other. I’ve loved each one of my babies, and I don’t know how it’s happened, but I feel like these two are the nicest and sweetest I’ve ever had. I’ve got feelings for the two of them that make me fear losing them. I beg you, husband, forget about the wet nurse. We’ll do everything else Sagette said. How on earth would suckling babes get too attached to each other? They’ll hardly know their feet from their hands when it comes time to wean them.” “Right you are, wife,” said old Barbeau, admiring her, a woman still fresh and robust, as one rarely sees. “But then again, what if your health were to suffer as they get older?” “Have no fear,” she said. “My appetite is as good as if I were fifteen; and besides, if I feel myself getting worn out, I won’t hide it from you, I promise, and there’d still be time to send one of these poor babies away.” Old Barbeau gave in, all the more because he was just as happy

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not to spend his money for nothing. His wife nursed her twins without suffering or complaint, and she was in such fine fettle that two years after the twins were weaned she brought into the world a pretty little girl named Nanette, whom she nursed as well. But that turned out to be a bit much, and she would have had a hard time if her eldest daughter, who had just one child at that point, hadn’t relieved her every now and then by nursing her little sister. Thus, the family grew and was soon bustling about in the sun, the little uncles and aunts with the little nephews and nieces, who had no need to scold one another for being much more rambunctious or better behaved than the others.

chapter 2 The twins grew and grew, without getting sick any more than other children, and they were so sweet and even-tempered that they didn’t seem to suffer as much as the rest from teething pains or growing spurts. They were blond and remained so their whole lives long. With their big blue eyes and sturdy shoulders, they looked the picture of health. Their bodies stood straight and strong, and they were taller and pluckier than all the boys their age. Everybody passing through the little town of La Cosse would stop and have a look, amazed at how much they looked alike, then go on their way saying, “Well, what a pretty little pair!” That’s why from early on, instead of getting all bashful and silly, they got used to people checking them out and asking questions. They were fine with everybody. Instead of hiding in the bushes, as the youngsters from around here do whenever they see a stranger approaching, they would go right up to just anybody, but always so politely, and answer all their questions without staring at the ground and needing to be cajoled. At first, you couldn’t tell them apart and you’d think you were looking at two eggs. But then, after eyeing them for a quarter of an hour, you’d see Landry was a smidgen taller and stronger, his hair a bit thicker, his nose bigger, and his eyes had more of a sparkle. He had a broader forehead and a more determined look about him. The mark on his brother’s

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right cheek was on his left and much more pronounced. So, even though the locals had no trouble telling them apart, it would take them a second, and nearly everyone, at dusk or from a slight distance, would mistake one for the other, especially since the twins’ voices sounded alike. They knew people tended to mix them up, and so they answered to each other’s name without letting on. Even old Barbeau sometimes got confused. So Sagette was right: their mother was the only one who could always keep them straight, even in the middle of the night or when she could barely see or hear them off in the distance. In fact, one was tantamount to the other, and if Landry was a trifle more cheerful and brave than his elder brother, Sylvinet was so tenderhearted and clever that you couldn’t like him any less. For three months everybody took care not to let the twins get too used to each other. Out in the country, three months is a long time to hold to something going against the grain. Even so, they didn’t see that it was doing much good. Plus, the priest said Sagette was always talking drivel and that no one could undo what the good Lord had put in the laws of nature. So bit by bit they all forgot about everything they had vowed to do. The first time the twins were taken out of their little baby dresses1 to go to Mass in trousers, their garments were made of the same cloth, since they’d been cut out of their mother’s petticoat, and in the same style, since the local tailor didn’t know any other way of making trousers. As they got older, people noticed they liked the same colors. When their Aunt Rosette wanted to give the twins a necktie at New Year’s, they both chose the same lilac tie out of the pack of the peddler going door-to-door on his Percheron. Their aunt asked if that was because they always wanted to dress alike. But that’s not what the twins were after. Sylvinet said the lilac tie had the prettiest color and design of all the ones in the peddler’s pack, and Landry added that all the rest were ugly. “And what about my horse?” asked the peddler with a smile. “What do you think of the color of his coat?” “Really ugly,” said Landry. “He looks like an old magpie.” “Really and truly ugly,” said Sylvinet. “Positively a magpie half plucked.” “There you are,” the haberdasher said to the twins’ aunt with

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a knowing look. “These youngsters see things the same way. If something red looks yellow to the one, then something yellow looks red to the other, and nobody should try and tell them any different. People say if you try and stop twins from thinking they’re two prints from the same design, they become idiots and only talk nonsense.” He was saying this knowing the lilac ties would soon fade, and he wanted to get rid of both of them at the same time. As time went on, everything kept going the same way, and the twins were dressed so much alike they were mistaken for each other even more often. Either through childish mischief or the power of that natural law the priest deemed undoable, if one knocked the tip off his wooden shoe, the other would chip his own shoe in the same place and on the same foot; when one tore his jacket or cap, the other would hurry up and make the same kind of rip so it would seem like the result of the same accident. And then my2 twins would laugh and look like butter couldn’t melt in their mouths when they were called to account. Be it a good thing or bad, their feelings for each other kept on growing as they got older. Once they could reason a bit, they told each other they couldn’t have any fun with other youngsters if one of them was missing. When their father tried to keep one twin with him all day long while the other stayed home with the mother, they were both so sad, wan, and half-hearted about work that the family feared they were sick. And when they met up again that evening, they took off hand in hand down this path and that, no longer wanting to return home, so happy just to be together. They were also pouting at their parents for having upset them like this. Nobody really ever tried that again, for it has to be said that the father and mother, the uncles and aunts, and the brothers and sisters were so fond of the twins that their love was becoming something of a weakness. They were proud of the twins for all the compliments they received on their account, and also because the twins truly weren’t ugly, silly, or mean. Every now and then old Barbeau would get all worried about what would come of their being inseparable once they were grown up. Remembering what Sagette had said, he would try and tease them to make them jealous of each other. If they did a little something wrong, he would, for example, pull Sylvinet’s ears while telling Landry, “This time I’m letting you off the hook since you usually

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know better.” But Sylvinet was happy to feel his ears burning as long as his brother was spared, and Landry would cry as though he’d been punished. They also tried giving just one of them something they both wanted, but in no time at all, if it was some tasty morsel, they’d both be sharing it; or if it was a little toy or some tool, they’d keep it jointly or trade it back and forth, without making any distinction between yours and mine. If you complimented one twin for being good while seeming not to do justice to the other, the second— proud and happy his twin was being praised and petted—would do the same. In short, it was no good trying to divide them in spirit or in flesh. And since nobody really likes to upset the children they love, even for their own good, the family soon let things go according to God’s will; or else they turned these little aggravations into a game that didn’t fool the twins one bit. The boys were awfully clever, and sometimes, wanting to be left in peace, they would pretend to have a row, but it was only sport for them, and they took pains not to hurt each other as they wrestled on the ground. If some passerby was astonished to see them squabbling, they would run off to have a good laugh, and you could hear them twitter and warble like two blackbirds on a branch. Despite this great resemblance and mutual affection, God, who hasn’t made any two things absolutely the same in heaven or on earth, willed them to have very different lots in life. Then people began to see they were two separate creatures in the mind of God, each with his own temperament. This only started to show when they were put to the test after their first communion. Old Barbeau’s family grew bigger and bigger, thanks to his two older daughters, who kept bringing fine babies into the world. His oldest son, Martin, a fine, decent boy, was away doing his service,3 and his sons-in-law were hard workers, but there wasn’t always a lot of work. We’d had a number of tough years because of bad weather and market troubles, and that raked more money out of the pockets of country folks than was deposited there. So much so that old Barbeau wasn’t rich enough to keep the family together, and he had to think about hiring out his twins. Old Caillaud, over at La Priche, offered to take one to drive his oxen, for he had a lot of land to look after, and his boys were either too old or too young for that job. Barbeau’s wife was terribly

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upset when her husband first brought it up with her, as though she had never thought this would happen to her twins. Yet she had been worrying about it ever since they’d been born. Because she always obeyed her husband, she didn’t know what to say. He too was awfully worried, and so he took his time preparing things. At first the two twins cried and spent three days out in the woods and fields, making themselves scarce except for meals. They didn’t say a word to their parents, and when asked if they were going to do their duty, they kept silent, but together they talked a lot about it. The first day the two of them could do nothing but wail and cling to each other as though they were afraid somebody would come along and separate them by force. But old Barbeau never would have done that. He had a peasant’s wisdom, which is half patience and half trust in time. So the next day the twins, seeing that nobody was scolding them, but just expecting them to come to their senses, had more fear of their father’s will than of threats and punishments. “But we’ve still got to do what he says,” said Landry, “and figure out which one of us will go. That’s up to us, and old Caillaud said he couldn’t take the two of us.” “What do I care if I go away or stay home?” said Sylvinet. “The main thing is not being able to be together anymore. Having to go live somewhere else doesn’t bother me. If I could go with you, I’d find it easy being away from home.” “That’s what you say,” Landry replied, “and yet the one who stays home will have a much easier time than the one who can no longer see his twin, his father and mother, his garden and his animals, and all the other things he is wont to enjoy.” Landry said this looking quite determined; but Sylvinet started crying again. He was less determined than his brother, and the idea of losing everything all at once and leaving it all behind was so painful to him that he just couldn’t stop crying. Landry was crying too, but not as much, and not for the same reason. He always thought to take the greatest burden for himself, and he wanted to see what his brother could bear so as to spare him all the rest. He knew Sylvinet was more afraid of going to live in a strange place and committing himself to another family. “Look, brother,” he said, “if we can resolve to part, it’s better I should go. You know I’m a bit stronger, and when we’re sick, and

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that’s usually at the same time, the fever gets you worse than it does me. People say we could die if we’re separated. As for me, I don’t think so; but I wouldn’t vouch for you, and that’s why I’d sooner know you were with our mother, who’ll take loving care of you. In fact, if they make any distinction between the two of us at home, and it’s one that hardly shows, I think you’re the one they cherish most, and I know you’re the sweetest and most tenderhearted. So you stay, and I’ll go. We won’t be far apart. Old Caillaud’s land borders on ours, and we’ll see each other every day. I like hard work, and it’ll take my mind off things. And since I run better, I’ll get home to you faster once I’ve done my day’s work. You won’t have that much to do, so you can walk over to see me working. I’ll be much less worried about you this way. So I’m asking you to stay.”

chapter 3 Sylvinet refused to listen. Even though he was more attached to his father, mother, and little Nanette than Landry, he was afraid to let his dear twin take on the burden. After talking it over, they drew straws, and the lot fell to Landry. Not liking the result, Sylvinet said they should try flipping a coin. Three times in a row he got heads, and Landry was always the one to go. “See, it’s been decided by fate,” said Landry, “and you know you mustn’t try and stand in its way.” The third day Sylvinet was still weeping, but Landry’s tears were nearly dry. His first thoughts about leaving home may have pained him more than his brother because Landry knew his own courage better, and he had no illusions about the impossibility of going against his parents. Turning his sorrow over and over in his mind, he had worn it down faster and done a lot of thinking. Sylvinet, on the other hand, getting more and more upset, hadn’t found the courage to think things through. Finally, Landry was already determined to leave, while Sylvinet was still working on the idea of seeing him go. Landry had a bit more self-respect than his brother. They had been told time and time again they’d only ever be half a man if

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they didn’t get used to being apart, and that’s why Landry, starting to feel the pride of his fourteen years, wanted to prove he was no longer a child. He had always been the one to lead his brother by the hand, from the first time they had gone to fetch a nest from the very top of a tree up to this very day. So once again he managed to calm Sylvinet down, and back home that evening he told his father they would do their duty. They had drawn straws, and it had fallen to Landry to go drive the huge oxen at La Priche. Old Barbeau took the twins on his knee, even though the boys were already big and strong, and said, “Children, you have now reached the age of reason—your obedience is the proof—and this pleases me. Remember, when children please their father and mother, they please Almighty God in heaven, who will give them their reward one day or another. Don’t tell me who was the first to yield. But God knows, and he’ll bless the one for saying the right words and the other for marking them in his heart.” Then he took the twins to their mother so she could congratulate them. Trying hard to hold back her tears, she couldn’t say a word and just kissed them. For old Barbeau, who was no oaf, it was quite clear which twin was more courageous and which more tenderhearted. He had no desire to let Sylvinet’s goodwill grow cold, for he could see that Landry’s mind was all made up, and one thing alone could make him falter: his brother’s grief. So he woke Landry up before dawn, being very careful not to disturb his older brother, sleeping next to him. “Let’s get going, little one,” he whispered. “We’ve got to leave for La Priche before your mother sees you. You know she’s sad, and we’ve got to spare her the goodbyes. I’m going to take you to your new master and carry your bundle.” “Can’t I say goodbye to my brother?” asked Landry. “He’ll hold it against me if I just leave like this.” “If he wakes up and sees you about to leave, he’ll cry and wake your mother, and your mother will cry even harder because you’ll both be grieving. Come on, Landry, you’re a good boy, and you don’t want to make your mother ill. Do your duty through and through, my child; leave as though it were nothing. This evening I’ll bring your brother over to see you, and tomorrow being Sunday, you’ll come see your mother during the day.”

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Landry bravely obeyed and went out the door without turning back around. Barbeau’s wife, being neither sound asleep nor serene, had heard everything. Feeling her husband was right, the poor woman did not budge from where she lay and just parted the bed curtains to see Landry going through the door. Then her heart felt so heavy that she jumped out of bed to go give him a kiss, but she stopped at the twins’ bed, where Sylvinet was still sleeping his eyes out. He had cried so hard for the past three days and just about three nights that the poor boy was dead tired and even a bit feverish. He was tossing and turning on his pillow, heaving great sighs and moaning without being able to wake up. Barbeau’s wife, fixing her eye on the one remaining twin, couldn’t help thinking his leaving would have caused her even greater pain. True, he was the more sensitive one. Maybe he had less mettle, or maybe, according to God’s natural law, when two people care for each other, be it in love or friendship, there’s always one who’s got to give more of his heart than the other. Old Barbeau had a whit of preference for Landry because he prized hard work and courage over kisses and sweet little gestures. But their mother had the same whit of preference for Sylvinet, the most graceful and cuddly one. So there she was, gazing at her poor little fellow, all wan and haggard, and thinking it would be a great pity to hire him out so soon. On the other hand, Landry had more grit and could better endure hardship. Besides, he didn’t risk making himself sick for the love of his twin and mother. “That boy has a grand notion of duty,” she thought to herself. “All the same, if he weren’t a bit hard-hearted, he wouldn’t have just left like that, without stalling, turning his head, or shedding one wretched tear. He wouldn’t have had the strength to put one foot in front of the other without falling to his knees and praying God for courage. Instead, he would have come to my bed, where I was pretending to be asleep, just to look at me and kiss the hem of my bed curtains. My Landry is an honest-to-God boy. Living, tearing around, working hard, and staying on the move—that’s all that interests him. But this one has the heart of a girl; he’s so tender and sweet you can’t help loving him like your own two eyes.” Turning these thoughts around in her head, Barbeau’s wife returned to bed, without ever falling back asleep. Meanwhile old

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Barbeau was marching along with Landry through fields and pastures to La Priche. On the way there’s a hill, and once you start down the other side, you lose sight of La Cosse and all its houses. When they reached the top, Landry stopped and turned around. His heart swelled, and he sat down in the ferns, unable to take another step. His father pretended not to see and kept going. A moment later he gently called out, “Day is breaking, Landry. Hurry along so we can get there before sunup.” Landry stood back up. Having sworn to himself not to cry in front of his father, he forced back his tears, now the size of peas, and pretended to have dropped his pocketknife. He arrived at La Priche having kept his pain to himself, even though it was far from slight.

chapter 4 Old Caillaud, seeing he was getting the stronger and more diligent twin, was very glad to have him. He felt sure this had to have been a painful decision. Being a good man, fine neighbor, and great friend to old Barbeau, he did his best to flatter and encourage Landry. Right away he had soup and a pitcher of wine brought to cheer him up, for it was easy to see how sad the boy was. Then he took him out to the oxen and showed him how to fasten their yoke. This was really nothing new to Landry, as his father had a pretty pair of oxen he had often yoked up and driven without any trouble. As soon as the boy set eyes on old Caillaud’s big oxen—the best kept, fed, and bred in the whole countryside—his pride felt tickled to have such beautiful cattle at the end of his goad. He was happy to make everybody see that he was neither clumsy nor cowardly and already knew just what to do. His father also showed him in a good light. When it was time to go off to the fields, every one of old Caillaud’s children, boys and girls, big and little, gave Landry a kiss, and the youngest girl took ribbons and tied a bunch of flowers to his hat since this was his first day of work and something of a festival day for the family taking him on. Before leaving, his father admonished Landry in front of old Caillaud, ordering the boy to measure up to all the expectations of his new master and to tend his cattle as though they were his own.

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Having vowed to do his best, Landry went out to the fields. There he held his head high and plowed all day long. Afterward he was famished, for he had never worked so hard, which does wonders for a heavy heart. But things weren’t going so well for poor Sylvinet, over at the Twinnery. Old Barbeau’s place in La Cosse had been going by that name ever since the two boys were born, and a bit later one of their maidservants delivered a pair of identical twin girls who hadn’t survived. Now, being that peasants are great givers of nicknames, the place had been rebaptized the Twinnery, and wherever Sylvinet and Landry showed their faces, children would run up shrieking, “Here they are, the twins of the Twinnery!” Great sadness reigned that day at Barbeau’s Twinnery. As soon as Sylvinet woke up and didn’t see his brother in bed, he guessed what had happened, but he couldn’t believe Landry would just leave without saying goodbye. He was angry and hurt. “So what did I do to him?” he wailed to his mother. “Just what could I have done to make him so cross? I’ve always done what he’s told me; and when he begged me not to cry in front of you, Mother dear, I held back my tears until my head was exploding. He promised not to leave before cheering me up and having breakfast together at the far end of the hemp field, where we used to go talk and play. I wanted to fix his bundle and give him my knife, which is better than his. So, last night, Mother, without one word to me, you just rolled up his bundle, knowing he meant to leave without saying goodbye?” “That’s how your father wanted it,” replied Barbeau’s wife. She said everything she could think of to console him. He didn’t want to hear a word of it. Only after noticing that she too was crying, he started kissing her, begging her forgiveness for making her feel even worse and promising to stay close to make it up to her. But as soon as she went to tend to the chickens and the laundry, he tore off in the direction of La Priche, not even realizing where he was headed, but just letting himself get carried away by instinct like a pigeon running after his hen, without giving a thought to how to get there. He would have made it to La Priche had he not run into his father, on his way back home. Old Barbeau took the boy by the

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hand, saying, “We’ll go on over this evening, but you mustn’t get in your brother’s way while he’s working. That wouldn’t please his master. Besides, the woman at our place is awfully sad, and you can comfort her, I reckon.”

chapter 5 Back home, Sylvinet clung to his mother’s petticoats like a baby and stuck around her all day long, talking on and on about Landry and finding it impossible to stop thinking about him as he revisited all their old haunts. Come evening he went over to La Priche with his father, who insisted on going along. Sylvinet was near crazy to go give his twin a kiss, and he was so eager to get going that he hadn’t eaten his supper. He thought Landry would meet him partway, and in his mind’s eye he kept seeing his twin running up to him. But Landry, even though he wanted to do just that, did not budge. He was afraid the fellows from La Priche would make fun of him, for people considered the twins’ mutual affection like some kind of sickness. So Sylvinet found him at the supper table, eating and drinking as though he’d spent his whole life with the Caillauds. Still, the moment Landry saw him come in, his heart leaped for joy, and had he not restrained himself, he would have knocked over table and bench to go give him a hug. Yet he didn’t dare because his masters were watching him curiously, amused to see their love as something novel and as a phenomenon of nature, as our schoolmaster liked to say. And when Sylvinet came and threw himself on his brother, kissing him and crying, hugging him close like a bird in the nest snuggling up to his brother for warmth, Landry felt bothered because of the others, even though he couldn’t help feeling happy as well.1 All the same, Landry wanted to look more levelheaded than his brother, and every now and then he gestured to his twin to mind himself, which surprised Sylvinet and made him very cross. Then, with old Barbeau having started talking with his friend Caillaud over a drink or two, the twins went outside together, since Landry was wanting to kiss and hug his brother more or less in private. But the other guys watched them from afar, and little

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Solange, old Caillaud’s youngest daughter, mischievous and curious as a linnet, toddled right along behind them into the hazelnut grove. She would laugh sheepishly when they paid her any notice, but still she stuck around, figuring she was going to see something odd, even though she couldn’t fathom what surprises brotherly love might hold in store. Astonished that Landry had greeted him so calmly, Sylvinet did not think to scold him for it. He was just so glad to be back together. The next morning Landry, feeling that he was his own master since old Caillaud had given him leave from all his duties, headed home so bright and early that he thought he’d catch his brother still in bed. Even though Sylvinet was the bigger sleeper of the two, he woke up just as Landry was coming over the orchard fence and tore outside barefoot, as though something had told him his twin was drawing near. Landry was perfectly happy all day long. It was good to see his house and family again. He knew he couldn’t be there every day, so it felt like a reward. Sylvinet forgot all his sorrows until noon. At breakfast he told himself he’d be having dinner with his brother; but after dinner he thought about supper being their last meal together, and he started feeling worried and restless. He pampered his brother to his heart’s content, giving him the best morsels from his plate, the crust of his bread, and the heart of his salad. Then he fretted about Landry’s clothes and shoes, as though he had to go far, far away and were much to be pitied, without even suspecting that he, being the most distressed, was the more pitiful of the two.

chapter 6 The whole rest of the week followed the same routine: Sylvinet going to see Landry every day, and Landry stopping over for a moment or two; Landry more and more used to his lot, Sylvinet not one whit used to his, counting the days, the hours, like a lost soul. Landry was the only one who could make Sylvinet listen to reason, so their mother asked him to help Sylvinet settle down. With every passing day the poor child was more and more distressed. He wouldn’t play; he only worked when he had to. He

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would still take his little sister out and about, but hardly saying a word or playing with her, just making sure she didn’t fall down and hurt herself. As soon as nobody had an eye on him, he would take off, without anybody knowing where he was going. He revisited all the ditches, hedges, and ravines where he and Landry used to go play and talk, and he sat on the roots where they had sat together; he dipped his feet in all the trickles of water where they had splashed around like two little ducks. He felt happy when he came across a few bits of wood Landry had hacked with his billhook or a couple of pebbles he had used as quoits or flints. Then he would go hide them in a tree hole or under a stump so he could come look at them every now and then, as though they were treasures. He was always sifting through his mind for every little relic of his past felicity. To anyone else, this would have seemed like nothing, and to him it was everything. He gave no thought to the future, fearing the thought of more days like the ones he was enduring. Seeing nothing but the past, he was wasting away in one long daydream. Sometimes he imagined seeing and hearing his twin, and he would talk all by himself, thinking Landry was with him. Or else he would fall asleep wherever he was and dream about him. Waking up and finding himself alone, he would cry his eyes out, hoping to exhaust his pain. Once he wandered as far as the young stand of timber at Champeaux, down along a creek that springs up out of the woods after a heavy rain. Even though it was nearly dried up at that point, he happened upon one of those little waterwheels that the children around here weave out of tiny branches. Painstakingly put together, they turn with the current and sometimes last quite a while, until they’re broken by other children or washed away. This waterwheel had been there over two months, safe and sound in this desolate spot. Sylvinet easily recognized it as the work of his twin. While making their waterwheel, they had vowed to come back and see it, then promptly forgot about it, only to build many more elsewhere. Delighted to see the waterwheel again, he carried it downstream a little ways, where there was still some water flowing. Watching it turn, he remembered what fun it had been for Landry to start the wheel spinning. He left it there, thinking what fun it would be to

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come back that first Sunday with Landry, to show him how long their waterwheel had endured, being so solid and well constructed. But he couldn’t help returning all alone the next day. Now the edge of the creek was all torn up and trampled by the oxen that had come down to drink after being put out to pasture that morning among the saplings. A bit further on he saw that their hooves had smashed his waterwheel into so many tiny bits that there was practically nothing left . His heart grew heavy, fearing that something bad had to have happened to his twin that day, and he tore over to La Priche to make sure he was all right. But he had noticed that Landry, afraid that his master would be annoyed if he let himself get distracted from his work, didn’t like to see him show up during the day. So he just watched from afar, without Landry ever seeing him. He would have been ashamed to confess what had made him come running, and he went home without saying a word to anybody until much later. As he was growing pale, sleeping poorly, and hardly eating a thing, his mother was much distressed and didn’t know how to comfort him. She would take him to market or pack him off to livestock fairs with his father or uncles, but he couldn’t care less and found nothing any fun. His father, without saying a word to him, tried to get old Caillaud to hire both twins. But his friend gave him a reply he couldn’t shrug off. “Let’s suppose I took them both for a while. It just wouldn’t last. For folks like us, when you need one pair of hands, there’s no need for two. At the end of the year you’d still have to hire one of them out someplace else. And if your Sylvinet were someplace where he was forced to work, he wouldn’t daydream so much, and he’d do like the other, who has bravely accepted his lot. Sooner or later things will have to come to that. Maybe you won’t manage to hire him out where you wish. And if these youngsters have to go still farther afield, seeing each other just once a week or once a month, you’d better start getting them used to not always being cheek by jowl. Have some sense, old man, and don’t pay so much attention to the whims of a child your wife and other children have spoiled too much. The worst is over. Believe me, he’ll get used to the rest if you don’t give in.” Barbeau backed down, recognizing that the more Sylvinet saw

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his twin, the more he yearned to see him. And he resolved to try to hire him out at the next feast of Saint John1 so that Sylvinet, seeing less and less of Landry, would finally begin trying to live like other people and not let himself be ruled by a love that was becoming fever and longing. But it was still too soon to talk it over with his wife. At the first word she would start crying her heart out. She kept saying Sylvinet might do himself in, and old Barbeau felt himself in a real predicament. Landry, on the advice of his father, his master, and also his mother, tried to reason with his poor twin. Sylvinet didn’t defend himself one bit; he made all kinds of promises, and just couldn’t get the better of himself. There was something else he didn’t ever say because he didn’t have the words for it: in the very depths of his heart he had come to feel terribly jealous of Landry. It made him happy, happier than he’d ever been, that everybody thought well of Landry and that his new masters treated him like one of their own children. On the one hand, he was delighted, but on the other, he felt pained and put out to see Landry respond too eagerly, he thought, to these new ties. He couldn’t stand it when Landry, on a word from old Caillaud, no matter how gentle and patient the call, would tear off to do his bidding, abandoning father, mother, and brother, more concerned about duty than love, and obeying more promptly than Sylvinet ever could have when it was a matter of spending another moment or two with someone he loved so faithfully. Then the poor child began to have a brand-new worry: that he was the only one who loved, and that his love was poorly requited. This must have always been the case, without his having realized it before. Or else his twin’s love had cooled a while back because elsewhere he had met people who suited him better and were more to his liking.

chapter 7 Landry couldn’t guess that his brother was jealous, since there wasn’t a jealous bone in his body. When Sylvinet came to see him at La Priche, Landry, to entertain him, would take him round to

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see the big oxen, fine cows, many sheep, and abundant harvests that old Caillaud’s tenant farmers brought in. All this inspired Landry’s respect and consideration, not for reasons of envy, but because he loved working the land, raising animals, and everything about farming that was beautiful and properly done. He liked to see the filly he was taking to the meadow looking clean, plump, and sleek, and he couldn’t stand the slightest task being sloppily discharged, nor seeing anything able to live and bear fruit being abandoned, neglected, or seemingly scorned among the good Lord’s bounty. Sylvinet was amazed that his brother so took to heart things that meant utterly nothing to him. Rather touchy on this score, he would say, “You’re sure fond of these big oxen, Landry! Have you forgotten about our little bulls? So high-spirited, even though they used to be so nice and docile that they’d sooner take the yoke from you than from our father? You haven’t even asked about our cow that gives such good milk. She looks so sad when I go feed her. You’d think the poor beast understood that I’m all alone now and wanted to ask where the other twin is.” “True, she’s a good one,” said Landry, “but how about this one here! You should see them at milking time! You’ve never seen so much milk all at once.” “Could be,” replied Sylvinet, “but I bet her milk and cream aren’t as good as Brunette’s. The Twinnery’s grass is better than the grass around here.” “Golly!” said Landry. “My father would just jump at the chance to trade that marshy meadow of his down along the creek for old Caillaud’s hay.” “Rubbish!” said Sylvinet, shrugging his shoulders. “Some of our trees down there are more beautiful than any of yours. As for the hay, maybe there’s not much, but it’s really fine, and when they’re bringing it in, it smells so sweet all along the way.” So they would quarrel for no reason. Landry knew there were no finer things than one’s own, and Sylvinet, turning up his nose at everything at La Priche, wasn’t thinking about his things more than anybody else’s. At bottom, all this idle chatter was about one boy happy to work and live, no matter where or how, and another who

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couldn’t understand how his brother could enjoy one moment’s happiness and peace away from him. If Landry took his twin to his master’s garden and, while they were talking, paused to snip a dead branch off a graft or pull a weed out of the vegetable patch, Sylvinet felt peeved that Landry was always tending to things for other people instead of being like him, all eyes and ears for his brother’s slightest breath or word. He didn’t let this show because he was ashamed of being so prickly; but when it came time to say goodbye, he would often add, “Well, you’ve had quite enough of me for today, maybe even too much, and you’re surely itching for me to go.” Landry couldn’t understand what his brother was blaming him for. Sylvinet’s words hurt his feelings, and then he would turn them back on his brother, who would not or could not explain himself. The poor child was jealous of the slightest things that occupied Landry’s attention, but he was even more jealous of the people Landry seemed to like. He couldn’t stomach Landry being chummy and full of beans with the other guys at La Priche, and when he saw him looking after little Solange, petting or amusing her, he would scold him for having forgotten his little sister, Nanette, who he said was a hundred times cuter, cleaner, and nicer than that nasty little girl. People who let jealousy devour their hearts are never in the right. So when Landry came over to the Twinnery, Sylvinet thought he paid too much attention to his little sister. He would scold him for having eyes for her alone and just acting bored with him. In short, bit by bit his love became so demanding and his mood so glum that Landry was starting not to want to see him too often. He got tired of always being scolded for having accepted his lot, and it almost seemed as if Sylvinet would have been less unhappy if he had managed to make his brother as unhappy as he was.1 Landry understood and tried to make him see that love, when it’s too strong, can sometimes be trouble. Sylvinet didn’t want to hear it, and he even thought his brother was being awfully hard on him. Sometimes he refused to have anything to do with Landry, spending weeks on end without going over to La Priche, even though he was dying to do just that. But he wouldn’t let himself,

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making a question of pride out of something that shouldn’t have had anything to do with it. This led to more squabbles, Sylvinet never failing to take all of Landry’s wise, well-meaning advice the wrong way. Poor Sylvinet even came to feel such resentment that he sometimes figured he hated the brother he loved so much, and one Sunday he left the house to avoid spending the day with his brother, who always came to see him no matter what. This childish tantrum really made Landry feel bad. He liked having a roaring good time, for with every passing day he was stronger and more confident. Having the nimblest body and sharpest eye, he was the best in all the games. So he was making quite a sacrifice for his brother, leaving the fun-loving fellows at La Priche every Sunday to spend the whole day at the Twinnery. Proposing to Sylvinet that they go play on the central square of La Cosse or even walk around was out of the question. Sylvinet had remained a child in body and mind much more than his brother, and there was just one idea in the boy’s head: loving Landry alone and being loved just the same way. He always wanted the two of them to go all by themselves to their spots, as he used to say, meaning all the secret places and hideaways where they used to play games no longer suited to their age, making little wicker wheelbarrows, tiny waterwheels or snares for catching little birds, houses out of pebbles and fields the size of a handkerchief that children pretend to work in various ways—small-scale imitations of the plowing, sowing, harrowing, weeding, and harvesting they see being done around here—and so teaching each other in just one hour everything farmers do in their fields in the course of a year. This was no longer any fun for Landry, now that he was doing real work or helping with it, and he’d sooner drive a big cart with a team of six oxen than hitch a little wagon of branches to his dog’s tail. He would have liked to go spar with the big, strong fellows at La Priche or play ninepins, now that he was good at scooping up the big ball and rolling it thirty paces just so. When Sylvinet agreed, instead of playing, he would just stand around without saying a word, all set to get bored and fretful if Landry seemed to be enjoying himself too much. Landry had learned to dance at La Priche, and he liked it. He

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had taken it up late because Sylvinet hadn’t ever been interested. Even so, he already danced as well as those who start as soon as they know how to walk. At La Priche he was considered a good dancer of the bourrée.2 He didn’t yet like kissing the girls, which is the custom before each new dance, but he was glad to do it because this made him look grown-up. He would even have wished that the girls would make a bit of a fuss about it, as they did with the men. But they didn’t yet, and the older girls would laugh and put an arm around his neck, which bothered him a bit. Once Sylvinet had seen him dance, and that had caused one of his worst tantrums. He got so mad seeing Landry kiss one of old Caillaud’s daughters that he shed tears of jealousy. He thought the whole thing was downright indecent and unchristian.3 So each time Landry sacrificed his fun to Sylvinet, he spent a rather dull Sunday. Still he always showed up, reckoning that Sylvinet would be grateful, and he didn’t feel bad about being a bit bored since he thought he was doing it for his brother’s happiness. Seeing that Sylvinet, after picking a fight with him during the week, had taken off to avoid making up, Landry felt bad, and for the first time since leaving home, he started sobbing and went to go hide. He had never wanted to share his pain with his parents for fear of making theirs only greater. And yet, if someone had some right to be jealous, it was Landry. Their mother loved Sylvinet best, and even old Barbeau, despite his secret preference for Landry, went easier on Sylvinet. Having less strength and good sense, the poor child was also more spoiled, and his parents were more afraid of upsetting him. He had the best lot, being with the family, while his twin had taken on the burdens of absence and toil. For the first time Landry thought all this through and decided his twin was really being unfair to him. Up until then his kindly nature had prevented him from putting Sylvinet in the wrong. Landry had blamed himself instead for being too hardy and too keen on work and play, for not having his brother’s gift for sweet words and thoughtful gestures. But this time he couldn’t discover any sin against love in himself. In order to come home that Sunday, he had given up going to catch crawfish with the fellows at La Priche. They had been plotting this all week long and promising

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him a lot of fun. That meant that he had resisted a great temptation, which is a lot to ask of a boy of his age. After he’d had a good cry, he stopped and heard somebody else crying nearby and talking to herself, as countrywomen all wrought up tend to do. It took Landry just seconds to understand it was his mother, and he went running to find her. “Alas!” she sobbed. “Why, my God, why does this child give me such worry? He’ll be the death of me, for sure.” “Are you talking about me, Mother?” exclaimed Landry, throwing himself in her arms. “If I’m giving you such worry, punish me and dry your tears. What I did to upset you so, I just don’t know, but please forgive me all the same.” At that moment the mother saw that Landry wasn’t as hard-hearted as she had often thought. She held him tight and, without knowing just what she was saying, upset as she was, said she was crying about Sylvinet, not him. As for Landry, she knew she hadn’t always been fair to him and wanted to make amends, but she had the feeling that Sylvinet was going out of his mind. She was worried because he had gone off without eating a thing, before the break of day. Now the sun was starting to set, and he still wasn’t back. Somebody had caught sight of him at noon down along the creek, and she was afraid he had thrown himself in and killed himself.

chapter 8 The idea that Sylvinet might have wanted to kill himself flew out of the mother’s head and into Landry’s as easily as a fly into a spider’s web, and he started madly searching for his brother, tearing around all upset, thinking, “My mother used to scold me for being hard-hearted, and maybe she was right. But what about Sylvinet’s heart? How sick of him to be doing this to my poor mother and me.” He ran here, there, and everywhere without finding him, calling his name without hearing any answer, asking everybody if they’d seen him, without anybody being able to tell him a thing. Finally he found himself at the marshy meadow and dashed in, remembering

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that one of Sylvinet’s favorite haunts was there—to wit, a huge cut that the creek had carved out of the land by uprooting two or three alders that still lay across the water, their roots in the air. Old Barbeau had decided to leave them because of the way they had fallen. With their roots clinging to huge clods of earth, they shored things up, and that suited him just fine, for every winter the water did lots of damage, devouring yet another chunk of his meadow. So Landry went to the cut, as he and his brother usually called this part of the meadow. There was no time to go over to where the twins had built all by themselves some little sod steps over the stones and big roots coming out of the ground and throwing up new shoots. Moving as fast as he could, he jumped down from the highest possible point. Right along the water’s edge there were lots of branches and weeds taller than his waist. Had his brother been there, he couldn’t have seen him without actually going in himself. So in he went, all in a frenzy, for he was still thinking of what his mother had said—that Sylvinet wanted to kill himself. Marching back and forth through the leaves and beating down the weeds, he kept calling Sylvinet and whistling for the dog that had probably followed him. All day long nobody at the house had seen either the dog or his young master. But Landry called and searched in vain. There was nobody in the cut. With his usual presence of mind and determination to do things right, he scoured the banks for a footprint or some unusual little mudslide. This was an awfully gloomy and tricky task, for it had been a month or so since Landry had been back there. Even though he knew the place like the back of his hand, a few little things had to have changed. The whole right bank was covered with grass, and the cut’s sandy bed was so thick with rushes and horsetails that you couldn’t find a spot the size of a foot to look for a print. Still, painstakingly sweeping back and forth, Landry found some paw prints in a low place and even a spot where the weeds had been flattened, as though Finot or some other dog of his size had curled up and lain down. That gave him a lot to think about, and he went back to examine the bank of the creek. He thought he found a fresh gash, as if somebody had jumped or slid down. Even though nothing was clear, for it also could have been the work of one of those huge

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water rats that go foraging, digging, and gnawing in such places, he was in such a state that his legs buckled, and he went down on his knees, as though to pray for God’s help. He remained on his knees a while, without the strength or courage to go tell anybody why he was in such agony. He kept staring at the creek through eyes swollen with tears, as though he wanted to call it to account for his brother. Meanwhile the creek was just flowing right along, swaying the branches hanging down in the water along the banks and making a faint gurgle, like someone secretly laughing and teasing. Poor Landry became so overcome by his gloomy thoughts that he lost his head, and out of a little sign that might mean nothing at all, he was concocting enough to make you despair of the good Lord. “Right here it’s at its deepest, this nasty creek that won’t say a word. It would let me cry all year long without giving me back my brother,” he thought to himself. “And so many trees have fallen in since it’s been tearing up the meadow. Once you’re in the water, you never get back out. My God! What if my poor twin is lying at the bottom, almost within reach? But no matter what, there’s no way to get to him with all these branches and rushes!” Then he began to mourn and scold his brother. Never in his life had he felt so bad. Finally it dawned on him to go see a widow known as old Fadet, who lived at the far end of the marshy meadow, right near the path down to the ford. Even though she had no land or other property aside from her little house and garden, she didn’t have to go begging because of all she knew about people’s pains and ailments. From everywhere around people came knocking at her door. She had a secret for healing; in other words, she used this secret for curing folks of their wounds, sprains, and other contusions.1 She had a few illusions about her powers, for she would rid you of maladies you never had, such as a dislocated stomach or a fallen belly casing. As for me, I’ve never been a firm believer in all these problems, nor do I set much store by what folks used to say—that she could send the milk of a good cow into a bad one, no matter how old and poorly fed the animal might be. As for her good remedies for the chills we call sanglaçure,2 her

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sovereign plasters for cuts and burns, and her potions against fever, there’s no doubt she earned the money she was paid and cured a number of sick folks the doctors would have killed with their medicines. At least that’s what she said, and the ones she saved would sooner take her at her word than chance it with the doctors. Out in the country you can’t ever know such things without being a bit of a witch. So lots of folks thought old Fadet knew even more than she’d let on, and they credited her with being able to find things and people gone astray. In short, with all she knew, she could often do something possible to get you out of trouble, and it was reckoned she could do a few impossible things as well. Children love listening to all kinds of stories, and over at La Priche, where folks, as everybody knows, are gullible and more simpleminded than at La Cosse, Landry had heard that old Fadet could find a drowned man by throwing certain seeds on the water and mumbling a few words. The seeds would float along the current, and wherever they stopped, the wretched body was sure to be found. Lots of folks think blessed bread has the same virtue, and there’s hardly a mill around without some always tucked away for that purpose.3 But Landry didn’t have any, old Fadet lived right near the marshy meadow, and people don’t reason well when they’re all upset. So off he ran to old Fadet to tell her his troubles and beg her to come try her secret to help find his brother, dead or alive. But old Fadet didn’t like seeing her reputation get beyond her or showing her talent for nothing. So she poked fun at him and even rather gruffly sent him packing. In times past Sagette had been summoned for women in labor at the Twinnery, and old Fadet was none too happy about that either. Landry, a bit proud by nature, might have protested or gotten mad at some other time. But he was so overwhelmed that he didn’t say a word and turned back toward the cut, determined to get down into the water, even though he still hadn’t learned to dive or swim.4 Walking with his head down and his eyes to the ground, he felt a slap on his shoulder. He turned around to see old Fadet’s granddaughter, who for two reasons was known as little Fadette. Fadet was her family name, and she too was thought to be a bit of a witch.5 Everybody knows that fairies, called fadets or farfadets in

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these parts and follets elsewhere, are very nice elves, but mischievous. They can also be called fades. Right around here scarcely anybody believes in them anymore. But whether Fadette’s name meant a little fairy or the elf’s mate, anybody setting eyes on her figured she was a little sprite, for she was so small and skinny, disheveled and sassy. Terribly talkative and loving to tease, she was lively as a butterfly, curious as a robin, and dark as a cricket. When I compare little Fadette to a field cricket, you know she wasn’t pretty, for this kind is even uglier than the ones living in the hearth. But if you remember fooling around with one as a child, teasing and making it chirp in your wooden shoe, you know its little face isn’t silly, and it makes you want to laugh instead of getting mad. The youngsters at La Cosse are no stupider than others, and like all the rest, they see resemblances and make comparisons. That’s why they called little Fadette “the cricket” when they wanted to get her goat, and sometimes in a friendly way. Even though they were a bit afraid of her because of all her mischief, they didn’t hate her, for she told them all kinds of tales and was always teaching them new games she had thought up on her own. But all these names and nicknames are enough to make me forget her baptismal name, which you might want to know later on. It was Françoise. That’s why her grandmother, who didn’t like switching names, always called her Fanchon. For a long time there had been hard feelings between the Twinnery folks and old Fadet, so the twins didn’t talk much to little Fadette. They tried to steer clear of her, never having been particularly eager to play with her or her little brother, “the grasshopper,” even snappier and more mischievous than his sister. He was always pestering her, getting mad when she ran on without waiting for him, throwing rocks at her when she made fun of him. His temper was bigger than he was, and he made her lose her temper more than she liked, for she was lighthearted and preferred to laugh things off. With old Fadet’s reputation, certain folks, particularly Barbeau’s family, figured it was bad luck to be friends with the cricket and the grasshopper. But that didn’t stop the two boys from talking to them, for they weren’t shy, and little Fadette would always greet the Twinnery twins with all kinds of high jinks and tomfoolery as soon as she laid eyes on them.

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chapter 9 Poor Landry turned around, a bit annoyed by the slap on his shoulder, and saw little Fadette and, not far behind, Jeanet the grasshopper hobbling along, twisted and lame from birth. At first Landry tried to ignore them and keep on his way, for he didn’t feel at all like joking around, but Fadette slapped him on the other shoulder, saying, “Wolf! Wolf! Pitiful twin, half a guy who’s lost his other half!” Landry, in no mood to be insulted or teased, whirled around and threw a punch at little Fadette. It really would have knocked her off her rocker had she not dodged the blow, for the twin was going on fifteen, and he was pretty good with his fists. She, not yet fourteen, was so small and scrawny you wouldn’t have thought she was twelve. From the looks of her, she’d break if you so much as laid a finger on her. But she was too wary just to stand there waiting for a punch, her speed and treachery making up for any strength she didn’t have. She leaped aside in the nick of time, and Landry very nearly slammed his fist and nose into a huge tree between them. “Nasty cricket,” said the poor twin, all riled up, “you’re really heartless to come bother somebody feeling this bad. For a long time now you’ve been trying to get my goat by calling me half a guy. Now I’m really itching to bust you and your lousy grasshopper in four. Then we’d see if you two amount to a quarter of anything decent.” “Yes indeed, o beauteous twin of the Twinnery, lord of the marshy meadow at the edge of the creek,” replied little Fadette, still sniggering, “what a fool you are to get my back up when I was coming to tell you where your twin is.” “That’s another kettle of fish,” replied Landry, settling right down. “If you know where he is, Fadette, tell me, and I’ll be so happy.” “Fadette doesn’t feel like making you happy any more than the cricket does,” the little girl shot back. “You said mean things, and you’d have hit me if you weren’t such a clumsy oaf. So go find your crazy twin all by yourself since you’re so good at it.” “I’d be a fool to listen to anything you’ve got to say, you nasty

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girl,” said Landry, turning his back and walking on. “You don’t know where he is any more than I do, and neither does your grandmother. And she’s nothing but an old, lying ne’er-do-well.” Meanwhile Fadette’s grasshopper had managed to catch up and grab onto her shabby little ash-covered petticoat. Pulling him along by one hand, little Fadette started after Landry, still sniggering and spouting that he’d never find his twin without her help. Landry couldn’t get rid of her. Figuring that witchcraft, her grandmother’s or maybe even Fadette’s, or their conniving with the goblin down at the creek, would stop him from finding Sylvinet, Landry decided to head on home through the marshy meadow. Little Fadette followed him as far as the stile. Once he had crossed over, she perched on the rail like a magpie and cried, “Farewell then, beauteous, heartless twin, who abandons his brother. In vain you’ll await him at supper, and you won’t see him today or tomorrow either. He’s not moving any more than a wretched rock where he is, and now there’s a storm coming on. There’ll be more trees down in the creek tonight, and the water will sweep Sylvinet so far, far away you’ll never see him again.” Landry listened, almost despite himself. He broke out in a cold sweat all over, even though he didn’t really believe all of these horrible words. Then again, everybody said the whole Fadet family had such a pact with the devil that you couldn’t really be sure. “Come on, Fanchon,” said Landry, drawing to a halt. “Will you or won’t you leave me alone or tell me if you really know something about my brother?” “And what’ll you give me if I help you find him before it starts raining?” asked Fadette, up on the rail and flapping her arms as if she wanted to take off and fly. Landry didn’t know what he could promise her, and he was beginning to think she meant to bamboozle some money out of him. But the wind in the trees and the first rumbles of thunder were putting something like a fever of fear in his blood. He wasn’t afraid of storms, but this particular storm had blown up all of a sudden and in a way that didn’t seem natural. Maybe in his torment Landry hadn’t seen it gathering behind the trees along the creek. He’d been down in the Val for two hours without being able to check out the sky. In fact, he had only noticed the storm when little Fadette

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said it was coming on. And just then her petticoats billowed out; the nasty black locks of hair sticking out from under her bonnet, always poorly tied and slipping down over one ear, stood up like a mane; a great gust of wind blew the grasshopper’s cap right off his head, and it was all Landry could do to keep his own hat on. Then the sky, in two minutes, went all black, and Fadette, up on the rail, looked two times bigger than usual. Landry was scared, no two ways about it. “Fanchon,” he said, “I’m all yours if you get me back my brother. Maybe you’ve seen him; maybe you really know where he is. Be a nice girl. I don’t know what fun you can find in my pain. Show me your kind heart, and I’ll believe you’re better than how you look and what you say.” “And why would I be nice to you,” she asked, “when you say I’m mean? When have I ever done you any harm? Why would I be kind to two twins who are proud as roosters and have never shown me an ounce of friendship?” “Come on, Fadette,” said Landry. “You want me to promise you something? Hurry up and tell me what you want, and it’s yours. How about my new knife?” “Let’s have a look,” said Fadette, hopping next to him like a frog. She was tempted for a moment by the knife. It was pretty nice and had cost Landry’s godfather ten sous1 at the last fair. Then she thought it wasn’t enough and asked for his little white hen, no bigger than a pigeon and with feathers right down to the ends of her toes. “I can’t give you the hen because it’s my mother’s,” said Landry. “But I promise I’ll ask her, and I bet she won’t say no. She’ll be so happy to see Sylvinet again that she’ll give you anything as a reward.” “Well!” said little Fadette. “And how about your little kid goat with the black nose—would your mother give me him too?” “Good God, Fanchon, you’re taking so long to make up your mind! Look here, let’s not mince words: if my brother’s in trouble and you take me to him right away, there’s no hen or chick of ours, no goat or little kid my father and mother surely wouldn’t give you in thanks.”

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“We’ll see about that, Landry,” said little Fadette, stretching out her dry little hand so that they could shake on it. He took it, but not without a bit of a shudder, for just then her eyes were burning so bright you would have thought she was the goblin incarnate. “I won’t tell you right now what I want—maybe I don’t yet know— but don’t you forget what you’ve just promised. You break your promise, and I’ll tell everybody they shouldn’t have any faith in Landry’s word. Now farewell, and just remember I won’t ask for a thing until I’ve made up my mind; then I’ll come looking for you, and you’ll do what I say without regret or delay.” “Fine! It’s a deal then, Fadette, signed and sealed,” said Landry, shaking her hand. “Now,” said she, looking pleased as punch, “go straight back to the creek and then downstream till you hear some bleating. You’ll spy a lamb, beige like homespun, and then your brother. If it doesn’t happen as I say, you’re no longer bound by your word.” Then the cricket grabbed the grasshopper, which he didn’t like one bit, for he was wriggling like an eel, and she jumped into the bushes and disappeared without a sound, as if it had all been a dream. Landry didn’t stop to wonder whether little Fadette had been pulling his leg. He tore down to the far side of the marshy meadow in no time flat and ran along the edge as far as the cut. He wasn’t about to go back down in, having already searched the place well enough to know that Sylvinet wasn’t there. But then he heard a lamb bleating. “God of my soul,” he said to himself, “that’s what she said; I hear the lamb, and there’s my brother. But dead or alive, that I can’t know.” He jumped down into the scrub. No brother. But ten steps downstream and still hearing the lamb bleating, Landry saw his brother sitting on the opposite bank, and inside his smock a little lamb, truly homespun beige from the tip of its nose to the end of its tail. Sylvinet was quite alive and looked neither injured nor torn. Landry felt so glad that he started to thank the good Lord, without thinking to ask God’s forgiveness for having accepted the devil’s help in this matter. Sylvinet still hadn’t seen him, nor did he seem to have heard him since the water was gurgling so loudly over

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the stones. Landry was just about to call out to Sylvinet when he stopped for a good look. There he was, just as little Fadette had predicted, down among the trees that the wind was furiously whipping back and forth, and motionless as a rock. Yet everybody knows how dangerous it is to stay on the edge of our creek when a big wind comes up. All the banks have erosions underneath, and a good storm generally uproots a few of those alders with their shallow roots unless they’re terribly big and old. A tree can very well come down on you without any warning. Yet Sylvinet, even though he was no stupider or crazier than anybody else, seemed oblivious to the danger, as if he’d taken shelter in a good barn. He was worn out from aimlessly running around all day long, and though he was lucky not to have drowned in the creek, it looked as though he had drowned in his distress and spite, sitting there like a stump, his eyes fixed on the current, his face pale as a water lily, his mouth half open like a little fish gaping in the sun, his hair all mussed up by the wind. He wasn’t even paying any attention to the little lost lamb he had found in a meadow. His heart had gone out to the poor creature, so he had gathered it up to take it back home, but on the way he had forgotten to ask where it belonged. Now the lamb was bleating away on Sylvinet’s knees without his hearing a thing, even though the poor little thing was crying out to him in a desolate voice and looking all around with huge, clear eyes, astonished that nobody of his kind was listening to him and not recognizing his meadow, his mother, or his sheepfold in this shady, overgrown spot, right near a rushing stream that he may well have found really frightening.

chapter 10 If Landry had not been separated from Sylvinet by the creek, no more than four or five meters wide (as one says in these new times)1 in its entire course but as deep as it was wide in certain spots, he would of course have run over and hugged him without a second thought. But Sylvinet didn’t even see him, and Landry had time to think about how to rouse him out of his daydreams and talk him into coming home, for if this was not what the poor, sulky boy

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had in mind, he could very well take off in another direction, and it would have taken Landry a while to find a ford or a footbridge to go after him. After giving it some thought, Landry wondered what his father, who had reason and prudence enough for four, would do in such a case. He figured he would go slow and easy, as if nothing had happened, not showing Sylvinet how much anguish he had stirred up, nor causing him too much remorse or encouraging him to do the same thing again in another day of spite. So he started whistling as though he were calling blackbirds to make them sing, like shepherds walking along a thicket at nightfall. This made Sylvinet lift his head. Seeing his brother, he felt ashamed and jumped to his feet, thinking Landry hadn’t spotted him. Then Landry, pretending to have just caught sight of him, said, “Hey there, Sylvinet, so that’s where you are? I spent the whole morning waiting for you. Seeing you were gone such a long time, I came out here for a walk, thinking I’d be sure to find you home for supper; but here you are, and we can go back together. How about you go along that bank of the creek, and me on the other; then we’ll meet up at Les Roulettes.” (This was the ford right near old Fadet’s house.) He didn’t raise his voice all that much since the creek wasn’t gurgling loudly enough to stop them from hearing each other. “Let’s get going,” said Sylvinet, picking up his lamb, who, not being long acquainted with Sylvinet, wasn’t about to follow him on his own. They walked along the creek without much daring to trade looks, afraid of showing how distressed they were to be mad at each other and how pleased to be back together again. Every now and then Landry, still wanting to give the impression that he didn’t believe his brother could be so spiteful, would say a word or two. First he asked where he had found that little lamb the color of homespun, and Sylvinet couldn’t really say. He didn’t want to confess he had gone quite far afield and didn’t even know the names of the places he had passed through. Then Landry, seeing he was in a tight corner, said, “Tell me later. It’s blowing like mad, and it’s no good being down under these trees along the water. But we’re lucky it’s starting to rain, and the wind will calm down before long.” And to himself he was saying, “Still that’s just what the cricket

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predicted—that I’d find him before the rain started. For sure, that girl knows a lot more than the rest of us.” He hadn’t told himself that he’d spent a good fifteen minutes wrangling with old Fadet, begging for help while she refused to listen. Meanwhile little Fadette, whom he’d only glimpsed leaving the house, could very well have seen Sylvinet while all this was going on. When this finally occurred to him, he wondered how she had known just what was bothering him when they ran into each other if she hadn’t been there the whole time. He forgot that on his way to the marshy meadow he’d already asked several people if they’d seen Sylvinet. Fadette could have overheard something, or maybe the girl had hidden somewhere to hear the end of his conversation with her grandmother, as she often did to satisfy her curiosity about everything. As for poor Sylvinet, he was wondering how to explain why he’d been so awful to his brother and mother. Taken in by Landry’s ruse, he didn’t know what on earth to tell him—he who had never in his life told a lie or kept anything hidden from his twin. Fording the stream, he felt quite uneasy since he still hadn’t found any way out of this predicament. As soon as Sylvinet reached the other side, Landry hugged him, and with more feeling than usual, despite himself. But he refrained from asking any questions, for it was clear that his twin didn’t know what to say. So he walked him back home, talking about all manner of things except the very matter that gripped both their hearts. As they passed old Fadet’s place, he looked around for little Fadette and felt like going to thank her. But the door was closed, and the only sound was the grasshopper bawling because his grandmother had given him a thrashing. This happened every evening, whether he deserved it or not. It pained Sylvinet to hear the little rascal crying, and he said to his brother, “What a wretched place! Screaming and thrashing, that’s the only thing you ever hear out of there. I know the grasshopper’s the worst and most crotchety thing alive, and I wouldn’t give two sous for the cricket either. But those poor children have neither father nor mother, just that old witch who’s always hopping mad and doesn’t let them get away with a single thing.” “That’s not the way it is at our place,” replied Landry. “Our

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father and mother have never laid a hand on us. Even when they used to scold us for our little pranks, they were always so nice and gentle about it that the neighbors never heard a peep. Some folks just don’t know how good they’ve got it. Yet little Fadette, the most miserable, mistreated child on earth, never stops laughing and never complains about a single thing.” Sylvinet heard the reproach in these words and felt awful. Since morning he’d already been feeling that way quite a bit. Twenty times he had wanted to turn around and run home, but shame had held him back. Now his heart swelled and he wept without saying a word. But his brother took his hand, saying, “Now it’s really raining hard, Sylvinet. Let’s gallop on home.” So they set off running, Landry trying to make Sylvinet laugh, and Sylvinet trying his best to humor his brother. Yet Sylvinet, just before going into the house, was tempted to go hide in the barn, afraid that his father would scold him. But old Barbeau, who didn’t take things as seriously as his wife, just poked fun at him, and the mother, wisely coached by her husband, tried not to show how tormented she had been. Even so, while she busily dried the twins off in front of a good fire and gave them supper, Sylvinet could see that she had been weeping, and every now and then she would shoot him a sad, worried look. Had they been alone, he would have begged her forgiveness and tried to comfort her with all his kisses. But the father didn’t much like all this billing and cooing. Overcome with fatigue, Sylvinet had to go to bed right after supper, without having said a word. He hadn’t eaten all day long, and once he’d gulped down his soup, which he sorely needed, he felt almost drunk. He had no choice but to let himself be undressed and put to bed by his twin, who stayed right beside him on the edge of the bed, holding his hand. When Landry saw he was fast asleep, he bade his parents farewell, not even noticing that his mother kissed him more lovingly than ever before. He still thought she couldn’t love him as much as his brother, and he wasn’t at all jealous, telling himself he was less lovable and these were his just deserts. He accepted this as much out of respect for his mother as for love of his twin, who needed more comfort and cuddling. The next morning Sylvinet ran to his mother’s bed before she

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got up. Opening his heart to her, he confessed his remorse and shame, telling her he’d been very unhappy for some time, not so much because he was separated from Landry but because he thought Landry didn’t love him. When his mother questioned him about this injustice, he couldn’t explain why he felt this way. It was like a disease against which he had no defenses. The mother understood him better than she wanted to let on. A woman’s heart is easily seized by such torments, and she had often suffered seeing Landry so calm in his courage and fortitude. But now she saw that jealousy is wrong in all kinds of love, even in the love God most commands, and she took care not to encourage Sylvinet in that direction. She made him see how much he had hurt his brother and how very kind Landry had been not to complain or to act offended. Sylvinet recognized this, admitting that his brother was the better Christian.2 He promised to cure himself, and he really meant it. Yet despite himself, and even though he looked consoled and content, even though his mother had wiped away all his tears and answered all his complaints with the most tonic arguments, even though he did everything possible to be simple and fair with his brother, there remained seeds of bitterness in his heart. “Of the two of us,” he would think in spite of himself, “my brother’s the best Christian and the most fair; that’s what my dear mother says, and it’s the truth. But if he loved me as much as I love him, he couldn’t settle for things this way.” And he would think of the serene, almost indifferent look on Landry’s face when he had stumbled upon him down along the creek. He remembered hearing Landry whistling at the blackbirds while searching for him, and at the very moment he was really and truly about to throw himself in the creek. He may not have had that idea leaving the house, but he had thought about it more than once toward evening, figuring his brother would never forgive him for trying to avoid him for the first time in his life. “If he’d insulted me that way,” he told himself, “I’d never have got over it. I’m so glad he’s forgiven me, but how could he forgive me so easily?” And then this unhappy child would wrestle with himself and heave a sigh, only to sigh and wrestle some more. God always rewards us with his help as long as we really mean to do his will, and so Sylvinet turned more sensible for the rest

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of the year. His love for Landry having finally calmed down, he stopped picking fights with his brother and pouting. He regained his health, which had suffered from all this anguish, and grew stronger. His father gave him more work, having noticed that the less Sylvinet coddled himself, the better he felt. But the work you do for your own folks is never as tough as the work you’ve got to do someplace else. So Landry, who hardly ever spared himself, grew stronger and bigger than his twin that year. The little differences people had always noticed between the two of them became more pronounced and moved from the inside out. When they turned fifteen, Landry was a truly handsome young man, while Sylvinet remained a pretty lad, thinner and less ruddy than his brother. They looked like brothers, but nobody ever mixed them up anymore or thought they were identical twins. Landry was the younger twin, having been born an hour later than Sylvinet, but to anyone seeing them for the first time, he looked a year or two older. This only made old Barbeau, who in the true manner of countryfolk respected strength and size above all, love him more.

chapter 11 For a couple of days after Landry’s adventure with little Fadette, the boy worried a bit about the promise he’d made her. Right afterward he would have sworn, in the name of his father and mother, to give her the best of everything at the Twinnery. But seeing that his father hadn’t taken Sylvinet’s pouting all that seriously and seemed not the least bit concerned, he was afraid his father would just show little Fadette the door when she came to claim her reward, making fun of her hocus-pocus and Landry’s fine promise. This filled Landry with secret shame, and once he settled down, he decided that he’d been a real idiot to think there had been any witchcraft involved. While he didn’t know for sure whether little Fadette had been pulling his leg, he certainly felt there could be reason for doubt, and he couldn’t find any good arguments to make his father see that he had been right to promise her so much. He didn’t see either how he could break this promise, for he had given his word in soul and conscience.

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Much to his amazement, he didn’t hear a thing about little Fadette at the Twinnery or La Priche the next day, nor even the next month or the next season. She didn’t show up at old Caillaud’s place for a word with Landry or at his father’s to make any demands. When Landry caught sight of her in the fields, she stayed off in the distance and seemed to pay him no attention, contrary to her habit. Usually she chased after everybody, either out of curiosity or to laugh, play, and banter with those who were in a good mood or to scold and taunt those who weren’t. But old Fadet’s house being right between La Priche and La Cosse, it was inevitable that one day or another Landry, going down a lane, would find himself nose to nose with little Fadette, and when that lane is narrow, you’ve got to give each other a tap or say a word in passing. One evening little Fadette was bringing in her geese, her grasshopper at her heels as usual, and Landry, having gone to fetch the mares from the meadow, was ambling along back to La Priche. So they ran into each other in the lane running from la croix des Bossons1 down to the ford at Les Roulettes, and with the steep embankments on either side, there was no way for two people to avoid each other. Landry turned all red, fearing she would ask him to make good on his promise. Not wanting to give her any encouragement, he jumped up on one of the mares as soon as he laid eyes on her and poked her ribs with his wooden shoes to get her off on a trot. But she didn’t go any faster, as all the mares were hobbled. Seeing himself so close to little Fadette, Landry didn’t dare look at her and pretended to turn around to see if the foals were following. When he turned back around, Fadette had already gone on by, without saying a word. He didn’t even know if she had looked at him or invited him to say hello with a glance or a laugh. He only saw Jeanet the grasshopper, always mean and unruly, ready to throw a rock at the legs of his mare. Landry really felt like giving him a good crack of his whip, but he was afraid of having to stop and squabble with his sister. So he pretended not to notice and went on his way without looking back around. Every other time Landry ran into little Fadette, it was just about the same old story. Little by little he grew bold enough to

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glance at her. Now that he was older and wiser, he didn’t worry so much about a trifling matter. But when he once found the courage to take a good, long look at her, as though he were prepared for anything she might say, he was amazed to see that she had deliberately turned her head, as though she were quite as afraid of him as he was of her. This made him feel rather bold deep down, and his heart being just, he wondered if it hadn’t really been quite wrong never to have said thanks for the favor she had done him, by art or accident. He resolved to go up to her the next time, and when that time came, he took at least ten steps in her direction to say hello and have a little chat. As he drew near, a proud, almost angry look came over her. When she finally decided to meet his eye, she looked so full of contempt that he got all flustered and dared not say a word. This was the last time that year that Landry saw her up close. From that day on little Fadette, obeying I know not what whim, did her best to avoid him. As soon as she spied him from afar, she would go off in another direction, turning into a little farm or making a great detour so as not to set eyes on him. Landry thought she was angry because he’d been ungrateful, but her loathing was so great that he couldn’t make up his mind to try and make amends. Little Fadette wasn’t like other youngsters. She wasn’t touchy, and you could even say she wasn’t touchy enough. She loved to invite insults and taunts, thinking that her tongue was good and sharp enough to reply in kind and always have the last and most cutting word. Nobody had ever seen her sulk, and folks thought she lacked the pride befitting a girl of fifteen starting to blossom. Still looking like a little scamp, she loved tormenting Sylvinet, needling him and pushing him over the edge when she would catch him lost in a daydream, which still happened sometimes. Whenever she saw him, she would tag along behind a while, poking fun at his twinnery and torturing him by saying that Landry didn’t care one whit about him and laughed at his pain. Poor Sylvinet, who, even more than Landry, took her for a witch, was amazed that she could divine his thoughts, and he quite heartily detested her, feeling contempt for her and for her family. Just as she was steering clear of Landry, he wanted to steer clear of this nasty cricket. He claimed she would sooner or later

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turn out just like her mother. After carrying on outrageously and abandoning her husband, she had finally trailed off after the soldiers.2 Right after the grasshopper was born, she left to become a camp follower. Since then nobody had heard a thing more about her. The husband had died of grief and shame, and that’s why old Fadet had had to take on these two children. She didn’t look after them at all well, as much because of her miserliness as her old age, which made things hard for her. For all these reasons Landry, even though he wasn’t as proud as Sylvinet, felt disgust for little Fadette. He regretted having had anything to do with her and took care not to let anybody know it, not even his twin, since he didn’t want to confess how worried Sylvinet had made him. Meanwhile Sylvinet kept secret all the mean things little Fadette had said and done to him, since he felt too ashamed to admit that she had divined his jealousy. But time was marching on. At the age of our twins, weeks are like months and months like years because of all the changes they bring about in body and mind. Landry soon forgot about his adventure with Fadette, and after agonizing a while, he gave it no more thought than if it had been a dream. Landry had been working at La Priche for ten months or so, and the feast of Saint John3 was coming up, which was when old Caillaud had first hired him. The good man was so pleased with Landry that he decided to raise his wages rather than see him go, and Landry was only too happy to stay close to his family and have another year with the fellows at La Priche, who suited him just fine. He was also starting to fancy one of old Caillaud’s nieces, a tall, handsome girl named Madelon. A year older than Landry, she still treated him a bit like a child, but this was less and less the case with every passing day. At first she poked fun at him for being bashful about giving her a kiss during a game or a dance, but by the year’s end she was blushing, and she wouldn’t be alone with him anymore in the barn or hayloft. Madelon was far from poor, their families were held in high regard, and a wedding between the two of them could certainly have been arranged in the course of time. In short, old Caillaud, seeing these two youngsters start to seek each other out and act coy together, told Barbeau they might well make a nice couple and there was no harm in letting them get well acquainted.

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A week before the feast of Saint John, it was settled that Landry would stay on at La Priche and Sylvinet with his parents. The latter had pretty well come back to his senses, and with old Barbeau having been taken ill with fever, the boy knew how to make himself really useful on his father’s land. Sylvinet had been very much afraid of being sent far away, and this had done him good. More and more he was striving to conquer his excessive love for Landry or at least not let it show too much. Peace and contentment had returned to the Twinnery, even though the twins didn’t see each other more than once or twice a week. The feast of Saint John was a holiday for them. They went to town together to the hiring fair for house servants and farm hands,4 which was followed by the festivities on the square. Landry danced more than one bourrée with the lovely Madelon, and Sylvinet, just to make him happy, tried to dance as well. He didn’t pull it off terribly well, but Madelon, being terribly nice, took him by the hand and, standing face-to-face with Sylvinet, helped him mark time. Spending time with his brother this way, Sylvinet promised he’d learn to dance so together they could enjoy something that he’d tried to stop Landry from doing up until then. He didn’t feel too jealous of Madelon, as Landry was still on his guard with her. Besides, Madelon was being very nice to Sylvinet, even pretty cheeky. Someone who didn’t know what was going on would have thought she liked Sylvinet better. Had there been a jealous bone in Landry’s body, he could have taken offense, but maybe a little something told him, despite his great innocence, that Madelon was only doing this for his benefit, hoping to spend more time with him. So everything was going just fine for three months or so, up until Saint Andoche,5 the patronal feast of La Cosse near the end of September. That day—always very merry for the two twins because there was dancing and all sorts of games under the huge walnut trees around the parish church—brought new troubles that took them totally by surprise. Old Caillaud had given Landry leave on the eve of Saint Andoche so that he could go spend the night at the Twinnery and not miss the morning festivities. Landry left before supper,

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delighted to go surprise his twin, who was expecting him only on the morrow. It was the time of year when the days were getting shorter and night was falling fast. Landry was never scared of anything in broad daylight, but it wouldn’t have made sense for a boy of his age and experience to relish going out alone in the dark, especially in the fall, when the witches and goblins start having a grand old time, with the fog helping to hide their tricks and evil spells. Landry was used to coming and going alone at all hours with his oxen, so he wasn’t really terribly worried that particular evening—no more so than any other evening. Still he was walking fast and singing loud, as folks always do when it’s pitch dark. Everybody knows singing disturbs wicked men and foul beasts, keeping them at bay. When he arrived at the ford called Les Roulettes,6 because of all the round stones you see thereabouts, he rolled up his trousers a bit, for he could be wading through water above his ankles. He took care not to walk straight out across because the ford goes on a slant, and to the right and left there are nasty troughs. Landry knew the ford so well that he could hardly go wrong. Besides, from there you could see a faint light from old Fadet’s house since the trees had lost more than half their leaves. As long as you kept moving toward the light, there was no way to go astray. Still it was so dark under the trees that Landry poked around with his stick for the ford before starting out. He was astonished to find more water than usual, especially since he could hear water gushing from the locks, open for a good hour already. But having no trouble seeing the light from Fadette’s window, he ventured forth. Two steps later, with water up over his knees, he retreated, thinking that he had made a mistake. He tried a little further upstream and then down. In both places the water was even deeper. There hadn’t been any rain, and water was still gushing from the locks. This was really strange.

chapter 12 “I must have gone the wrong way,” Landry thought to himself. “Fadette’s candle is on my right, and it ought to be on my left.”

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He backtracked as far as the Croix-au-Lièvre, then walked around it with his eyes closed to lose his bearings. After giving the trees and bushes a long hard look, he found the right path and went back to the creek. Even though the ford looked easy enough, he didn’t dare take more than three steps, because all of a sudden the light from Fadette’s house was almost directly behind him, and it should have been straight ahead. After he returned to the bank, the light was right where it was supposed to be. He started back across the ford slantwise in another direction, and this time the water nearly reached his belt. Still he kept on going, thinking he had hit a trough and would get out of it by moving toward the light. He did well to stop. The trough was getting deeper and deeper, and the water was up to his shoulders. The creek was very cold, and he thought a moment about turning back since the light seemed to have moved. He saw it twitch, tear around, hop up and down, flit from one bank to the other, and finally split in two, gazing at itself in the water, hovering like a bird and sputtering like a little resin candle. Now Landry was scared and nearly lost his head. He had heard there was nothing more deceptive and evil than this kind of fire. It made a game of leading the folks who look at it out into the deepest water, all the while laughing in its own particular way and jeering at their anguish.1 Landry closed his eyes and spun around. Risking life and limb, he heaved himself out of the trough and back on the bank. Throwing himself down in the grass, he watched the goblin fire2 go on dancing and laughing. It was truly an ugly sight. Sometimes it would dart like a kingfisher, then totally disappear, swell up like the head of an ox and suddenly get as small as a cat’s eye, only to race up to Landry, whirling around so fast that it dazzled him. Finally, seeing that Landry didn’t want to follow, it came back to flit in the rushes, where it seemed to fly into a temper and call him all sorts of names. Landry didn’t dare budge. Going back to where he’d come from was no way to get rid of the goblin. Everybody knows it keeps after anybody who tries to flee, standing in their way until they go crazy and get themselves into worse trouble. He was quivering with

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fear and cold when from behind he heard a very sweet little voice singing, Fadet, fadet, petit fadet,3 Prends ta chandelle et ton cornet; J’ai pris ma cape et mon capet; Toute follette4 a son follet. [Fairy, fairy, little fairy, Take your candle and your lantern; I’ve got my cloak and got my mantle; Every fairy has her mate.]

Just then little Fadette, merrily preparing to ford the stream and not the least bit disconcerted by that fire, stumbled over Landry on the ground in the mist. She backed up, swearing just like a boy, even one having really mastered the art. “It’s me, Fanchon,” said Landry, getting up. “Don’t be scared. I mean you no harm.” He said that because she scared him nearly as much as the goblin. He had heard her singing and knew she was casting a spell on the creature, which was dancing and wriggling like mad, as though delighted to see her. “This much is clear, beauteous twin,” said little Fadette after a moment’s deliberation. “You’re saying nice things because you’re scared half to death, and with that quaver in your throat you sound just like my grandmother. Now then, fainthearted one, we’re not so proud by night as by light of day, are we? I’ll bet you don’t dare to cross the stream without me.” “Good heavens, I’ve just hauled myself out of it,” said Landry, “and I’m about drowned. Are you going to risk it, Fadette? You’re not scared of straying off the ford?” “Hum! Why should I be? But I can see what’s got you worried,” laughed little Fadette. “Come on, give me your hand, you coward. The goblin isn’t as mean as you think, and he only harms the folks who are scared of him. But I’m used to seeing him, and we’re old acquaintances.”

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Then, with more strength than Landry would have thought, she took him by the arm and across the ford, singing, J’ai pris ma cape et mon capet, Toute fadette a son fadet. [I’ve got my cloak and got my mantle, Every fairy has her mate.]

Landry scarcely felt more at ease with the little witch than with the goblin. Still he would sooner see the devil looking like one of his own kind rather than a fire so devious and fleeting, so he put up no resistance. Soon he felt reassured, with Fadette guiding him so well that his feet stayed dry as he skipped from rock to rock. Walking fast and making a draft for the goblin fire, they were steadily pursued by the meteor.5 That’s our schoolteacher’s word for it. He knows a lot about that thing and says we shouldn’t be the least bit scared of it.

chapter 13 Maybe old Fadet knew something about it too and had taught her granddaughter not to have any fear of these night fires. Or maybe the girl, seeing them time and time again, had decided that the spirit blowing them around wasn’t evil and would do her no harm. They often appeared near Les Roulettes, and it was really quite an accident that Landry hadn’t yet seen any up close. Fadette, feeling Landry trembling from head to toe as the goblin fire drew near, said, “You fool, this fire doesn’t burn one bit, and if you had the sense to handle it, you’d see it doesn’t even leave a mark.” “Even worse,” thought Landry to himself. “Fire that doesn’t burn—we all know what that is. This is no fire from God, who made his for heating and burning.” He didn’t share this thought with little Fadette. Seeing himself safe and sound on the bank, he really wanted to ditch her and tear back to the Twinnery. But he felt grateful to her and had no desire to leave without saying so.

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“This is the second time you’ve helped me out, Fanchon Fadet,” he said, “and I’d be a real lout if I didn’t say I’ll never forget it. I was about out of my mind when you came along, after the goblin had chased me and put me under its spell. I never would have made it across the creek or maybe even out of the water.” “You’d probably have done just fine if you weren’t such a fool,” replied Fadette. “I never would have thought it so easy to scare a big guy like you, already seventeen and soon to have a beard on his chin. I like seeing you like this.” “And why’s that, Fanchon Fadet?” “Because I don’t like you one whit,” she said scornfully. “And why not?” “Because I’ve got no respect for you,” she said. “Not for you, your twin, your father or mother. They’re proud because they’re rich and think people are just doing their duty by giving them a hand. They’ve taught you to be ungrateful, Landry, and after being a coward, that’s the worst thing for a man.” Landry felt pretty humiliated by this scolding. Seeing it wasn’t altogether unwarranted, he replied, “Then the blame’s all mine, Fadette. Nobody at home—not my brother, father, or mother— knows a thing about the help you gave me once before. But this time they will, and you’ll have your desired reward.” “Ah! How proud you are,” said little Fadette, “figuring you can settle everything with your gifts. You think I’m like my grandmother. Give her some money, and she puts up with everybody being rude and overbearing. But I’ve got no need of your gifts and no desire for them. I have nothing but scorn for them, since you haven’t had the heart to offer me a single word of thanks or friendship since I came to your rescue about this time last year.” “That was wrong of me, Fadette, and I’ve said as much,” said Landry, who couldn’t help being amazed. This was the first time he’d ever heard her talking sense. “But it’s a bit your fault too. It didn’t really take any magic to tell me where my brother was. You’d probably seen him while I was having it out with your grandmother. And you’re scolding me for not having a kind heart, but if you had a kind heart, instead of slowly torturing me and saying something that could have led me astray, you’d have plainly said, ‘Cross the meadow, and you’ll see him down along the creek.’ That

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wouldn’t have cost you much, but instead you made a nasty game of my pain; and that makes your good turn count less.” Even though little Fadette had a quick tongue, she fell pensive a moment. Then she said, “I can see you’ve done your best to rid your heart of gratitude, figuring none was owed because of what I made you promise me. But I repeat, you’ve got a hard, mean heart since it’s never made you see I wasn’t asking anything of you. I didn’t even scold you for your ingratitude.” “That’s true, Fanchon,” said Landry, the soul of sincerity. “And it was wrong of me. I know it, and I’m ashamed. I should have said something. I was meaning to, but then you looked so hopping mad I just didn’t know how to go about it.” “Well, if you’d come over the next day for a friendly word, I wouldn’t have been so hopping mad. You’d have seen right away I didn’t want to be paid off, and we’d be friends. But now I’ve got no respect for you, and I should have let you sort things out with the goblin all by yourself. Farewell, Sir Landry of the Twinnery. Go dry yourself off and tell your folks, ‘Without that ragamuffin of a cricket, I sure would’ve had a good dunk down at the crick this evening.’” With these words little Fadette turned her back and marched home singing, Prends ta leçon et ton paquet, Landry Barbeau le bessonnet.1 [Take your lesson and your packet, Landry Barbeau the bessonnet.]

This time Landry felt something like repentance. He wasn’t at all inclined to be friends with a girl who seemed more clever than good, whose nasty manners were loathsome, even to the folks who found them amusing. But his heart was noble, and he didn’t want anything on his conscience. He ran after her, grabbed her cloak, and said, “Come on, Fanchon Fadet, we’ve got to settle this. You’re not happy with me, and I’m not very happy with myself. Tell me what you’d like, and I’ll bring it over no later than tomorrow.” “I’d like never to see you again” was her starchy reply. “No matter what you bring, I’ll just throw it in your face.”

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“You’re too hard on a guy trying to make amends. If you don’t want any kind of gift, maybe I can do something for you. Then you’ll see I only wish you well. Come on, tell me what’ll make you happy.” “So you couldn’t just ask my forgiveness and want to be friends?” said Fadette, stopping in her tracks. “Forgiveness, that’s a lot to ask,” replied Landry, who couldn’t overcome his disdain for a girl who hadn’t earned the respect befitting her years and didn’t always act her age. “As for being friends, Fadette, you’ve got such a strange way of thinking that I wouldn’t feel much confidence. So ask me for something I can give you right now and won’t have to take back.” “Well then,” said Fadette in a clear, dry voice, “as you wish, twin Landry. I offered you forgiveness, and you don’t want any part of it. Now I’m asking you to make good on your promise to obey my command on the appointed day, which will come no later than tomorrow, on the feast of Saint Andoche. Here’s what I want. You’ll dance three bourrées with me after Mass, two more after vespers, and two more again after the Angelus, for a total of seven. And all day long tomorrow, from the time you get up until you go back to bed, you won’t dance a single bourrée with anybody else, girl or woman. If you don’t do this, I’ll know three really ugly things about you: that you’re ungrateful, cowardly, and unfaithful to your word. Good night. I’ll be waiting tomorrow at the door of the church, and we’ll have the first dance.” And little Fadette, whom Landry had followed as far as her house, unlatched the door and slipped in so fast that it snapped shut before the twin could say a single word.

chapter 14 Landry found Fadette’s idea so strange that it made him feel more like laughing than getting all riled up. “She’s more crazy than mean,” he said to himself, “and more unselfish than you’d think. Paying her back this way won’t be the ruin of my family.” But then he saw that it would be harder to settle his debt than he had first thought. Little Fadette was a fine dancer. He had seen her

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frolicking with shepherds in the fields or along the edge of the road, whirling around like a little devil so fast that it was hard to keep up. But she was so ugly and so poorly dressed, even on Sundays, that no boy of Landry’s age would have asked her to dance, especially in front of any others. At best, swineherds and boys who still hadn’t had their first communion thought her worthy of being asked, and country belles didn’t like to have her in their dance. So Landry felt totally humiliated to be bound by oath to such a girl. Then, remembering that he had made lovely Madelon promise him at least three bourrées, he wondered how she’d take it when he didn’t ask her to dance. Cold, hungry, and still afraid that the goblin was after him, he walked fast without thinking too much or looking around behind. As soon as he got home and dried off, he told everybody that he hadn’t seen the ford because it was too dark and he’d had a hard time of it. Too ashamed to admit how frightened he’d been, he didn’t say a word about the goblin fire or little Fadette. He went to bed telling himself that tomorrow would be quite soon enough to worry about all that. But no matter what he did, his sleep was sorely troubled. He had more than fifty dreams in which little Fadette was sitting astride the goblin, now a huge red rooster. One foot was holding up a horn lantern, whose candle illuminated the whole marshy meadow. Then little Fadette turned into a cricket as big as a goat, and in that strident voice she screeched out a song he couldn’t understand, but he kept hearing words with the same rhyme: grelet, fadet, cornet, capet, follet, bessonnet, Sylvinet.1 It made his head ache, and the goblin’s light was so dazzling that when he woke up, he was still seeing orblutes, those little black, red, or blue spots that seem to be before our eyes when we’ve looked too hard at the sun or moon. That awful night left Landry feeling so exhausted that he practically slept through Mass, not hearing one word of the priest’s sermon, despite the fact that he couldn’t have done a better job of magnifying the virtues of blessed Saint Andoche. On his way out of church Landry felt so weary that he had forgotten all about Fadette. Yet there she was in front of the porch, right next to lovely Madelon, who felt quite sure that the first invitation would be for her. But when he went over to have a word with Madelon, the

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cricket stepped forward. In a loud voice, brazen as could be, she said, “Come on, Landry, last night you asked me for the first dance. Let’s go.” Landry turned red as fire. Madelon did too, taken aback by this strange business. Seeing this, Landry took courage and stood up to little Fadette. “Maybe I promised you a dance, cricket,” he said. “But I asked somebody else first, and you’ll have your turn once I’ve kept that promise.” “Oh no, you don’t,” Fadette shot back, unperturbed. “Your memory’s slipping, Landry. You didn’t promise anybody first. Your promise to me is from last year, and just last night you renewed it. If Madelon wants to dance with you today, she can take your twin instead. One is just as good as the other.” “The cricket’s right,” said Madelon haughtily, taking Sylvinet’s hand. “You made that promise so long ago, and that means you’ve got to keep it, Landry. I’m just as happy to dance with your brother.” “Yes, yes, it’s all the same,” said Sylvinet ingenuously. “We’ll all dance, the four of us.” And that’s what they had to do so that folks wouldn’t stare. The cricket stepped out in such a proud and sprightly way. Never had anyone danced a bourrée with better rhythm or spirit. If she’d been neat and nice, it would have been a lovely sight, for she was a marvelous dancer, and every belle would have envied her light foot and poise. But the poor cricket’s garments were so pitiful that she looked ten times uglier than usual. Landry felt so upset and humiliated that he no longer dared to meet Madelon’s eye. When he looked at his partner, she seemed much more disgusting than in her everyday rags. She had thought she was making herself pretty, but in that getup she was just ridiculous. Her bonnet was all yellow and musty, not dainty and turned up in the back, in keeping with the new fashion in these parts. There were two really broad, flat flaps over the ears. From behind, it hung down over her neck, making her look like her grandmother, with a head the size of a bushel basket on a stick-thin neck. Her drugget petticoat was two hands too short. She had grown a lot that year, so her skinny, sunburned arms were sticking out of her sleeves

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like two legs of a spider. She was also wearing a bright red apron of which she was very proud. It had belonged to her mother, but she hadn’t thought to remove the bib, which girls haven’t worn for ten years or more. Far from being too much of a coquette, the poor girl wasn’t coquette enough. She lived like a boy, not giving a thought to how she looked and liking nothing but playing games and poking fun. You would have said she looked like an old lady in her Sunday best. Everybody looked down on her because of her slovenly appearance. No result of poverty, it was because of her grandmother’s miserliness and her own lack of taste.

chapter 15 Sylvinet, who felt even less affection for Fadette than Landry, found it strange that his twin had taken a fancy to her. Landry didn’t know how to explain it, and he would have liked to go hide under a rock. Madelon was really cross. Despite the lively way little Fadette made their feet fly, they looked funereal as hell. As soon as the first dance was over, Landry took off to go hide in his orchard. A second later little Fadette showed up to badger him, bringing along the grasshopper, noisier and more cantankerous than usual because his cap was decked out with a peacock feather and a fake gold tassel. Fadette had also rounded up a lot of little girls, since the older ones would scarcely have anything to do with her. Seeing Fadette with that gaggle of girls, who would act as her witnesses if he refused to keep his promise, Landry gave in and took her to a spot under the walnut trees. There he hoped to complete his task and discreetly dance the third bourrée with Fadette. Lucky for him, Madelon and Sylvinet weren’t around, nor anybody else from these parts. There were only strangers not paying them much attention, and he meant to seize the occasion. As soon as that was done, he ran off in search of Madelon, wanting to invite her for some fromentée1 under the canopy. Her other dancing partners had made her promise to let them treat her, so she refused a bit haughtily. Then, seeing him off in a corner, his eyes burning with tears, for spite and pride made her look prettier than ever, she ate quickly, stood up, and said for all to hear, “There

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are the bells for vespers. Who am I going to dance with afterward?” She had turned toward Landry, sure he would jump up to say, “With me!” Before he could even unclench his teeth, others had stepped forward, and Madelon, without giving him so much as a nasty or pitiful look, went to vespers with her new suitors. After vespers, Madelon left with Pierre Aubardeau, Jean Aladenise, and Etienne Alaphilippe. All three of them danced with her, one after the other, for Madelon, being a pretty girl with no lack of means, couldn’t want for suitors. Landry was watching her out of the corner of his eye. Little Fadette was still in the church, saying long prayers, as she did every Sunday, perhaps out of great devotion, as some would have it, while others thought she was just trying to conceal her dealings with the devil. Landry was really hurt that Madelon seemed not to give him a second thought. Blushing with pleasure like a strawberry, she was quite over the insult he had had to give her. Then, for the first time, it crossed his mind that she was really quite a flirt. In any case, she wasn’t much attached to him since she was having so much fun without him. True, he could see that he’d been wrong, at least on the surface of things. But seeing how upset he had been there under the canopy, she should have been able to guess that he needed to tell her something. Yet she was merry as a little goat, not caring one whit, while his heart was breaking in two. Once she had contented her three dancers, Landry approached, hoping to explain himself in private. Still at the age where you scarcely have any courage with women, he didn’t know how to get her alone. Not finding any of the right words, he just took her by the hand, hoping she would follow. Giving him a look halfway between spite and pardon, she said, “Well, well, Landry, you’re finally going to ask me to dance?” “Not quite,” he replied. He didn’t know how to pretend, and he no longer intended to go back on his promise. “But I’ve got something to say you can’t refuse to hear.” “Oh, if you’ve got a secret for me, Landry, save it for another time,” said Madelon, pulling back her hand. “Today is for dancing and having fun. My legs aren’t tired yet. You’ve worn yours out with the cricket, so you can go on home to bed, but I’m staying here.”

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Then she accepted Germain Audoux’s invitation to dance. As she was turning around, Landry heard him say, “That guy certainly seemed to think this bourrée was his.” “Maybe so,” said Madelon, tossing her head, “but he can just bide his time!” Feeling really put out by these words, he stayed on to see how Madelon behaved. She didn’t do anything rude, but acted so high and mighty that he was taken aback. When she returned to where he was watching with a wry eye, she got cocky and said, “My word, Landry, if nobody will dance with you, you’ll just have to go back to the cricket.” “Gladly,” he said. “She may not be the belle of the ball, but she’s still the best dancer around.” Then he went over to the church, brought little Fadette back, right in front of Madelon’s nose, and danced two bourrées with her, one after the other. You really had to see how proud and happy the cricket was! She didn’t try to hide how happy she was, her mischievous dark eyes all asparkle. Holding her little head high with that huge bonnet on top, she looked like a crested chicken. Unfortunately her triumph rankled five or six little scamps who usually danced with her. They’d never looked down on her and really admired how well she could dance. Finding her unapproachable now, they started railing, scolding her for her pride and muttering, “Just look, the cricket thinks she’s cast a spell on Landry Barbeau! Cricket, silly goose, goblin girl, pipsqueak, grasshopper, peeper frog”—and other nicknames folks are partial to around here.

chapter 16 When little Fadette danced by, they would grab her sleeve or try to trip her. Some others, the youngest and worst-mannered, would whack at the flaps on her bonnet, making it whip around from one ear to the other, and yell, “Get a load of the bonnet, the huge bonnet! Just like old Fadet!” The poor cricket swatted five or six times to the right and left, but that only made folks turn and look. The locals started saying, “Well, she’s got lucky, our little cricket! Look at Landry Barbeau

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dancing with her all the time! Sure, she’s a good dancer, but now she’s carrying on like a real belle, strutting about like a magpie.” And others said to Landry, “So she’s cast a spell on you, poor fellow. That’s why you’ve only got eyes for her? Or maybe you’re wanting to learn witchcraft, and before long we’ll see you leading packs of wolves through the fields.”1 Landry was mortified, but Sylvinet, thinking no one more excellent and upstanding than his brother, was even more mortified to see him making a fool of himself in front of everybody. A few strangers even started to get involved, asking questions and saying, “That’s a really handsome lad, but how strange that he fancies the ugliest girl here.” Madelon listened to all these gibes with a triumphant air and uncharitably threw in her own. “What do you expect?” she asked. “Landry’s wet behind the ears. At that age, as long as you find somebody to talk to, you don’t much care if they look like a goat or a good Christian.” Then Sylvinet took Landry by the arm and whispered, “Let’s get out of here, brother, or else we’ll have to get mad. They’re poking fun at us, and the insults meant for little Fadette are coming back at you. I really don’t know what’s gotten into you today to go dance with her four or five times in a row. Are you trying to make a laughingstock out of yourself? Just stop it. If she wants to lay herself open to scorn and spite, fine. That’s what she’s trying to do, that’s the ways she likes things, but that’s not for us. Let’s go; we can come back after the Angelus, and you’ll dance with Madelon. She’s the right kind of girl. I’ve always said you liked dancing too much and it would make you do stupid things.” Landry started off after his brother, but hearing a great hullabaloo, he turned back around. Madelon and the other girls had let their suitors turn their gibes loose on Fadette, and then the rascally little boys, egged on by their taunts, had given her a good punch to the head and made off with her bonnet. Her thick black hair was streaming down her back, and she was thrashing around, really beside herself, for this time she hadn’t said anything to deserve such abuse. Weeping with rage, she was vainly trying to get her bonnet back after a nasty little scamp carried it off on a pole. Landry was disgusted. His valiant heart rising up against the injustice, he snatched the boy, grabbed the bonnet, and whacked

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the scamp on his bottom with the pole. When he came back, the crowd scattered. Taking the poor cricket by the hand, he returned her bonnet. Landry’s fast action and the little rascals’ fright gave everybody a good laugh. They applauded Landry, but Madelon tried to turn it against him. Some fellows Landry’s age and even older seemed to be laughing at his expense. Landry was bashful no longer. He felt brave and strong, and some sense of what it was to be a grown man told him it was his duty not to let any woman with whom he had chosen to dance, whether she was ugly or beautiful, little or grown-up, be mistreated right in front of everybody. Seeing how the guys over by Madelon were looking at him, he went straight up to Aladenise, Alaphilippe, and the others and said, “Well, lads, what have you got to say? If I feel like paying attention to that girl, what’s it to you? And if you think it’s a scandal, why turn your backs to mutter among yourselves? I’m right here in front of you, aren’t I? Are you blind? Somebody here said I was still wet behind the ears, but there’s no man or lad who’ll say it to my face! I’m waiting for somebody to say something. Then we’ll see if you’re going to bother the girl the little kid asks to dance.” Sylvinet was still there. Even though he didn’t approve of Landry’s raising this ruckus, he was all set to support him. Four or five of the lads stood a head taller than the twins, but seeing how determined the two of them were and since it’s always good to rethink a fight where the stakes are pitifully small, they didn’t say a word, just looking around at one another as if to ask which one had meant to take Landry on. Nobody stepped forward, and Landry, who hadn’t let go of Fadette’s hand, said to her, “Quick, put on your bonnet, Fanchon, and let’s dance. I want to see if anybody tries to take it away from you.” “No,” said little Fadette, wiping her tears. “I’ve had enough dancing for today, and we’re all square now.” “No, no, we’ve got to dance some more,” said Landry, all fired up with courage and pride. “I won’t let it be said that you can’t dance with me without getting insulted.” He danced with her again, and nobody said anything funny or looked askance. Madelon and her suitors had gone someplace else

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to dance. After this last bourrée little Fadette whispered to Landry, “That’s enough, Landry. Everything’s fine, and you’ve done what you promised. I’m going on home. Now you can dance with anybody you want.” She fetched her little brother, who was scuffling with the other children, and left so fast that Landry didn’t even see which way she went.

chapter 17 Landry went home for supper with his brother. Sylvinet was very worried about everything that had just happened, so Landry told him about the trouble he’d had the night before with the goblin fire and how little Fadette had rescued him, by courage or magic, then asked him to dance with her seven times at the Saint Andoche festivities. He didn’t breathe a word about the rest, never wanting to say how much he had feared finding him drowned the year before. This was wise, for the dreadful notions children sometimes put in their heads soon come back if you try to talk them through. Sylvinet thought Landry had been right to keep his word, and he said that all the trouble this had caused him made him all the worthier of respect. Despite his alarm about the danger Landry had faced down at the creek, he still wasn’t about to thank little Fadette. He took such a dim view of her that he couldn’t believe she had found him there by accident or helped him out of the goodness of her heart. “She conjured up the goblin to addle your wits and drown you,” he said. “But God wouldn’t allow it since you weren’t in a state of mortal sin then and never have been. And taking advantage of your kind, grateful heart, the nasty cricket made you promise something she knew would be hard and hurtful. That girl is really evil. She loves evil, like every witch. There’s not a single good one. She knew she’d be stirring up trouble with Madelon and your more respectable acquaintances. She wanted to set you up for a fight too. I’ll say it again: were it not for the good Lord, you could have had a nasty fight on your hands and gotten yourself in big trouble.” Landry, more than willing to see things through his brother’s

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eyes, thought he was probably right and scarcely defended Fadette. Together they talked about the goblin. Sylvinet, who had never seen such a thing, was all ears, but without any desire to see one. They dared not mention any of this to their mother, as she would get frightened at the mere thought of it, nor to their father, as he didn’t give a hoot about goblins, having seen twenty or more without making any fuss. People were to keep on dancing until well after dark. Landry, feeling really put out with Madelon, had a heavy heart and didn’t want to take advantage of the liberty Fadette had given back to him. He went to help his brother bring in his animals. This took him halfway back to La Priche. His head was aching, so he bade his brother farewell at the far end of the marshy meadow. Sylvinet didn’t want him to ford the creek at Les Roulettes for fear that the goblin or the cricket would play another nasty trick on him. He made him promise to go the long way around and take the little footbridge at the big mill. Landry did as his brother wished. Instead of going through the marshy meadow, he went down the shady path along the flank of the Chaumois hill. Still hearing something of the Saint Andoche festivities—distant strains of the bagpipes and shouts from the dancers—he didn’t feel the least bit afraid. He knew spirits only make mischief when everybody is fast asleep. Down at the bottom of the hill, right in front of the quarry, he heard something moaning and crying. At first he thought it was the curlew. But as he drew near, it sounded more human. Never lacking for courage with creatures of his own kind, especially to give them a hand, he boldly approached the deepest part of the quarry. Whoever was wailing stopped, hearing him draw near. “So who is this crying here?” he inquired with a steady voice. There was no reply. “Is somebody ailing?” As nobody said a word, he thought to leave. But first he wanted to take a look around among all the chunks of stone and huge thistles. Soon, in the light of the rising moon, he spied someone stretched out flat on the ground, facedown and motionless as a corpse. Either the person was nearly dead or had sunk down in great distress, wanting to stay still and unseen.

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Landry hadn’t ever seen or touched a dead body. He got quite upset, thinking this might be one. Then he got the better of himself, reminding himself that it was his duty to help his fellow man. He resolutely marched over to feel the hand of the person down on the ground. Little Fadette got halfway up, knowing she’d been found out.

chapter 18 At first Landry was annoyed that he was always having to run into little Fadette, but as she seemed to be hurting, he felt for her and asked, “What’s going on, cricket? Was it you crying like that? Did somebody hit you or go after you again? Is that why you’re here crying in secret?” “No, Landry, nobody’s done a thing to me since you defended me so bravely. Besides, I’m not afraid of anybody. I wanted to shed a few tears all alone, that’s all. There’s nothing more foolish than showing others your pain.” “But why are you hurting so much? Because of the nasty business today? That was a bit your own fault. Just get over it and don’t let it happen again.” “It was my own fault? Why do you say that, Landry? Because you were outraged that I wanted to dance with you? So I’m the only girl who doesn’t have a right to have fun?” “No, Fadette. I don’t have any problem with your wanting to dance with me. I did what you wished and treated you right. Your problem goes back further than today. And you know it’s nothing you’ve done to me, but to your own self.” “No, Landry, truly as I love God, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never given a thought to myself, and if there’s something I blame myself for, it’s having caused you trouble without meaning to.” “Let’s not talk about me, Fadette. I’ve got no complaint. Let’s talk about you. You don’t think you’ve got any faults, so how about my telling you, in a frank and friendly way, what they are?” “Yes, Landry, please do. That’ll be the best reward or punishment you can give me for the good or evil I’ve done you.”

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“Well then, Fanchon Fadet, since you’re talking sense and being nice and accommodating for the first time in your life, I’m going to tell you why folks don’t give you the respect a girl of sixteen ought to be able to insist on. It’s because you don’t look or act anything like a girl, but like a boy instead. And you don’t take care of yourself. For starters, you’re not clean and tidy, and you make yourself look ugly the way you dress and talk. You’ve got to know the kids call you something even worse than cricket. Tomboy—that’s what they often call you.1 Well then, now that you’re sixteen, do you think it’s proper still not to look anything like a girl? You climb trees like a real squirrel, and when you jump on a mare, without any bridle or saddle, you gallop off like she had a devil on her back. It’s fine to be strong and nimble. Fine too not to be scared of anything, a natural advantage for a man. But for a woman, enough is enough, and you seem to want folks to take notice.2 And they do, teasing you and crying wolf when they lay eyes on you. You’re quick, and you snap back with wisecracks that seem funny to the people they’re not aimed at. And it’s fine to be cleverer than other folks, but when you show it over and over again, you make yourself enemies. You’re curious, and once you’ve found out somebody’s secrets, you go around mercilessly throwing them in their face as soon as they do something you don’t like. That’s scary, and folks hate anybody they’re scared of, and then they do them more harm than was ever done to them in the first place. Finally, whether you’re a witch or not, I’m willing to believe you know certain things, but I hope you haven’t given yourself over to evil spirits. You try and give that impression to scare the folks who make you cross, and that’s how you get yourself a pretty nasty reputation. Well, there’s the list of everything you do wrong, Fanchon Fadet, and that’s why folks don’t treat you right. Chew this over a while, and then you’ll see that if you wanted to be a bit more like other folks, they’d be more grateful to you for knowing more than they do.” “Thank you, Landry,” said little Fadette. Having listened quite religiously to the twin, she looked very serious. “That’s more or less what everybody holds against me, and your words have been very civil and courteous, unlike other people’s. Now, how would you like to hear what I’ve got to say for myself? And why don’t you sit down here beside me for a bit?”

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“This is hardly a nice spot,” said Landry. Still thinking about the evil spells she was accused of casting on the unwary, he didn’t much feel like lingering there with her. “You don’t think it’s a nice spot,” she went on. “That’s because all you rich people are hard to please. You’ve got to have a lovely lawn to go sit outside on, and you can choose the most beautiful places and the best shade in your meadows and gardens. But folks with nothing to call their own don’t ask so much of the good Lord. They make the best of things, taking the first stone they come across as a pillow for their heads. Thorns don’t hurt their feet, and wherever they are, they see the loveliness of everything in the heavens and on the earth. There’s no ugly place, Landry, for those who know how good and sweet God’s creation is. I may be no witch, but I know what the most miserable little weeds you trample underfoot are good for. That means I have no contempt for how they smell or look. This is a lesson, Landry, about Christian souls, not just garden flowers and brambles in a quarry. Too often folks scorn what seems neither beautiful nor good, depriving themselves of what is helpful and salutary.” “Just what are you getting at?” asked Landry, sitting down beside her. And they were silent for a moment, little Fadette’s spirit having soared off to realms unknown to Landry. Though his mind was a bit muddled, he couldn’t help enjoying what she was saying. Never had he heard a voice so sweet and words so well spoken. “Listen, Landry,” she said, “I deserve pity more than blame. I may have done a few things wrong myself, but at least I’ve never really done anything terrible to anybody else. And if people were fair and sensible, they’d pay more attention to my good heart than to my ugly face and wretched clothes. Just think, or if you don’t already know, let me tell you what’s been my lot ever since I was born. I won’t say anything bad about my poor mother. Everybody heaps blame and insult on her, even though she’s not here to defend herself, and I can’t defend her myself since I don’t really know what she did or why she was driven to do it. In any case, people are so mean that right after my mother deserted me, and while I was still bitterly grieving her loss, whenever I did the tiniest thing that rankled the other children—a game or a trifle for which they would have forgiven one another—they’d go and throw my

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mother in my face, trying to make me blush with shame. Maybe in my place a sensible girl, as you say, would have humbled herself in silence, thinking it prudent to abandon her mother’s cause and let people call her names. That way she might save herself from the same fate. But I couldn’t do it, you see. It was just too much. My mother was still my mother, and even if she’s what people say, whether I ever find her again or never hear a thing more about her, I’ll always love her with all my heart. And when people say my mother was a loose woman and a camp follower, I get furious. Not because of me—I know these words can’t hurt me, since I haven’t done anything wrong—but because of that poor, dear woman it’s my duty to defend.3 I can’t defend her and don’t know how to, so I take revenge by telling people the truths they deserve to hear and showing them they’re no better than the woman they’re throwing stones at. That’s why they all say I’m curious and insolent, that I ferret out their secrets to let the whole world know. True, the good Lord made me curious, if that means wanting to know secret things. But if people had been good to me, I wouldn’t have dreamed of satisfying my curiosity at their expense. I only would have wanted to learn the healing secrets my grandmother’s teaching me. Flowers, plants, rocks, flies—all the secrets of nature would have been quite enough to keep me busy and happy since I love wandering around and nosing about everywhere. I would have always been alone and never bored, as my greatest pleasure is going to forsaken places and dreaming of all the things the folks who think they’re so wise and discerning never say. Sometimes I’ve dealt with children my age, wanting to help them by means of the little things I’ve learned, things my grandmother has secretly profited from. So I would heal their wounds and ailments, teach them my remedies without ever asking for anything in return. Well, instead of thanking me, they would call me a witch, and the ones who came so sweetly begging when they were in need would then say nasty things the first chance they got. “That made me furious, and I could’ve hurt them. I can do good as well as harm. Still I’ve never made use of that knowledge. I never bear grudges, and if I take revenge with words, it’s because it’s such a relief just to spit out what’s on the tip of my tongue. Then it’s all over and I forgive as God commands. If I don’t take care about

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how I look and behave, that goes to show I’m not crazy enough to think I’m pretty. I’m so ugly nobody can stand looking at me. I’ve heard that often enough for it to sink in. God has given certain folks a hard lot, and seeing how mean and scornful the others can be, I like their not liking me. It’s a comfort to think the good Lord and my guardian angel don’t find my face at all repulsive. They wouldn’t hold it against me any more than I would against them. I’m not like the folks who say, ‘Oh look, a nasty little caterpillar! Oh, how ugly! Let’s kill it!’ No, I won’t squash the good Lord’s miserable creature, and if it falls into the water, I help it out with a leaf. I don’t like torturing frogs, yanking the legs off wasps, and nailing live bats to a tree, and that’s why people say I like evil creatures and call me a witch. ‘Poor little critter,’ I say, ‘if everything ugly has got to die, I’d have no more right to live than you.’”

chapter 19 Landry was inexplicably moved by the way little Fadette talked so humbly and calmly about her ugliness. Remembering her face, scarcely visible in the quarry’s darkness, he said, without meaning to flatter her, “But Fadette, you’re not as ugly as you think or say. There are lots of girls who look worse than you, and nobody holds it against them.” “So I’m a bit more or less ugly, Landry. You still can’t say I’m pretty. Don’t try and make me feel better. It’s all right.” “Gosh, who knows what you’d be like if you dressed and did your hair like the other girls? If you didn’t have such a short nose, big mouth, and swarthy skin, you wouldn’t be half bad. That’s what everybody says. And they also say there’s not another pair of eyes like yours. It would be nice to have those eyes on you if they weren’t so bold and mischievous.” Landry was talking like this not really knowing what he was saying. He was recalling little Fadette’s good and bad points, and for the first time with a measure of attention and interest he wouldn’t have thought possible a moment before. She took inward note of this, being too clever to take it seriously. “My eyes look kindly on what is good,” she said, “and they take

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pity on what is not. Besides, I don’t mind not being liked by those I don’t like, and I can’t really see why all these lovely girls flirt with everybody, as if they were fond of every one of their suitors. If I were beautiful, I’d only want to please the boy who suited me.” Landry’s thoughts turned to Madelon, but little Fadette didn’t let him dwell on that. “So there, Landry, that’s everything I do wrong with other people: I don’t try to win their pity or indulgence because I’m ugly. I show them my ugly face without trying to dress it up. That rubs them the wrong way and makes them forget I’ve often done them good, never harm. And even if I tidied up, where would I find the money for fine clothes? Have I ever gone begging, even though I don’t have a penny to my name? Does my grandmother give me anything at all aside from bed and board? And if I don’t know how to make the best of the pitiful rags my mother left me, is that my fault? Nobody’s taught me how, and from the age of ten I’ve been forsaken, without anybody’s love or protection. There’s another thing they say against me, which you were kind enough not to mention. Since I’m sixteen, I could very well hire myself out1 and earn some money, but because I prefer being lazy and wandering around, I just stay here with my grandmother, even though she hardly loves me and could certainly afford a servant girl.” “Well, Fadette, isn’t that the truth?” said Landry. “People often say you don’t like to work. Even your grandmother tells anyone who’ll listen that she’d be better off with a servant girl instead of you.” “That’s because she likes to grumble and carry on. Yet when I talk about leaving, she holds me back, knowing I’m more useful to her than she’s willing to say. She no longer has the eyes and legs of a fifteen-year-old to go after the herbs necessary for her potions and powders. For some you’ve got to go to the back of the beyond. I’ve already told you I’ve found that some herbs have virtues she doesn’t know anything about. She’s just amazed when I prepare good remedies that work. Folks are pretty surprised to see us with a flock so fat and fine, even though we have nothing but communal pasture.2 Well, my grandmother knows who to thank for the sheep’s fine wool and the goats’ good milk. She’s got no desire to see me go, and I’m worth more to her than what I cost. And I love

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my grandmother, even if she’s mean and really stingy with me. But there’s another reason for not leaving, and I’ll tell you if you wish, Landry.” “Tell me then,” said Landry, who wasn’t the least bit tired of listening to Fadette. “I wasn’t yet ten when my mother left me holding a poor little baby. He was ugly, as ugly as me, and even worse off, for he’s been lame since birth, puny, sickly, misshapen, and always spiteful and cross because the poor thing’s always in pain! Everybody pesters him, pushes him away, and puts him down, my poor little grasshopper! My grandmother’s too rough when she scolds him, and she’d beat him too often if I didn’t pretend to do it myself. But I’m always really careful not to hit him, and he knows it! So when he’s done something bad, he runs to hide in my skirts and says, ‘Give me a thrashing before grandmother does!’ I play at thrashing him, and the little fox pretends to scream. I look after him, too. I can’t always stop the poor little scamp from going around in rags, but when I get something to wear, I fix it up for him, and I tend to him when he’s ill. My grandmother would kill him, not knowing a thing about treating children. In short, I keep this little runt alive, and without me he’d be miserable and soon six feet under next to our poor father, whom I couldn’t stop from dying. I don’t know if I’m doing him a favor by keeping him alive, crooked and nasty as he is, but I just can’t help it, Landry, and when I think of working to earn some money of my own and getting out of this wretched poverty, my heart breaks with pity and takes me to task. It’s as though I were my grasshopper’s mother and watching him die because of something I did. These are all my wrongs and failings, Landry. Now, let the good Lord be my judge, and I forgive those who don’t know me for what I am.”

chapter 20 Landry was still listening to little Fadette, endeavoring to understand and not finding fault with any of her arguments. The way she talked about her little brother made him all of a sudden feel as if he liked her and wanted to take her side against the whole world.

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“This time, Fadette,” he said, “anybody finding you in the wrong would be wrong in the first place. You’ve said it all so well. Nobody would have ever had the faintest idea of your kind heart and good sense. Why don’t you just let people know who you are? They wouldn’t tear you to pieces, and some would do you justice.” “But I’ve told you, Landry,” she said. “I’ve got no need to be liked by the people I don’t like at all.” “But if you’re telling me this, it’s because . . .” Landry stopped, stunned by what he had nearly said. “Because you think better of me than of some others? But I thought you hated me since I’ve never been nice to you.” “Maybe I hated you a bit,” said little Fadette. “But if that was the case, it’s not so any longer, and I’ll tell you why. I thought you were proud, Landry, and you are. But you don’t let your pride stop you from doing your duty, and that’s all the more to your credit. I thought you were ungrateful, and even though the pride you’ve been taught encourages ingratitude, you’re so faithful to your word that you spare no effort to keep your promises. Finally, I thought you were a coward, and that’s why I was inclined to scorn you, but you’re just superstitious, and not without courage in the face of real danger. You danced with me today, even though it was really humiliating. After vespers you even came looking for me around the church. At the end of my prayers I had forgiven you in my heart and was no longer dreaming of tormenting you. You defended me against mean little boys, and you challenged some big fellows who would have done horrible things to me. And this evening, when you heard me crying, you came to help and comfort me. I’ll never forget any part of this, Landry, and you’ll have proof of it your whole life long. In turn you can ask anything of me, at any time. For starters, I know I really hurt you. Yes, I did, Landry; I’m sorceress enough to have seen into you, even though I didn’t suspect a thing this morning. There’s more mischief than malice in me. Had I known you were in love with Madelon, I wouldn’t have stirred up trouble by making you dance with me. You’re right, it amused me to see you put aside a beautiful girl to dance with an ugly thing like me, but I thought it only injured your pride a little. Bit by bit I came to see it was a real wound to your heart. In spite of yourself, you were always looking over at Madelon, and she was so nasty you wanted to cry.

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Well, I cried too. I really did! I cried when you wanted to have it out with her suitors, and you thought those were tears of repentance. That’s why I was still crying so bitterly when you surprised me here, and I’ll keep on crying until I’ve repaired the harm I’ve done to the good, brave fellow I now know you are.” “And supposing, my poor Fanchon,” said Landry, quite moved by the tears she had once again started to weep, “you’ve made me squabble with a girl I might, as you say, be in love with, what could you do to fix things up?” “Trust me, Landry,” replied little Fadette. “I’m not such a fool that I can’t say what needs to be said. Madelon will know I’m the one to blame. I’ll confess to her, making you white as snow. If she doesn’t give you back her heart tomorrow, it’s because she didn’t ever love you and . . .” “And I mustn’t feel bad about her, Fanchon. And as she didn’t really ever love me, it’s not worth your trouble. So don’t do it, and don’t worry about the little heartache you caused me. It’s already over.” “It takes longer than that to get over such things,” said little Fadette. Then, thinking better of it, she added, “At least that’s what people say. That’s spite talking, Landry. Once you’ve slept on it, tomorrow will come and you’ll be terribly sad until you’ve made peace with that lovely girl.” “Could be,” said Landry, “but right now I swear I don’t know and neither do I care. I reckon you’re trying to make me think I’ve got feelings for her. And if I once did, they were so shallow I can hardly remember them.” “How strange,” said little Fadette with a sigh. “Is that what love means to all you fellows?” “Gosh, you girls aren’t any better, since you get mad so easily and then go console yourselves with the first guy who comes along. But now we’re talking about things we may not yet understand— you at least, my little Fadette, always going around poking fun at sweethearts. Right now I think you’re pulling my leg, saying you want to fix things between Madelon and me. Don’t even try. She might think I asked you to, and that would be a mistake. And then it might make her mad to think I’m acting like her official sweetheart. Truth is, I still haven’t said a word to her. I like being around her

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and having a dance, but she’s never encouraged me to say anything. So let it go. She’ll come back on her own if she wants to. If not, I’m pretty sure it won’t kill me.” “I know what you’re thinking better than you do, Landry,” said little Fadette. “You say you’ve never told Madelon how you feel, but she’d have to be an idiot not to have seen it in your eyes, especially today. I was the reason you quarreled, so I have to bring you back together, and that’ll give me a good chance to let her know your feelings. That is my responsibility, and I’ll do such a good job she won’t be able to say you put me up to it. Trust little Fadette, Landry. The poor cricket isn’t as ugly inside as out. And forgive her for tormenting you. This will be much to your good. It’s sweet to have a pretty girl’s love, but it’s helpful to be friends with an ugly one. They’re unselfish, never nasty or vindictive.” “Whether you’re pretty or ugly, Fanchon,” said Landry, taking her hand, “I think I already understand that being friends with you is a fine thing, and so good that love may be bad in comparison. Now I know you’re very kindhearted, for I did something awful to you today and you seemed not to take notice. You tell me I did right by you, but I think I was very rude.” “How’s that, Landry? I don’t know what . . .” “I didn’t give you a single kiss while we were dancing, Fanchon. By custom, it was my duty and my right. I treated you like a girl of ten, whom nobody leans down to kiss, but you’re nearly my age, just a year between us. That’s an insult, and if you weren’t so nice, you’d have taken notice.” “Well, I didn’t,” said little Fadette, getting up. She knew she was lying and didn’t want to let on. “Listen,” she said, forcing a cheery note, “the crickets are singing in the fields where the wheat’s been harvested. They’re calling me by name, and the owl hooting over there is telling me the hour the stars have marked on the face of the heavens.” “I hear it too, and I’ve got to get back to La Priche. But before I go, Fadette, won’t you forgive me?” “But there’s no problem, Landry, and nothing to forgive.” “Oh yes, there is!” said Landry, all aflutter with some ineffable emotion ever since she had spoken about love and friendship in a voice so sweet that the sound of bullfinches warbling in their sleep

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in the bushes seemed raspy in comparison. “Oh yes indeed, you’ve got to forgive me something. You’ve got to tell me to kiss you right now. It was wrong of me not to kiss you today, and a kiss will make things right.” Little Fadette quivered a bit, then cheerfully went on, “You want me to punish you for that? We’re all square, Landry. Dancing with the ugly one is quite enough. Wanting to kiss her would be too much.” “Don’t say that,” exclaimed Landry, taking her hand and arm. “Kissing is no punishment . . . unless it disgusts you, coming from me . . .” Then he so wanted to kiss little Fadette that he was quaking with fear she wouldn’t allow it. “Listen, Landry,” she said in her sweet, flattering voice, “if I were pretty, I’d say it’s neither the time nor place to kiss, as if we were in hiding. If I were a flirt, I’d think it the right time and place, night hiding my ugly face and nobody being here to shame you for your whim. But I’m not a flirt, and I’m not nice-looking, so here’s what I say: take my hand as a sign of honest friendship, and that will be fine, for I’ve never had a friend and I’ll never wish for any other.” “Yes,” said Landry. “With all my heart, Fadette! And the most honest friendship, what I feel for you, doesn’t stop us from sharing a kiss. Refuse me this, and I’ll believe you’re still holding a grudge.” He tried to kiss her by surprise, but she put him off. When he kept insisting, she started to cry, saying, “Leave me alone, Landry. You’re really upsetting me.” Landry stopped, quite taken aback and so dismayed to see her still crying that he almost felt cross. “It’s not true when you say you want my friendship alone,” he said. “You’ve got stronger feelings for somebody else, and that’s why you won’t kiss me.” “No, Landry,” she sobbed, “but I’m afraid if you kiss me at night when you can’t see me, you’ll hate me when you see me again by light of day.” “Haven’t I ever seen you?” asked Landry, out of patience. “Aren’t I seeing you right now? Look, come over here in the moonlight; now I’m getting a good look at you. I don’t know if you’re ugly, but I love your face and I love you, and there we are.”

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Then he kissed her, trembling at first, and then again with such desire that she felt frightened and pushed him away. “Enough! Enough, Landry! It’s as if you’re kissing me out of spite or thinking about Madelon. Settle down; I’ll talk to her tomorrow, and then you’ll be happier kissing her than me.” And she scampered away. Nearly frantic, Landry wanted to pursue Fadette. Three times he started out after her before deciding to head back down along the creek. Finally, feeling the devil at his heels, he started running and didn’t stop until he got to La Priche. When he went to see his oxen at dawn the next day, while feeding and stroking them, he was thinking over his conversation with little Fadette in the Chaumois quarry. Lasting over an hour and a half, it seemed to have flown by in an instant. His head was still heavy with sleep, and he felt drained by the previous day’s events, so different from what they should have been. And he was perturbed and almost frightened by what he had felt for Fadette. In his mind’s eye she looked once again ugly and unkempt, as she had always been. By moments it seemed to him only a dream, wishing to kiss her and feeling so happy clasping her to his heart, as though he had felt great love for her and she had all of a sudden looked prettier and nicer than any girl on earth. “People say she’s a witch, and that’s got to be so, even though she denies it,” he thought. “She cast a spell on me last night, for sure. The surge of affection that she-devil made me feel for a few minutes, I’ve never felt anything like it before, not for my father, mother, sister, or brother, certainly not for lovely Madelon, and not even for my dear twin, Sylvinet. If my poor Sylvinet had seen what was in my heart just then, he would have been eaten alive with jealousy. My feelings for Madelon didn’t hurt my brother one bit, but just one day of feeling frantic and burning with love, as I was for a moment with that Fadette, would drive me crazy. I wouldn’t know anybody but her in the whole world.” And Landry felt suffocated with shame, weariness, and impatience. He sat down on the oxen’s manger, afraid the witch had stolen his courage, reason, and health. When the sun was higher and the plowmen of La Priche had gotten up, they started to make fun of him for dancing with the

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nasty cricket. Their taunts made her out to be so ugly, ill-mannered, and poorly dressed that he wanted to go hide under a rock. He wasn’t just ashamed of what people had seen, but of what he was hiding. He didn’t get angry, because the fellows at La Priche were all his friends and meant no harm. He even had the courage to tell them that little Fadette wasn’t what people believed, that she was as good as many others and could be a great help. Then they made fun of him some more. “Her mother, maybe so,” they said. “But that kid doesn’t know a thing. If you’ve got a sick animal, I wouldn’t follow the remedies of that little magpie, who has no secret for healing. But it sure looks like she’s got one for beguiling. You hardly left her alone during the whole Saint Andoche, and you’d better watch out. Soon they’ll be calling poor Landry ‘the cricket’s mate’ and ‘Fadette’s little goblin.’ The devil will get after you; Georgeon1 will come tugging at our sheets and knotting up our horses’ manes.2 Then we’ll have to get you exorcized.” “I think,” said little Solange, “he put one of his socks on inside out yesterday morning. That attracts witches, and little Fadette took notice.”

chapter 21 The next day Landry, busy sowing, saw little Fadette hurrying by toward a stand of saplings, where Madelon was cutting shoots to feed her sheep come winter. The oxen had done their half day’s work, so it was time to unyoke them. As Landry was taking them back to pasture, he kept his eye on little Fadette, sailing along so airily that her feet seemed to skim over the grass. He was curious to know what she was going to say to Madelon. So, instead of making a beeline for the soup in the furrow, still warm from the plowshare, he quietly skirted along the trees to listen to what the two girls were plotting together. He couldn’t see them, and hearing nothing but faint mumbling out of Madelon, he had no idea what she was saying. But little Fadette’s voice, albeit soft and low, rang clear, and he didn’t miss a single word. As she had promised, Fadette

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was telling Madelon about the word of honor she had extracted from him some ten months earlier to obey her wish, whatever it might be. Her explanation was so humble and nicely put that it was a pleasure to his ears. Then, without a word about the goblin or Landry’s being so scared of it, she told how he had nearly drowned by going wrong in the ford at Les Roulettes on the eve of Saint Andoche. Last, she put everything in a good light, showing that all the trouble came from her vain, whimsical notion to dance with a grown-up lad when she had only ever danced with little boys. Then Madelon, in a temper, raised her voice. “What’s that to me? You can dance your whole life long with those twins, and I couldn’t care less.” “Don’t be so hard on poor Landry, Madelon. He’s given you his heart,” said Fadette. “And if you don’t want it, he’ll be more hurt than I can say.” Yet she said it, and in such lovely words, in such an affectionate tone and with such praise for Landry, that he would have wanted to remember all her turns of phrase, hoping to make use of them someday. He blushed with pleasure hearing this stamp of approval. Madelon too was astonished at little Fadette’s fine way with words, but she had too much disdain for the girl to say so. “What smooth talk and so cheeky!” she said. “I’d say your grandmother’s been teaching you how to cast spells, but I don’t like talking to witches. It’s bad luck. Just go away, you horned cricket. You’ve got an admirer, and he’s all yours, my pet, the first and last who’ll ever fancy your ugly snout. I wouldn’t take your leftovers, not even if Landry were the king’s son. What a clown! You’ve just stolen him away, so you think, and already you’re begging me to take him back. He must be totally feckless. That’s just the suitor for me, some guy even little Fadette won’t have!” “If that’s what offends you,” said Fadette in a tone that went right down to the depths of Landry’s heart, “and if you’re so proud you can only want to be fair after putting me down, make yourself happy, lovely Madelon, and trample all over the poor cricket’s pride and courage. You think I despise Landry; otherwise I wouldn’t be begging you to forgive him. Well, you should know I’ve loved him a long time already. He’s the only boy I’ve ever thought about, and maybe I’ll think about him my whole life long. But I’m too sensible,

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too proud as well, to think he could ever love me, knowing who he is and who I am. He’s handsome, rich, and respected; I’m ugly, poor, and scorned. I know full well he’s not for me, and you have to have seen how he looked down his nose at me at the dance. So you can feel smug. I don’t even dare look at him, and his eyes brim with love looking at you. Punish little Fadette by poking fun at her and taking back the boy she wouldn’t dare fight you for. Do it, if not out of love for Landry, at least to punish my insolence. And when he comes to apologize, promise me you’ll be gracious and comfort him a bit.” Madelon was not moved to pity by such submission and devotion. Ruthless, she sent little Fadette packing, still saying that Landry, being too childish and silly for her, was just what the girl needed. But Fadette’s great sacrifice bore fruit, despite lovely Madelon’s rebuffs. Women’s hearts are such that a young fellow starts looking like a man as soon as they see other women honor and cherish him. Madelon had never really given Landry any serious thought, but she starting thinking about him a great deal as soon as Fadette was gone. She remembered all of the girl’s beautiful words about her love for Landry. Fadette being so smitten that she would dare confess as much, Madelon gloried in the idea of getting back at the wretched girl. That evening she went over to La Priche, just two or three gunshots1 away from where she lived. Pretending to look for a sheep that had gone off with her uncle’s out in the fields, she made sure that Landry had seen her and beckoned to him with her eye. Landry understood what was going on. Ever since little Fadette had stepped in, he had become oddly ingenious. “That Fadette is a witch,” he said to himself. “Now I’m back in Madelon’s good graces. That little chat has done more for me in fifteen minutes than I would have been able to do in a whole year. She’s got a wonderful head on her shoulders, plus a heart of the sort the good Lord doesn’t make all that often.” While turning these thoughts over in his mind, he was gazing at Madelon, but with such cool composure that she went back home without his saying a word to her, and not because he was feeling bashful. That feeling had vanished; he knew not how, but once it was gone, so was his pleasure in seeing her and his desire for her love.

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Right after supper he pretended to turn in for the night. But he got out of bed and headed straight over to the ford at Les Roulettes. The goblin fire was again dancing its little jig. As soon as he saw it, Landry said to himself, “All the better, the goblin’s here; Fadette can’t be far away.” He forded the stream without feeling scared or going wrong, and he went as far as old Fadet’s house, poking around and keeping his eyes peeled. He was there a long time without seeing any light or hearing any noise. Everybody was in bed. He hoped the cricket, who often slipped out at night after her grandmother and grasshopper were asleep, would be wandering around nearby. He started back on home, through the marshy meadow and over by the Chaumois quarry, whistling and singing to draw attention to himself. But he only ran into a badger that scampered off into the stubble and an owl hooting in a tree. He arrived home without having had the chance to thank the good friend who had done so much for him.

chapter 22 The whole week went by without Landry running into Fadette, which he found most surprising and worrisome. “She’s once again going to think I’m being ungrateful,” he said to himself. “Still, if I haven’t seen her, it’s not for lack of waiting around and keeping an eye out. I must have hurt her feelings when I kissed her almost despite herself in the quarry. Yet my intentions were good, and I didn’t mean any offense.” He thought more that week than he ever had his whole life long. Nothing was clear to him, but he was pensive and fidgety, having to force himself to work. The big oxen, shiny plow, and lovely red earth, moist with autumn mist, no longer satisfied his meditations and daydreams. He went to see his twin on Thursday evening and found him in the same state of mind. Sylvinet’s temperament was different from his own, but sometimes the same as a result. He seemed to sense that something had upset his brother, yet he was far from suspecting what that might be. Sylvinet asked if he had made peace with Madelon, and when Landry said yes, this was the first time he

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willingly lied to his brother. In fact, Landry hadn’t said a word to Madelon, thinking there was no rush. Sunday finally came, and Landry was among the first at Mass. He entered the church before the bells rang, knowing that little Fadette usually arrived early for the long prayers at which everybody poked fun. He saw a girl kneeling in the Lady chapel. Her back was turned, and she kept her face down in her hands to pray and meditate. It was little Fadette’s posture, but not her bonnet or manner. Landry went back out to see if he couldn’t find her in the narthex, which we call the guenillière,1 or rag bin, around here, because of all the ragamuffin beggars standing there during the services. Fadette’s rags were the only ones he didn’t see. He heard Mass without catching sight of her. Only at the Preface2 did he take another look at the girl praying so devoutly in the chapel. When she lifted her head, he recognized his cricket, whose aspect and attire seemed all new to him. She was of course still wearing the same old clothes—her drugget petticoat, red apron, and linen bonnet without any lace—but she had laundered, recut, and resewn everything during the week. Her dress was longer and fell more modestly down over her stockings, which, like her bonnet, were ever so white. Now the bonnet was fashionably redone and nicely fastened on her glossy black hair. Her shawl was new, a nice soft yellow that made her swarthy skin look pretty. She had also lengthened her bodice. Instead of looking like a piece of wood with some clothes thrown over it, she had the narrow, supple waist of a lovely honeybee. Plus, she had spent the whole week washing with I don’t know what potion of flowers or herbs, and now her pale face and dainty hands looked as clean and soft as hawthorn blossoms in the spring. Landry, seeing her so changed, dropped his book of hours. At that noise little Fadette turned right around and met his eye. She blushed a bit, no more than a little wild rose. This made her look almost beautiful, her dark eyes, with which nobody had ever managed to find fault, sparkling so bright that she seemed transfigured. And Landry said to himself once again, “She’s a witch. Once ugly, she wanted to become a beauty, and now here she is, beautiful by miracle.” Even though he was fear-stricken, he still so wanted to go talk to her that his heart was jumping with impatience right to the end of Mass.

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But she did not look at him again. And instead of running off to frolic with the little boys after having finished her prayer, she slipped away so discreetly that one scarcely had the time to see how much she had changed and mended her ways. Landry dared not follow, especially since Sylvinet was keeping a close eye on him. But an hour later he managed to escape, and this time, with his heart urging him on his way, he found little Fadette demurely tending her sheep in a little sunken lane, called the traîne-au-Gendarme because the folks of La Cosse had killed one of the king’s men there back in the days when the poor were made to pay taxes and do forced labor, contrary to the terms of law, already quite hard enough, such as it was.3

chapter 23 It was Sunday, so little Fadette neither sewed nor spun while watching her sheep. Occupied with a quiet little pastime the children around here sometimes take quite seriously, she was searching for a four-leaf clover, which is quite rare and brings good luck. “Have you found it, Fanchon?” asked Landry, drawing near. “Many a time,” she replied. “People think it brings luck, but that’s not true. It does me no good to have three, in my book.” Landry sat down for a chat. All of a sudden he felt more bashful than he had ever been around Madelon. He had meant to tell her all kinds of things, but he couldn’t say a word. Little Fadette felt bashful too. The twin was silent, but he was certainly eyeing her strangely. She finally asked why he looked so astonished. “Maybe because I fixed up my bonnet?” she said. “I just took your advice, telling myself I had to start dressing sensibly to look sensible. That’s also why I’m keeping to myself. I’m afraid people will find fault with me for this too, saying I’ve failed to make myself any less ugly.” “People will say what they will,” said Landry, “but I have no idea what you’ve done to make yourself look pretty. The truth is, you’re pretty today, and somebody would have to poke his eyes out not to see that.”

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“Don’t make fun of me, Landry,” said little Fadette. “People say beauty goes to a girl’s head, while ugliness breaks her heart. I’d gotten used to giving folks a scare, and I wouldn’t want to fool myself into thinking somebody might find me attractive. But that’s not what you came to say, and I want to know if Madelon’s forgiven you.” “I’m not here to talk about Madelon. If she’s forgiven me, I know nothing about it, and I’m not asking either. But I know you talked to her, and so well that I owe you many thanks.” “How do you know that? Did she tell you? So the two of you have made peace?” “We haven’t made peace, and we don’t have enough feelings for each other to be at war. I know you talked to her because she told somebody, who then told me.” Little Fadette blushed mightily, which made her even more beautiful. Never before had her cheeks taken on that comely hue of fear and pleasure that makes the ugliest of girls look pretty. At the same time she worried that Madelon must have repeated what she had said, making a laughingstock out of her for confessing her love for Landry. “So what did Madelon say about me?” she asked. “She said I was a big fool that no girl liked, not even little Fadette. That you looked down on me and were avoiding me, spending the whole week in hiding so as not to see me, even though I’d spent the whole week searching and running all over the place just to cross paths with you. So I’m the laughingstock, Fanchon. Everybody knows I love you and that you don’t love me one whit.” “What mean things to say,” said little Fadette all amazed, not being enough of a witch to divine that Landry was just then being craftier than she. “I didn’t think Madelon was such a two-faced liar. But you’ve got to forgive her, Landry. She says that out of spite, and spite is love.” “Maybe that’s why you’re not spiteful with me, Fanchon,” Landry said. “You despise everything about me, so you forgive me everything.” “I don’t deserve that, Landry. No, it’s true, I really don’t deserve that. I’ve never been crazy enough to tell such lies. That’s not what I told Madelon. It was for her ears alone, but it couldn’t do you any

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harm. Much to the contrary, it should have proved how highly I think of you.” “Listen, Fanchon,” said Landry, “let’s not quarrel about what you said or didn’t say. You know lots of things, and I want to ask you something. Last Sunday, in the quarry—and I don’t know how this happened—I started having such strong feelings for you that I haven’t eaten or slept my fill all week long. I don’t mean to hide anything from you. That would just be no use with such a clever girl. So I confess to feeling bashful about my feelings Monday morning. I would have liked to go far, far away to avoid slipping back into that madness. But come Monday night I was already back in so deep I forded the stream in the dark, and without worrying about the goblin who would have wanted to stop me, since he was still there. And when he started laughing at me in his nasty way, I laughed right back. Every morning now I feel like a fool, with everybody poking fun at my feelings for you. And every evening it’s like I’m crazy, my feelings for you being stronger than my shame. And now today I see you looking so nice and well-behaved that everybody else is going to be astonished too. If you keep on like this, within two weeks, folks are not only going to forgive me for being in love with you, but there’ll be other guys feeling the same way. Then there won’t be any merit in my loving you, and you’ll scarcely owe me any preference. But if you remember last Sunday, on the Saint Andoche, you also remember I asked you to let me kiss you down in the quarry, and I kissed you with my whole heart, as though people didn’t find you ugly and hateful. That’s what I’ve got to say for myself. Does this count for anything? Does it annoy you, or can you believe it?” Little Fadette, having put her face in her hands, said nothing. Landry believed she loved him because of what he had overheard her tell Madelon, and her love for him had all of a sudden called forth his love for her. But seeing how ashamed and downcast she looked, he began to fear that Fadette, all with good intentions, had told Madelon a tall tale to make a success of the reconciliation she was negotiating. This made him love her even more and also shook him up. Pulling her hands away from her face, he saw that she was deathly pale. And as he was fervently taking her to task for not requiting his mad passion, she slipped down to the ground,

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wringing her hands and sighing, for she could not breathe and was falling into a faint.

chapter 24 Landry, really frightened, tried to bring her around by slapping her hands. They were cold as ice and stiff as wood. For a long time he held them in his own, warming and stroking them. When she was again able to talk, she said, “I think you’re playing around with me, Landry. But some things are no joking matter, so please leave me be and don’t ever talk to me again unless you’ve got something to ask, in which case I’ll always be at your service.” “Fadette, Fadette,” said Landry. “That’s not so. You’re the one playing around with me. You despise me, even though you made me think otherwise.” “What!” said she, utterly distraught. “So how have I misled you? My feelings for you are like your twin’s, and maybe better, for I’m not jealous. Instead of interfering with your romance, I’ve tried to help.” “That’s the truth,” said Landry. “You’ve been good as the good Lord, and it was wrong of me to scold you. Forgive me, Fanchon, and let me show my feelings for you as I am able. Maybe they won’t be as calm and collected as for Sylvinet or my sister Nanette, but I promise not to try and kiss you anymore if that’s not to your liking.” And thinking back over things, Landry guessed that little Fadette really felt nothing more than friendship for him. Not being vain or cocky, he felt timid and bewildered. It was as if he hadn’t heard with his own two ears what she had said to lovely Madelon. Little Fadette, clever enough to see that Landry was at last truly head over heels in love with her, felt so overjoyed that she had nearly swooned. Still this happiness had been won too quickly, and she was afraid of losing it just as fast. That’s why she wanted to make Landry yearn for her love. He stayed by her side until nightfall. Even though he no longer dared flirt with her, he was so smitten and so loved seeing her and

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listening to her talk that he couldn’t make up his mind to go. He played with the grasshopper, who, never far from his sister, soon came over to join them. Landry was nice to him, and before long he realized that the poor little thing, so mistreated by everybody, wasn’t silly or mean with folks who were good to him. After an hour or so he was so tame and brimming with gratitude that he was kissing the twin’s hands and calling him “my Landry,” just as he called his sister “my Fanchon.” Landry felt his heart soften, thinking that everybody in the past, himself included, had been wrong about the two wretched children under old Fadet’s care. To be the best of all, they only needed to be loved a bit like the others. In the following days Landry sometimes managed to have a few words with Fadette in the evening or during the day if their paths happened to cross. Very conscientious about her duties, she could stop only briefly, but he was happy to say a few heartfelt words and feast his eyes on her. Fadette kept up her nice ways of talking, dressing, and dealing with everybody. Folks took notice and soon changed their tone with her. She wasn’t misbehaving anymore, so nobody called her names, and she was no longer tempted to reply in kind or taunt anyone. Yet people’s opinions don’t change as quickly as our own resolutions, and it would take more time before their scorn turned to respect and their loathing to good will. Later on you’ll see how all this came about. For the time being, you can certainly guess that nobody paid much attention to little Fadette’s having settled down. Four or five kindhearted old folks, of the sort who turn an indulgent eye to children and act like everybody’s father and mother, sometimes got together for a chat under the walnut trees of La Cosse while watching all the youngsters bustling about, the little ones dancing and the older ones playing skittles. And they would say, “This one will probably be a handsome soldier. He’s so healthy he’ll never get an exemption. That one will be quick-witted and clever like his father, and this other one will have his mother’s wisdom and serenity. Little Lucette looks like she’ll be a good farm servant, while plump Louise will turn lots of heads. As for that little Marion, once she’s grown up, she won’t be such a silly goose.” And when it was little Fadette’s turn for inspection, they said,

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“That one’s hurrying off without wanting to sing or dance. We haven’t seen her around since Saint Andoche. It must have really upset her when the kids made off with that huge bonnet of hers. That’s why she’s done it over, and now she’s no uglier than anybody else.” “Have you noticed she’s not so swarthy now?” old lady Couturier asked. “Her face looked like a quail’s egg with all those freckles. The last time I saw her close up, I was surprised to see her so white, even so pale that I asked if she hadn’t had a fever. From the way things look now, she may even turn over a new leaf. You never know, some ugly ducklings become beauties at seventeen or eighteen.” “When they get some sense,” said old Naubin. “And then a girl learns how to make herself elegant and nice. It’s high time the cricket realized she’s no boy. My God, people thought she’d turn out so poorly it would bring us all shame. But she’ll settle down and mend her ways just like the other girls. She’ll see she’s got to earn forgiveness for that disgraceful mother of hers, and she won’t be making any tongues wag.” “God willing,” said old lady Courtillet. “It’s dreadful when a girl looks like a runaway horse. But I too have some hope for Fadette. She would usually scoot behind me to imitate my limp, but when I ran into her the other day, she said hello and asked how I was getting on, nice as can be.” “She’s more wild than mean,” said old Henri. “Her heart’s in the right place, proof being she’s often tended my grandchildren out in the fields, out of pure kindness, when my daughter was feeling poorly. She was awfully good with them, and they wanted to stay with her.” “So is it true what I heard,” asked old lady Couturier, “that one of old Barbeau’s twins fell madly in love with her at the last Saint Andoche?” “Come on!” replied old Naubin. “You can’t be serious. That was child’s play, and the Barbeaus aren’t stupid, the youngsters no more than their mother and father.” This is how people talked about little Fadette. Most often they didn’t give her a thought because practically nobody saw her anymore.

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chapter 25 But somebody who saw her often and paid her a lot of attention was Landry Barbeau. He went nearly wild inside when he could not talk to her as much as he liked. But as soon as he had a moment with her, he calmed down and felt pleased with himself because she taught him reason and comforted him in his ideas. She was playing a little game with him that may have been just a tad flirtatious. At least, that’s what he sometimes thought. But her intentions were good. She didn’t want his love unless he had really thought long and hard about it, so he had no right to take offense. She couldn’t suspect him of wanting to deceive her about the strength of his love. It was of a sort you don’t often see among country folks, who love more patiently than city folks. And Landry being more patient than others, nobody could have predicted that he would burn with such passion for her, and whoever might have figured it out (for he kept it well hidden) would have been astonished. But little Fadette, seeing that he had given himself to her so entirely and so suddenly, was afraid his feelings might burn out as fast as straw or even that she herself would catch fire, with things between them going further than is decent for any two youngsters not yet old enough to get married, at least according to their parents and the rules of common sense. Love hardly likes to tarry, and once it’s in the blood of two young people, it’s a miracle if they wait for approval. But little Fadette, looking like a child much longer than other girls, possessed inner resources of reason and willpower far beyond her years. That was because she had a mind of rare strength, her heart being as ardent, and perhaps even more so, as Landry’s heart and blood. She was mad about him, yet she behaved with great wisdom. She thought about him day and night, every hour impatiently longing to see and caress him, but as soon as she laid eyes on him, she would look cool as a cucumber, talk reason, even pretend not yet to know the flames of love and not allow him to clasp her arm above the wrist. Thoroughly bewitched, Landry could have forgotten himself and no longer surrendered to her in the secluded spots where they often met, and in pitch darkness. Yet he was afraid of incurring her displeasure. He also felt so uncertain about being really loved that

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he lived as innocently with her as if they had been brother and sister. Wanting to distract him from the idea that she was loath to encourage, she taught him everything she knew, her mind and natural talent having gone beyond her grandmother’s lessons. She didn’t want to keep secrets from Landry. He was still a bit afraid of witchcraft, so she did everything possible to make him see that the devil had no part in her mysteries. “Come on, Landry,” she said one day, “what’s the evil spirit got to do with this? There’s just one spirit, and it’s good, the spirit of God. Lucifer is something the priest made up, and Georgeon1 an old wives’ tale. When I was a little girl, I believed in such things, and I was scared of my grandmother’s spells. But she was pulling my leg. Sure enough, the person who doesn’t believe in anything is the very one to make others believe all sorts of nonsense. Nobody believes less in Satan than the witches who pretend to summon him at every turn. They know full well they’ve never seen him or had one bit of help from him. The folks who are simpleminded enough to believe in him and invoke his name have never been able to conjure him up. The miller at la passe-aux-Chiens is a good case in point. My grandmother told me he tramped all over the place with a huge stick, calling upon the devil so that he could give him a good thrashing. And you could hear him shouting in the night, ‘Come here, old wolf-face! Here I am, mad dog! Come on, Georgeon, you old devil!’ And Georgeon never showed up. And the miller went almost crazy with pride, saying the devil was scared of him.” “But your believing there’s really no devil,” said Landry, “that’s none too Christian, my little Fanchon.” “I can’t argue about that,” she replied. “But if the devil exists, I’m quite sure he’s got no power to come deceive us here on earth and steal our souls from the good Lord. He wouldn’t be so brazen. The earth is the good Lord’s, and God alone governs the things and people here.” And Landry, once he’d recovered from his foolish fear, could not help admiring what a good Christian little Fadette was in all her thoughts and prayers. Her faith was more appealing than other people’s. She loved God passionately, bringing an active mind and

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a tender heart to everything she did. When she talked to Landry about her love of God, he was amazed. He’d been taught prayers and rituals that he had never tried to understand, dutifully observing them, but without his heart ever burning with love for his Creator, as little Fadette’s did.

chapter 26 While they walked and talked, he learned the properties of herbs and all the recipes for healing people and animals. He soon got a chance to try one out when the belly of one of old Caillaud’s cows ballooned out after too much grazing, and the veterinarian gave up, saying she wouldn’t last another hour. So Landry secretly gave her a potion he had learned from little Fadette. The next morning, when the plowmen, terribly vexed by the loss of such a fine cow, came to bury the carcass, they found her up on all fours and starting to sniff at her fodder, bright-eyed, with nearly all the swelling gone. Another time a colt was bitten by a viper, and Landry, once again following his lessons from little Fadette, neatly saved him. Last, when he tried the rabies remedy on a dog from La Priche, the animal was cured and wound up not biting a single soul. Since Landry did his best to keep his dealings with little Fadette secret, he didn’t brag about what he had learned, and folks thought his animals got well only because he looked after them so well. But old Caillaud, who also knew a thing or two, as every good farmer or sharecropper has to, was deep down quite amazed and said, “Old Barbeau has no knack with animals or even any luck. He lost a good number of them last year, and it’s not the first time. But Landry has a great hand with them, and that’s something you’re born with. You’ve just got it, or you don’t. Even if you go to school like the veterinarians, it’s no good if you’re not born with it. And I’m telling you, Landry’s got it. He just knows what needs to be done. It’s a great natural gift and better than cash for running a farm.” Old Caillaud was not gullible nor any kind of fool. Only he was wrong about Landry having a natural gift: Landry was just carefully and knowingly applying what he had learned. But natural gifts are no tall tale. Little Fadette certainly had one. Following

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her grandmother’s meager instruction, she was like an inventor discovering and divining the God-given virtues of certain herbs and certain uses of them. This scarcely made her a witch, and she was right to deny it. But she had an attentive mind that compared, observed, and put things to the test, and you can’t deny that this is a natural gift. Old Caillaud wanted to go a bit further. He thought certain drovers or plowmen had a more or less lucky hand. It was quite enough for them to be in the barn to do the animals good or harm. And yet, as there’s always a grain of truth in the falsest of notions, you’ve got to admit that good care, cleanliness, and conscientious work have the virtue of making things succeed when negligence and stupidity only bring them to ruin. Since Landry had always wanted to do just that, his love for Fadette grew with all his gratitude and respect for her lessons and talents. He was then altogether thankful that she had forced him to think of things other than love during their walks and talks together. He could also see that she had set her heart on serving her sweetheart’s needs and interests, rather than the pleasures of being endlessly courted and flattered, as he would have wished in the beginning. Landry was soon so smitten that he was no longer ashamed to show his love for a girl considered ugly, wicked, and rude. Still he held himself back for the sake of his twin, knowing how jealous he was. Sylvinet had already made a great effort to stomach Landry’s passing fancy for Madelon, something really minor and sedate compared to what he now felt for Fanchon Fadet. But if Landry loved her too much to be careful, little Fadette was inclined to secrecy. Neither did she want to make Landry put up with everybody’s teasing. All things considered, she loved him too much to cause him family trouble and made him keep things under wraps. So nearly a year went by before their secret got out. Landry had gotten Sylvinet used to no longer keeping an eye on all his comings and goings, and the countryside, with its few inhabitants and many ravines and forests, favors clandestine loves. Sylvinet could see that Landry was finished with Madelon. He had at first accepted sharing Landry with her as a necessary evil, mitigated by Landry’s bashfulness and the girl’s prudence. But then he was delighted to think that Landry was in no hurry to take his

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heart away from his twin and hand it over to a woman. His jealousy subsiding, Sylvinet left Landry freer in his daily chores and leisure. Landry had no lack of pretexts for coming and going, and on Sunday evenings in particular, he would leave the Twinnery early, getting back to La Priche only at midnight, which was no problem since he had arranged to sleep in the capharnion.1 You may scold me for using this word that gets the schoolmaster’s back up. He wants folks to say capharnaüm.2 He may know the word, but he doesn’t know one bit about the thing. I had to teach him that it was that part of the barn near the stables where you stow the yokes, chains, and all kinds of iron tools and contraptions for plowing and tilling the fields. This way Landry could return when he wanted without waking anybody. Sundays were always his until Monday morning rolled around, since old Caillaud and his elder son, both being very sensible, never went to the tavern or got soused on holidays. They did all the work then, saying the youngsters who worked harder than they did during the week should frisk about and have fun, as the good Lord had ordained. During the winter, when it’s so cold at night that it would be hard to talk of love out in the fields, Landry and little Fadette found a fine refuge in Jacot’s tower, a dovecote once kept by a tenant farmer. Abandoned by the pigeons a long time ago, it still had a good roof and tight walls. Now it was old Caillaud’s, and he used it for storing surplus crops. Landry had the key, and the dovecote being at the outermost boundary of La Priche, not far from the ford at Les Roulettes, and in the middle of an alfalfa field closed on all sides, it would have taken a clever devil to catch the two sweethearts chatting there. When the weather was nice, they would go to one of the stands of saplings dotting the countryside, these still being good retreats for thieves and lovers. Since there are no thieves around here, lovers take advantage, without fear or trouble.

chapter 27 Yet, as no secret can last, one fine Sunday Sylvinet was walking alongside the cemetery when he heard his twin’s voice coming

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from behind an angle in the wall. Landry was talking very quietly, but Sylvinet knew that voice so well that he didn’t have to hear it to know whose it was. “Why don’t you want to come and dance?” he was saying to somebody Sylvinet couldn’t see. “It’s been so long since you’ve stopped after Mass that nobody would think ill of it if I asked you to dance. After all, people think I hardly know you anymore. They wouldn’t say I was doing it for love, but to be nice, and because I’m curious to see if you can still dance after all this time.” “No, Landry, no,” replied a voice Sylvinet didn’t recognize since he hadn’t heard it for a long time, little Fadette having kept away from everybody and from him in particular. “No,” she said, “it would be best if nobody saw me. And if you asked me to dance once, you’d want to do the same every Sunday, and that would be more than enough to start tongues wagging. Just believe what I’ve always told you, Landry: our troubles will start the day people know you love me. Let me go, and when you’ve spent part of the day with your family and your twin, come join me where we said.” “But how sad never to dance!” said Landry. “You so loved to dance, my sweet, and you danced so well! What a pleasure to take you by the hand, whirl you around in my arms, and see you, so sprightly and nice, dance with me alone!” “And that’s just what mustn’t be,” she replied. “But I can certainly see you miss dancing, dear Landry, and I don’t know why you’ve given it up. So go dance a bit. I’ll enjoy thinking of you having fun, and I’ll wait more patiently.” “Oh, you, you’re too patient!” said Landry impatiently. “And I’d rather have my two legs cut off than dance with girls I don’t like one bit and wouldn’t kiss for a hundred francs.” “Well, if I danced with you,” said Fadette, “I’d have to dance with others too and also let myself be kissed.” “Off you go then, and fast,” said Landry. “I don’t want anybody kissing you.” After that Sylvinet only heard retreating footsteps. Landry was coming his way, and Sylvinet didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping. He slipped into the cemetery and let him go by. This discovery cut into Sylvinet’s heart like a knife. He didn’t try to find out who the girl was that Landry loved so passionately.

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It was quite enough to know that there was somebody for whom Landry was forsaking him, somebody who so occupied all his thoughts that he hid them from his twin, refusing to confide in him. “He doesn’t trust me,” he said to himself. “And this girl he so loves makes him fear and hate me. No surprise, then, that he’s always so bored at home and so edgy when I want to go out for a walk with him. I was giving up on that, thinking he felt like being alone. But now I’ll take care not to bother him, not saying a word. He’d hold it against me—finding out what he didn’t want me to know. He’ll be glad to be rid of me, and I’ll just suffer by myself.” Sylvinet did just that, and he even went further than necessary. Not only did he give up trying to keep his brother around, but he would also leave the house first to avoid getting in his way, going off to daydream all alone in his orchard rather than venturing out into the countryside. “Because,” he would say to himself, “if I ran into Landry, he’d figure I was spying on him, and that would really make him mad.” And bit by bit his old sadness, from which he had nearly recovered, came back so heavy and stubborn that people soon saw it in his face. His mother gently chided him for it, but he was ashamed, at the age of eighteen, to have the same inner weaknesses he’d had at fifteen. So he always refused to say what was eating him. That’s what saved him from falling ill. The good Lord only gives up on those who give up on themselves, and someone with the courage to keep his pain to himself resists better than a complainer. It became something like a habit for the poor twin to look sad and pale. Every now and then he had a bout or two of fever, and though he was still growing a bit, his build remained rather delicate and slight. He couldn’t work without flagging, which was no fault of his own, for he knew work was good for him. His sadness was quite enough to worry his father, he thought. He didn’t want his laziness to make him angry and hurt his interests. So he would put his shoulder to the wheel and furiously work against himself. That’s why he often took on more than he could bear, and the next day he would be so weary that he couldn’t do a single thing. “He’ll never amount to much for work,” old Barbeau would say, “but he does what he can, and when he can, he doesn’t even spare himself enough. That’s why I don’t want to hire him out; for, with

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his fear of scolding and the little strength God’s given him, he’d soon kill himself, and I’d blame myself my whole life long.” Old Barbeau’s wife liked this reasoning a good deal and did all she could to cheer her son up. She consulted several doctors about his health. Some told her to be very gentle, giving him nothing but milk to drink since he was weak, while the others said he needed lots of hard work and good wine because he was weak and had to get stronger. And old Barbeau’s wife didn’t know which one to listen to, which always happens when you ask several people for advice. Happily, not knowing which way to turn, she took none of their advice, and Sylvinet walked on in his God-given path without running into anything that might make him veer to the right or the left. He kept dragging along his little problem without too much trouble until Landry’s romance stirred up a fuss. Then Sylvinet saw his own miseries multiplied by those heaped on his brother.

chapter 28 It was Madelon who let the cat out of the bag. Even if she did so without malice, she turned it to no good. She was quite over Landry. Not having wasted a lot of time loving him, she scarcely needed any to forget him. Yet deep down she still bore him a grudge that was just biding its time. Needless to say, a woman’s spite outlives any regret. Here’s what happened. Lovely Madelon, renowned for her prim and proper ways with the boys, was deep down terribly flirtatious, and not half as sensible or faithful in her affections as the poor cricket, the object of so many nasty tales and dire predictions. By that time Madelon had already had two sweethearts aside from Landry, and she was thinking about a third, that being her cousin, the younger son of old Caillaud from La Priche. Aware that she was being watched by the last boy to whom she had given hope, fearing that he might make a fuss, and not knowing where to go for a leisurely chat in secret with the new one, she let Cadet Caillaud talk her into going to the dovecote, exactly where Landry was having a harmless rendezvous with little Fadette.

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Cadet Caillaud had looked high and low for the key to the dovecote without any success, as it was always in Landry’s pocket, and he hadn’t dared ask anyone for it because he wouldn’t have been able to explain himself. So nobody aside from Landry was worried about where the key was. Cadet Caillaud, thinking it was lost or that his father had it with all his other keys, just broke down the door. On that particular day Landry and Fadette were there inside. The four sweethearts felt awfully sheepish finding themselves face-to-face. That’s what bound them all to silence and secrecy. But Madelon got jealous and angry all over again seeing that Landry, now one of the handsomest and most respected boys around, had been so faithful to little Fadette since the last Saint Andoche, and she resolved to get her revenge. Without saying a word to Cadet Caillaud, who, being a decent sort, wouldn’t have had any part in it, she got one or two of her little girlfriends, also a bit miffed since Landry never asked them to dance anymore, to keep a close eye on little Fadette. It didn’t take them long to find out about her and Landry. Having spied them together once or twice, they spread the news all over the countryside, telling any and all how they were carrying on together. And God knows, scandalmongering never lacks ears for hearing or tongues for tattling. Then all the girls got involved, for when a good-looking boy of means keeps company with a certain person, it’s like an insult to all the others, and if there’s a way to take that person down a peg or two, nobody shirks the opportunity. Of course, when women get mischief going, it spreads fast and far. So, two weeks after the business at Jacot’s tower, everybody knew—children and grown-ups, old ladies and girls—about Landry the twin’s trysts with Fanchon the cricket. Not a single thing was said about the tower or Madelon, who made sure to stay in the background. This was all news to her, she claimed, even though she was the secret source of the story. And when the rumor reached the ears of Barbeau’s wife, she was greatly distressed and decided not to say a word to her husband. But old Barbeau heard it someplace else, and Sylvain,1 who had been very discreet about his brother’s secret, was upset that everybody knew. One evening Landry was thinking about leaving the Twinnery

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early, as he was wont to do, when his father said, in the presence of his mother, elder sister, and twin, “Not so fast, Landry. I’ve got to talk to you, but I’m waiting for your godfather. You need to clear something up in front of the members of the family who care the most about what happens to you.” And once the godfather, Landry’s uncle Landriche, was there, old Barbeau said, “You’ll surely feel ashamed, Landry, and it’s with shame and great regret that I see myself having no choice but to confess you in front of the family. But I hope this shame will do you good and cure you of a dangerous whim. “It appears you’ve taken up with someone since the last Saint Andoche almost a year ago. I was told back on day one, for it was astounding to see you dance that whole day with the ugliest, most slovenly and disreputable girl around. I didn’t want to pay any attention, thinking you were playing a game, and one I didn’t exactly approve of. While you shouldn’t spend a lot of time with good-for-nothings, neither should you add to their humiliation and unhappiness at being found despicable by everybody else. I didn’t bring it up with you, for when I saw how sad you looked the next day, I thought you were taking yourself to task for the same reason and wouldn’t do it again. But for about a week now I’ve been hearing quite another tune from various folks, and even if they’re trustworthy, I don’t want to believe them unless you say so. If my suspicions are wrong, just put it down to my interest in you and my duty to keep an eye on what you’re doing. If it’s not true, I’ll be very happy to have your word and know that folks were wrong to say these things.” “Father,” said Landry, “please tell me what you’re accusing me of, and I’ll answer with the truth and respect I owe you.” “I think you already understand quite well, Landry. Folks are accusing you of misbehaving with the granddaughter of old Fadet, who’s a pretty nasty sort—not to mention the wretched girl’s own mother, who shamelessly abandoned her husband, children, and country to run off as a camp follower. Folks are accusing you of roaming all over the place with little Fadette, making me fear she’s got you tangled up in some nasty business you could regret your whole life long. Now do you understand?” “Yes indeed, dear father,” said Landry, “and allow me one more

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question before I answer. Do you object to her family or just to the girl herself?” “Both, no doubt,” said old Barbeau, sounding a bit more severe. He had expected Landry to be quite sheepish, and there he was, calm and absolutely resolute. “First,” he said, “coming from a bad family is a black mark, and never would a family respected and honored like mine wish to enter into alliance with the Fadets. Next, the Fadet girl, apart from her family, doesn’t have anybody’s respect or trust. We’ve seen her grow up and know what she’s worth. I’ve heard, of course, she’s been better behaved this last year, no longer running around with little boys and saying nasty things to folks, and I’ve seen it for myself a few times. I don’t mean to be unfair, but that’s not enough to make me believe that a girl with such a poor upbringing can ever become a decent woman. And knowing the grandmother as I do, I have every reason to fear there’s a plot afoot to wrangle promises out of you and bring shame and trouble down on your head. I’ve even been told the girl is pregnant, which I don’t want to believe out of hand, but that would grieve me to no end, for you’d be to blame, and the whole thing could wind up in a lawsuit and scandal.” Landry, even though he had resolved from the first to proceed with caution and calmly explain himself, lost his patience. Turning red as fire, he stood up and said, “Father, the folks who said this are lying dogs. What an insult to Fanchon Fadet! If I could get my hands on them, they’d take it back or fight until one of us went down. Go tell them they’re cowards and heathens. When they come say to my face what they’ve been so foul to suggest, we’ll have it out fair and square.” “Don’t get so riled up, Landry,” said Sylvinet, all upset. “Father’s not accusing you of having done her wrong, but he’s afraid she’s got herself into trouble with other guys, and roaming around with you day and night, she might want folks to think you’re the one who’s got to make amends.”

chapter 29 Landry calmed down a little hearing his twin’s voice, but he couldn’t help saying, “Brother, you don’t understand a thing about

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this. You’ve always been prejudiced against little Fadette, and you don’t know her one bit. I don’t care what folks say about me, but I won’t stand for what they’re saying about her. And I want my mother and father to put their minds at rest when they hear what I’m about to say. On the face of this earth there aren’t two girls as honest, wise, kind, and unselfish as Fadette. It’s too bad if she comes from a rotten family, but then it’s all the more to her credit to be what she is. And never would I have believed Christian souls could hold her wretched birth against her.” “You seem to be holding something against me yourself, Landry,” said old Barbeau. He stood up as well, wanting to show he wouldn’t put up with anything more. “You’re upset, and that tells me you have more feelings for this Fadette than I would have wished. Since you’re feeling no shame or remorse, there’s nothing more to be said. I’ll decide what I’ve got to do to stop you from making a youthful blunder. In the meantime, go on back to your masters at La Priche.” “You can’t leave this way,” said Sylvinet, hanging on to his brother. “Father, Landry knows he’s upset you, and he’s so distressed he can’t say a word. Forgive him with a kiss. Otherwise, he’s going to cry all night long, and your being angry is too much punishment.” Sylvinet was crying, and so were his mother, elder sister, and Uncle Landriche. Old Barbeau and Landry had the only dry eyes in the house, but their hearts were very heavy, and the others made them exchange a kiss. The father did not exact any promises, knowing that they are risky business when it’s a matter of love, nor did he want to compromise his authority in any way. Still he made it clear to Landry that things were far from settled. Landry left irate and miserable. Sylvinet would have liked to follow him, but he dared not, feeling quite sure Landry would go share his distress with Fadette. Sylvinet was so sad that all night long he did nothing but sigh and have bad dreams about the family. Landry went and knocked on little Fadette’s door. Old Fadet was now so deaf that once she fell asleep nothing could wake her. Their secret having come to light, Landry had only been able to talk with Fanchon come evening in the very same room where the old woman and little Jeanet were sleeping. Even there he was

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taking a big risk, for the old witch could not bear him and would have chased him out with a broom rather than compliments. When Landry told little Fadette his troubles, she seemed greatly resigned and stouthearted. First she tried to convince him that it would be in his own best interest to break things off and not give her a second thought. But seeing him more and more dismayed and rebellious, she urged him to obey by giving him hope for the future. “Listen, Landry,” she said, “I had always foreseen what is now taking place, and I’ve often thought about what we would do in that case. Your father’s not in the wrong, and I don’t hold this against him. It’s because he loves you so much that he’s afraid of seeing you in love with someone so undeserving. So I forgive him for being a bit haughty and unfair. There’s no denying I was wild in my earliest youth, and you yourself took me to task for the same reason the very day you began to love me. For a year now I’ve mended my ways, but that hasn’t given him enough time to trust me, as he said today. So we’ve got to be patient, and bit by bit the prejudices against me will fade away, the nasty lies people are telling will run their course. Your father and mother will realize I’m a decent sort, without any desire to debauch you or milk you for money. They’ll do me justice and see that my feelings for you are honorable, and we’ll be able to see and talk to each other without hiding from anybody. But in the meantime you’ve got to obey your father, and I’m sure he’s going to forbid you to keep company with me.” “Never will I have that kind of courage,” said Landry. “I’d rather throw myself in the creek.” “Well! If you don’t have it, I’ll have it for you and go away for a while,” said little Fadette. “For two months now I’ve been thinking about a good position in town that’s mine for the asking. My grandmother is now so old and deaf she’s nearly stopped preparing and selling her remedies, and she can’t do any more consultations. She has a very kind relative who has offered to come live with her, and she’ll take good care of her, of my poor grasshopper as well . . .” Little Fadette choked up for a moment at the thought of leaving the child. Aside from Landry, he was the person she loved most in the world. But she plucked up her courage and said, “He’s strong enough to get along without me now. He’s about to have his first communion, and going to catechism with the other children will

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take his mind off my leaving. You’ve surely noticed he’s got some sense now, and he’s scarcely ever teased by the other little boys anymore. Landry, this is the only way. People have to forget about me for a while. Right now there’s a lot of anger and jealousy stirred up against me here. After a year or two away, I’ll come back with good testimonials and a clean reputation, which I’ll acquire more easily someplace else. Then people won’t torment us any longer, and we’ll be better friends than ever.” Landry did not want to hear what she was saying. Filled with despair, he went back to La Priche in a state that would have moved the hardest of hearts. Two days later, as he was carting the vat for the grape harvest, Cadet Caillaud said, “Landry, I can see you’ve got a bone to pick with me. You haven’t said a thing to me for some time. No doubt you think I’m the one who told everybody about you and little Fadette, and it makes me mad that you could believe I’d do such a rotten thing. As true as God is in heaven, I’ve never breathed a word of it, and I’m really sorry you’ve got all these troubles. I’ve always thought well of you, and I’ve never made any insulting remarks about little Fadette. I can even say I’ve felt respect for the girl ever since that business at the dovecote. She could have gone around gossiping about it herself, but she was so discreet that nobody ever knew a thing. She also could have used it to get back at Madelon, who, as she knows full well, started all this nasty gossip, but she didn’t do a thing. Nobody should trust looks and reputation, Landry. Fadette, with her bad name, did the right thing. Madelon, with her good name, betrayed not just you and Fadette, but me too, and now I’ve got really good reason to complain.” Landry gladly listened to what Cadet Caillaud had to say, and Cadet did his best to comfort him. “You’ve got a pack of trouble, my poor Landry,” he finally said. “But it must make you feel better to see the fine thing little Fadette’s doing. How good of her to go away and put an end to your family’s torment. That’s what I just said as I was bidding her farewell.” “What’s that, Cadet?” Landry exclaimed. “She’s going away? She’s already left?” “You didn’t know?” asked Cadet. “I thought it was something you’d agreed on and that you weren’t walking along with her to

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avoid trouble. But she’s on her way, for sure. She went by our place with her little bundle no more than a quarter of an hour ago. She was headed toward Château-Meillant,1 and by now she can’t have gotten much further than Vieille-Ville or the Urmont hill.” Leaning his prod on the oxen’s harness, Landry raced off, not stopping until he had caught up with little Fadette on the sandy road that goes down from the vineyards of Urmont to La Fremelaine. There, totally exhausted by his despair and breakneck run, he threw himself down across the road. Though he was unable to say a word, his gestures gave her to understand she would have to trample over his body before continuing on her way. Once he’d recovered a bit, Fadette said, “I meant to spare you this pain, my dear Landry, and now here you are, doing everything possible to make me lose heart. So be a man, and don’t steal my courage. I need more than you reckon, and when I think that my poor little Jeanet is looking all around and calling for me, I feel so weak I could just crack my head open on these rocks. Ah! I’m begging you, Landry, help me instead of making me stray from my duty. If I don’t go today, I won’t ever, and it’ll be all over for us.” “Fanchon, Fanchon, you don’t need any great courage,” said Landry. “You’re just feeling bad about a child who’ll soon get over it because he’s a child. You don’t give a hoot about my despair. You don’t know what love is. You’ve got no love for me, and you’ll soon forget all about me, and that means you may not ever be coming back.” “I’ll be back, Landry. I swear to God I’ll be back in a year at the earliest, two at the latest. Far from forgetting about you, I won’t ever have any other friend or sweetheart.” “Any other friend, maybe so, Fanchon, because you’ll never find another as docile as I’ve been. But any other sweetheart, I don’t know. Whose word can I take for that?” “Take mine!” “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Fadette. You’ve never loved anybody, and when you do, you’ll scarcely even remember your poor Landry. Ah! If only you’d loved me the way I love you, you wouldn’t be leaving me like this.” “You think so, Landry?” said little Fadette, gazing at him with a sad and solemn eye. “Maybe you don’t know what you’re talking

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about. As for me, I think love might be ruling my heart even more than friendship.” “Well, if that were so, I wouldn’t feel so bad. Oh! Yes, Fanchon, then I almost think I’d be happy to suffer. I’d trust your word and hope for the future. I’d be as brave as you’re being, really! . . . But it’s not love; you’ve said so time and time again, and I know so since you’re always cool as a cucumber around me.” “So you think it’s not love,” said little Fadette. “Are you quite sure?” Still gazing at him, her eyes brimmed with tears that slid down her cheeks. All the while she kept smiling in the strangest way. “Ah! My God! My good God!” exclaimed Landry, taking her in his arms. “If only I were wrong!” “I think so,” said little Fadette, still smiling and weeping. “I think from age thirteen on the poor cricket never had eyes for anybody other than Landry, and when she’d follow him through the fields and down paths, teasing him and saying silly things to get his attention, she still didn’t know what she was doing or why. One day she started looking for Sylvinet, knowing Landry was in distress, and when she found him down along the creek, all lost in thought, with a little lamb in his lap, I think she played the witch with Landry a little so he’d have to thank her. When she called him names at the ford at Les Roulettes, it was because she felt spiteful and sad that he hadn’t ever spoken to her after that. When she wanted to dance with him, I think it was because she was crazy about him and hoped he’d like her for her pretty dancing. When she was weeping in the Chaumois quarry, I think it was because she felt so bad that he didn’t like her. When he wanted to kiss her and she refused, when he’d say words of love and she’d reply with words of friendship, I think it was because she was afraid of losing his love by responding too soon. And if she goes away rending her heart, I think she’s hoping everybody will find her worthy of him when she comes back and that they’ll be able to marry without his family feeling any distress or humiliation.” This time Landry thought he’d go completely crazy. He couldn’t stop laughing, shrieking, and crying. He was kissing Fanchon’s hands and dress, and he would have kissed her feet had she let him. But she picked him up and gave him a truly passionate

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kiss that nearly killed him, the first he’d ever had from her or any other girl. While he was swooning along the edge of the road, she picked up her bundle, looking all red and flustered, and ran off, forbidding him to follow and swearing she’d be back.

chapter 30 Landry obeyed and went back to harvesting the grapes, altogether surprised not to feel the expected unhappiness. It is surpassingly sweet to know that one is loved, and when love is strong, so is faith. He was so amazed and delighted that he couldn’t help saying something to Cadet Caillaud. He too was surprised and admired little Fadette for knowing so well how to keep herself from all frailty and foolhardiness ever since she had begun loving Landry and been loved by him. “It’s great to see she’s got so many fine qualities,” said Caillaud. “I’ve never thought ill of her, and I can even say that had she paid me attention, I wouldn’t have grumbled. With those eyes of hers, I’ve always found her more beautiful than ugly. For a while now she’s been looking nicer and nicer every day, which everybody could have noticed if that had been her aim. But she loved only you, Landry, and she didn’t care about pleasing others. She was doing it for you alone, and take my word for it, a woman like that would have suited me just fine. Besides, even though I’ve known her forever, I’ve always thought she had a big heart. If you were going to ask every single person to say in conscience and truth what they think and know of her, they’d all have to testify in her favor. But the way the world is, when two or three people start picking on someone, everybody joins in, throws stones, and runs down the poor thing’s reputation without really knowing why, as if it were a pleasure to crush someone without any defenses.” Landry felt greatly relieved hearing Cadet Caillaud say all this, and from that day on they were great friends. Landry took some comfort in telling him his troubles. One day he said, “Don’t give Madelon another thought. That feckless girl has been trouble for both of us, my fine Cadet. We’re the same age, and there’s no hurry for you to marry. Now, I’ve got a little sister, Nanette, pretty as can

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be, well-mannered, sweet, adorable, and going on sixteen. Come see us a bit more often. My father thinks very well of you, and once you’ve gotten to know our Nanette, you’ll see there’s no better idea than becoming my brother-in-law.” “Goodness, I’m not saying no,” Cadet replied, “and if she’s not yet spoken for, I’ll be there every Sunday.” The evening of Fanchon Fadet’s departure, Landry decided to go tell his father what a fine thing she had done, the girl that he had misjudged. He also wanted to make obeisance to his father for the present, without committing himself for the future. Though his heart was heavy as he went by old Fadet’s house, he took courage, musing that if Fanchon had not gone away, he might not have known the joy of her love until much later. And he saw old Fanchette, Fanchon’s relative and godmother, who had come to look after the old woman and the boy, sitting at the door with the grasshopper on her lap. Poor Jeanet was crying. He didn’t want to go to bed because his Fanchon still wasn’t home, he kept repeating, and it was her job to make him say his prayers and tuck him in. Fanchette was comforting him as best she could, and Landry felt good hearing her being sweet and affectionate with him. But as soon as the grasshopper caught sight of Landry, he wriggled away from Fanchette, even at the risk of leaving behind a limb, and wrapped himself around the twin’s legs, hugging him, pummeling him with questions, and begging him to bring back his Fanchon. Taking the boy in his arms, Landry, who had also begun to cry, did his best to console Jeanet. He offered him a bunch of fine grapes that Caillaud’s wife was sending along to his mother in a little basket, but Jeanet, usually a bit of a glutton, wanted nothing but Landry’s promise to go fetch his Fanchon. Landry had to give in with a sigh; otherwise the boy wouldn’t listen to Fanchette. Old Barbeau had hardly expected little Fadette’s great resolution. He felt pleased, despite a gnawing regret, for he was a fair, kindhearted man. “It’s too bad you didn’t have the courage to stop seeing her, Landry,” he said. “If you’d done as you should have, she wouldn’t have had to go. God willing, the child won’t have to suffer in her new position, and her being away won’t bring her grandmother and little brother any harm. Lots of folks have nasty things to say about her, but there are also a few who defend her and

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tell me she was very good to her family and a great help to them. If the rumor about her being pregnant is false, we’ll certainly find out, and we’ll defend her as we ought to. If it’s unfortunately true, and you’re the guilty party, Landry, we’ll give her a hand and see she doesn’t fall into dire poverty. But you’re never to marry her, Landry, and that’s an order.” “Father,” said Landry, “we don’t see eye to eye on this, you and I. If I were guilty of what you’re thinking, I’d be asking your permission to marry her. But since little Fadette is as innocent as my sister Nanette, now I’m only asking you to forgive the pain I’ve caused you. We’ll talk about her later, as you promised.” Old Barbeau had to agree to leave well enough alone. He was too wise to rush things and had to be content with what he had gotten. There was no more talk of little Fadette at the Twinnery after that. Nobody even dared mention her name, for Landry would turn all red, then instantly pale, whenever he heard it. It was clear that he had no more forgotten her than on day one.

chapter 31 When Sylvinet heard Fadette was gone, he first felt something like selfish satisfaction, flattering himself that now his twin would love him alone and never again leave him for anybody else. But that’s not how things went. Sylvinet was in fact the person Landry loved best after little Fadette, but Landry couldn’t be happy long in his company because Sylvinet could not stop loathing Fanchon. As soon as Landry brought up the subject, trying to make his twin see things from his point of view, Sylvinet would get all upset and scold him for clinging to an idea so repugnant to their parents and so distressing to him. As a result Landry said not another word about her. Yet he couldn’t live without talking about Fadette, so he divided his time between Cadet Caillaud and little Jeanet, whom he took out for walks and drilled in his catechism, teaching and comforting him as best he could. When people ran into him with the child, they might have made fun of him, but they didn’t dare. Landry never let anybody mock him for any reason. Plus, he was

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more proud than bashful about showing his liking for Fanchon Fadet’s brother. This was his way of protesting against the folks who claimed that old Barbeau, in his wisdom, had quickly gotten the better of this love. Now Sylvinet, seeing his brother more distant than he would have wished, found himself reduced to focusing his jealousy on little Jeanet and Cadet Caillaud. He also noticed that his sister Nanette, whose sweet and dainty attentions had always been his comfort and delight, was beginning to relish the company of this same Cadet Caillaud, whose intentions were blessed by the two families. Poor Sylvinet, who wanted to monopolize the love of everybody he loved, fell into a deadly spell of doldrums, a singular listlessness, turning so gloomy that nobody knew how to humor him. Nothing made him laugh anymore or gave him any pleasure. As he was wasting away, getting weaker every day, he could scarcely work. Finally, everybody feared for his life, for he nearly always had a fever, and when he was a bit more feverish than usual, he would say things that didn’t make much sense and tore his parents’ hearts apart. Sylvinet claimed nobody loved him, he who had always been coddled and spoiled more than anyone in the family. He wanted to die, calling himself good for nothing, saying people spared him out of compassion, but that he was a burden to his parents and being rid of him would be the finest grace the good Lord could grant them. Sometimes old Barbeau, hearing these not very Christian words, would really take Sylvinet to task, which didn’t do any good. At other moments old Barbeau would tearfully beseech him to try and see how much his father loved him. That was even worse. Sylvinet would weep and repent, begging his father, his mother, his twin, and his whole family to forgive him. And once he had let his sick heart’s surfeit of feeling run wild, the fever would return even stronger. Doctors were once again consulted. They didn’t have much to say. It was clear from the looks on their faces that they thought the whole problem came from Sylvinet and Landry being identical twins, which meant the weaker one was doomed to die. The Baigneuse from Clavières1 was also consulted. She was the most knowing woman in the canton after Sagette, now dead, and old Fadet, who was tottering into her second childhood. This clever woman told Barbeau’s wife, “One thing alone might save your child, and that would be loving women.”

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“But he can’t stand them,” said Barbeau’s wife. “There’s never been a boy so prim and standoffish, and ever since his twin has had love on his mind, Sylvinet has done nothing but say nasty things about all the girls we know. They are all to blame, he says, because one (and unfortunately not the best of the lot) has robbed him of his twin’s heart.” “Well,” said the Baigneuse, who was a fine judge of all the ailments of the body and soul, “the day your son Sylvinet comes to love a woman, he’ll love her even more madly than he loves his brother. That’s what I predict. He’s got an overabundance of love in his heart. He’s always focused it on his twin, so he’s nearly forgotten his sex. God wants a man to cherish a woman more than father and mother, brothers and sisters, and he hasn’t heeded that divine law. But take comfort; nature will surely make itself felt soon, even though he’s a late bloomer. And when that day comes and he loves a woman, don’t think twice about making her his wife, even if she’s poor, ugly, or mean. He probably won’t love more than one woman his whole life long. His heart gets too attached for that, and if it takes a great miracle of nature for him to leave his twin, it would take an even greater one for him to leave the person he might come to prefer.” Old Barbeau thought her advice sounded very wise, and he sent Sylvinet around to houses where there were lovely, kindhearted girls looking for a husband. Even though Sylvinet was a pretty lad with good manners, his sad, indifferent air didn’t tickle any of the girls’ hearts. They made no advances, and he, being so shy and frightened, figured that he couldn’t bear them. Then old Caillaud, the great family friend and one of their best advisers, tried another tack. “I’ve always said absence was the best of remedies. Just look at Landry! He was mad for little Fadette, and yet, once she was gone, he didn’t lose his wits or his health. Now he’s even less sad than he often used to be, for we knew something was going on but not what. These days he seems altogether levelheaded and under control. It would be the same for Sylvinet if he weren’t to see anything of his brother for five or six months. And here’s how to do it bit by bit and without any fuss. My farm at La Priche is prospering; but my other one over by Arthon2 couldn’t be worse off. My tenant farmer’s been sick for a year or so, and he just can’t get back on

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his feet. I don’t want to throw him out because he’s a really good man. But if I sent him a good worker to help out, he’d regain his health. He’s only sick because he’s worn out from overwork. If you agree, I’ll send Landry over for the rest of the season. We’ll pack him off without telling Sylvinet he’ll be gone a long time, saying it’s just for a week. Then, once that week is up, we’ll talk about yet another week, and so on and so forth until he’s gotten used to it. Take my advice instead of always humoring a child you’ve spared too often and made too much the master of your house.” Old Barbeau felt inclined to take his advice, but it scared his wife. She feared that it would kill Sylvinet, and he had to compromise with her. She asked that they first try to keep Landry home for two weeks to see if Sylvinet, with his twin around all the time, would get any better. If, on the contrary, he got worse, she would bow to old Caillaud’s point of view. And so it was. On the pretext that old Barbeau needed help threshing the rest of his wheat since Sylvinet could no longer work, Landry gladly agreed to spend two weeks at the Twinnery. Devoting himself heart and soul to humoring his brother, Landry spent every moment with him, sleeping in the same bed and looking after him as though he were a baby. The first day Sylvinet was delighted. On the second he claimed Landry was bored with him, and Landry could not drive that notion out of his brother’s head. On day three Sylvinet got angry because the grasshopper came over to see Landry, who didn’t have the courage to send him away. At the end of the week they all just gave up, since Sylvinet was becoming more and more unfair, hard to please, and jealous of his own shadow. Then they thought again about doing what old Caillaud had suggested. Even though Landry hardly wanted to go live with strangers in Arthon—he who so loved his neck of the woods, his work, his family, and his masters—he agreed to everything for his brother’s sake.

chapter 32 This time Sylvinet nearly died the first day, but on the second he was calmer, and on the third the fever left him. He felt at first

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resigned, then determined. By the end of the first week everybody saw that he was doing better without his brother being around. In the secret depths of his jealousy he discovered reasons for being almost content that Landry was gone. “At least,” he said to himself, “he doesn’t know a single soul where he’s going, and he won’t make new friends right away. He’ll get a bit bored, think about his twin, and start missing me. And when he comes back, he’ll love me more.” Three months later and about a year after little Fadette’s departure, she came back all of a sudden because her grandmother had become paralyzed. Fadette looked after her with great heart and zeal, but age is the worst of all illnesses. Within two weeks old Fadet gave up the ghost without even knowing it. Three days later, after having given the poor old woman a proper burial, tidied up the house, put her brother to bed, and kissed her nice godmother, who had retired to the other room for the night, little Fadette was sitting sadly in front of her little fire with its meager light. The cricket in her hearth seemed to be singing these words: Grelet, grelet, petit grelet, Toute Fadette a son Fadet.1 [Cricket, cricket, little cricket, Every fairy has her mate.]

Raindrops were pattering against the windowpanes, and Fanchon was thinking about her sweetheart. There was a knock at the door and a voice asking, “Fanchon Fadet, are you there? Do you know my voice?” She flew to the door, and with great joy she let her friend Landry clasp her to his heart. Landry had heard about the grandmother’s illness and Fanchon’s return. Unable to resist the temptation of going to see her, he came by night, to depart at the break of day. They spent the whole night talking in front of the fire, very seriously and innocently, for little Fadette reminded Landry that the bed where her grandmother had died was scarcely cold and that this was neither the time nor the place to abandon themselves to bliss. Even so, they were overjoyed to be together and to know that they loved each other more than ever.

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As dawn approached, Landry began to lose heart, and he begged Fanchon to hide him in the attic so that he could see her again the following night. As always, she brought him back to his senses, saying they wouldn’t be apart for long because she was determined not to leave again. “I’ll tell you why later on,” she said, “and my reasons won’t spoil my hopes of our getting married. Go finish things up for your master. According to my godmother, it will be good for your brother not to see you for a while yet.” “That’s the only reason I’ll leave,” said Landry. “My poor twin has caused me a lot of pain, and I’m afraid he’ll cause me still more. You know so many things, Fanchonnette, and you really ought to find a way to make him well.” “The only way I know is by thinking things through,” she replied. “It’s his mind that’s making his body ill, and healing the one would heal the other. But he’s got such loathing for me that I’ll never get a chance to talk to him and give him any comfort.” “And yet you’re so clever, Fadette, you talk so well, you’ve got such a special gift for winning people over when you want to take the trouble. If you were to talk to him for just an hour, he’d feel the effect. Just give it a try, please. Don’t let yourself be put off by his pride and nasty mood. Make him listen. Try for me, my Fanchon, and for the sake of our love, for my brother’s objections won’t be our smallest hurdle.” Fanchon promised, and then they parted after having said two hundred times or more how much they loved each other now and forever.

chapter 33 Nobody around here knew Landry was back. Had Sylvinet been aware of it, he would have taken another turn for the worse, and he wouldn’t have forgiven his brother for going to see Fadette and not him. Two days later little Fadette put on her mourning costume of fine, lovely serge, for she was no longer without a penny to her name, and walked through the town of La Cosse. Since she had

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grown up a lot, the folks seeing her go by did not recognize her at first. Her looks had much improved in the city. With better food and shelter, she now had a good complexion and weighed what she should. No longer seeming a boy in disguise, she had a lovely figure that was a pleasure to see. Love and happiness had put on her face and person that inner glow defying all explanation. In short, she was not the prettiest girl in the world, as Landry thought, but the most comely, the freshest, and perhaps the most desirable in the whole countryside. She went into the Twinnery with a huge basket on her arm and asked to speak to old Barbeau. Sylvinet saw her first, then turned away since he didn’t want anything to do with her. But she asked him so politely where his father was that he had to say something and take her to the barn where old Barbeau was splitting wood. After little Fadette asked old Barbeau to take her someplace where they could speak in private, he shut the barn door and told her to say what she had in mind. Little Fadette did not let herself get flustered by old Barbeau’s chilly manner. After she sat down on one bale of straw, he on another, she said, “Father Barbeau, even though my late grandmother bore a grudge against you and you have one against me, I still know you for the fairest and most trustworthy man in these parts. Everybody says so, and even my grandmother, despite blaming you for your pride, had to do you that justice. As you know, I’ve been friends with Landry for a very long time. He’s often talked about you, and from him more than from anybody else I know who you are and what stuff you’re made of. That’s why I’ve come to ask you a favor in confidence.” “Go on, Fadette,” said old Barbeau. “I’ve never refused to help anybody, and if it’s something that doesn’t go against my conscience, you can count on me.” “Here we are,” said little Fadette, lifting her basket and placing it between old Barbeau’s knees. “My late grandmother, with the consultations she gave and the remedies she sold, wound up earning more money than people ever thought. Since she spent almost nothing and didn’t make any investments, nobody had any idea what she was keeping in an old hole down in the cellar. She would point it out to me and say, ‘When I’m not around any longer, that’s

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where you’ll find what I’ve left behind. It’s all for you and your brother. If I’m depriving you a bit now, it’s so you’ll have more another day. But don’t let any lawyers get their hands on it; they’d devour it with their fees. Hang on to it once it’s yours, and keep it hidden your whole life long for your old age, so you’ll never be in want.’ “So once my poor grandmother was in the ground, I did what she said. I got the cellar key and took the bricks out of the wall where she had shown me. What I found is here in this basket, Father Barbeau. After you’ve done everything required by law, which is something I scarcely understand, and saved me from the huge fees I’m dreading, please invest it for me as you see fit.” “I’m much obliged for the trust you’re showing me, Fadette,” said old Barbeau without opening the basket, despite a bit of curiosity, “but I’ve got no right to take your money or tend to your affairs. I’m not your guardian. Your grandmother had a will, didn’t she?” “No, she didn’t, and by law my mother is my guardian. Now, you know I haven’t had any news of her for a long time, and I don’t know if the poor soul is dead or alive. After her, my only other relative is my godmother, Fanchette. She’s a good, honest woman, but quite incapable of managing my property. She couldn’t even keep it safe, for she’d always be talking and showing it to everybody. I’m afraid she’d make poor investments, or she’d turn it over to busybodies who would make it lose value without her even taking notice. This poor, dear godmother is in no position to keep track of things.” “So it’s a lot of money?” asked old Barbeau. In spite of himself, his eyes were fixed on the basket. When he reached over to test its weight, he was astonished to feel how heavy it was and said, “It doesn’t take many small coins to weigh down a horse.” Little Fadette, with her devilish twist of mind, was secretly amused by his desire to see inside the basket. She stretched out her hand to open it, but old Barbeau would have thought it beneath him to let her do so. “This is none of my business,” he said. “Since I cannot hold it in trust, I mustn’t know what you’ve got in there.” “But you really must do me at least this little favor, Father

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Barbeau,” said Fadette. “I’m not much better than my godmother at counting over a hundred. And I don’t know the value of all the old and new currencies.1 You alone I can trust to tell me if I’m rich or poor and count up how much I’ve got.” “Well then,” said old Barbeau, who couldn’t stand it any longer. “That’s no huge favor, and I really mustn’t refuse.” Then little Fadette flipped open the basket’s double lid and pulled out two enormous sacks, each one with about two thousand francs écus. “Well, well! That’s pretty nice,” said old Barbeau. “This little dowry will bring you lots of suitors.” “That’s not all,” said little Fadette. “There’s a little something at the bottom, and I hardly know what to make of it.” She pulled out an eel-skin purse2 and poured the contents into old Barbeau’s hat. There were a hundred louis d’or minted the old way,3 which made the fine man’s eyes goggle. Once he had counted them and put them back, she pulled out another eel-skin of the same size, then a third and a fourth. All in all, in gold, silver, and small coins, the basket contained nearly forty thousand francs.4 This was about a third more than everything old Barbeau possessed, and since country folks scarcely ever realize their assets in gold and silver, he had never seen so much cash at one time. However gentlemanly and unselfish a peasant may be, he’s not likely to be disgusted by the sight of money. Old Barbeau’s forehead grew damp with perspiration for a moment. After counting everything up, he said, “You’re just twenty-two écus short of forty thousand francs, so we might as well say your part of the inheritance is two thousand pistoles5 in cold cash, and that makes you, little Fadette, the finest match in the whole countryside. It also means your brother, the grasshopper, may be puny and lame his whole life long, but he’ll be able to visit his properties with a horse and buggy. So be glad; you can say you’re rich and advertise it if you want a handsome husband right away.” “I’m in no hurry,” said little Fadette, “and I’m asking you to keep this a secret, Father Barbeau. Ugly as I am, I fancy getting married for my kind heart and good name, not for my money. Since I’ve got a bad reputation in these parts, I want to stick around a while so people can see I don’t deserve it.”

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“As for your being ugly, Fadette,” said old Barbeau, only then ceasing to ogle the basket and lifting his eyes, “I can truly say you’ve turned out darned well. Off in the city you changed a lot, and now you look like a fine girl. As for your bad reputation, I like to think you don’t deserve it. Yes, stick around a while and keep your money a secret. Lots of folks would be so dazzled by your fortune they’d want to take you for their wife before giving you the respect a woman has to have from her husband. “Now, for the money you want me to manage, that would be against the law and it could expose me to suspicion and incrimination later on, there being no lack of wagging tongues. Besides, even if you can dispose of what belongs to you, you’ve got no right to frivolously invest the money belonging to your brother, who is still a minor. All I can do is to ask around for advice, without naming any names. Then I’ll let you know what you and your brother should do with your inheritance6 so that it’s safe and produces a good yield, and without any quibbling lawyers who aren’t all that trustworthy. Now take this back home and keep it hidden until I get back to you. If your brother’s trustees want me to testify to the total amount we’ve counted, I’d be happy to. And I’m going to write it down in a corner of my barn so I won’t forget.” Fadette had accomplished her aims. Now old Barbeau knew that she was rich, and that made her feel a bit cocky since he could no longer accuse her of wanting to take advantage of Landry.

chapter 34 Old Barbeau, seeing how very sensible and clever she was, didn’t hurry so much to see about her financial affairs. He was more interested in finding out about her reputation during her year at Château-Meillant. While the tempting dowry made him stop thinking about Fadette’s disgraceful family, he could not pass so quickly over the honor of the girl he wanted as his daughter-inlaw. So he went to Château-Meillant himself and duly inquired. Little Fadette had not arrived pregnant, nor had she borne a child. Moreover, her behavior there was considered above reproach.

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She had worked for an aristocratic old nun, who, seeing her fine manners, high principles, and sound reasoning, chose to make Fadette her companion rather than her servant. She was very sorry not to have her any longer and said that Fadette was a perfect Christian, hardworking, frugal, clean, conscientious, and endowed with such a lovely disposition she would never find another like her. Since this elderly lady was rather rich, she did lots of charity work, in which little Fadette had assisted her wonderfully well, looking after the sick, preparing remedies, and learning several fine secrets that her mistress had been taught in her convent, before the revolution. Old Barbeau was very pleased, and he returned to La Cosse determined to clear things up once and for all. After gathering the family, he asked his older children, brothers, and all his female relatives to make prudent inquiries about little Fadette’s behavior since the age of reason. If childhood pranks were found to be the sole reason for all the dreadful things that had been said about her, they could just ignore them. On the other hand, if someone could affirm having seen her do something wicked or indecent, he would have to go on forbidding Landry to keep company with her. As he wished, careful questions were asked, and without the matter of the dowry being noised about, for he hadn’t said a word about it, not even to his wife. Meanwhile little Fadette was living a very secluded life in her little house, where she refused to change a single thing, except for keeping it so clean you could see your face in the sheen on her humble furniture. She made sure her little grasshopper had decent clothes, and without any ado she started feeding him, herself, and her godmother a wholesome diet. This quickly had an effect on the child, making him as healthy as he could be, with a new lease on life. Happiness quickly amended his disposition as well. No longer threatened and scolded by his grandmother, knowing only tender loving care, he became a darling lad, brimming with delightful little ideas and henceforth incapable of annoying anybody, despite his limp and little pug nose. There was also such a big change in the looks and habits of Fanchon Fadet that the nasty gossip was forgotten, and more than one lad, seeing her going about with such a light, graceful step,

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would have wished her mourning were over so that he could flirt with her and invite her for a dance. Sylvinet Barbeau alone refused to change his mind. He was well aware that the family was up to something with respect to Fadette. Often old Barbeau couldn’t help letting something slip, and every time he got a retraction of some old lie about Fadette, he was delighted for Landry, saying he couldn’t stand seeing his son accused of seducing an innocent young thing. There was also talk of Landry’s coming back soon, and old Barbeau seemed to wish his friend Caillaud would agree to this. Finally Sylvinet saw there would no longer be much opposition to Landry’s romance, and he got all upset again. The weather vane of opinion had been blowing in Fadette’s favor for a little while now. Nobody thought she was rich, but people found her pleasant enough, and that was enough for Sylvinet—seeing her as a rival for Landry’s love—to find her all the more loathsome. Every now and then old Barbeau would let slip the word “marriage” in Sylvinet’s presence, saying his twins would soon be old enough to start thinking about it. The idea that Landry might ever get married had always upset Sylvinet. It was like the last word of their separation. He got the fevers again, and his mother went back to the doctors. One day she ran into Fadette’s godmother, Fanchette, who, hearing her worries, asked why she was going so far away and spending so much money when there was close at hand a healer1 cleverer than any others in the countryside. Moreover, this one didn’t heal for gain, like her grandmother, but just out of love for the good Lord and her neighbor. And she named little Fadette. Barbeau’s wife mentioned this to her husband, and he was not at all against it. Over at Château-Meillant people thought Fadette knew a great many things, he said, and folks from all around came to consult her and her mistress. So Barbeau’s wife begged Fadette to come try and help Sylvinet, now bedridden. On more than one occasion Fanchon had tried to talk to Sylvinet, as she had promised Landry, and never once had he agreed. Without needing any coaxing, she hurried over to see the poor twin. She found him asleep with a fever and begged the family

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to leave her alone with him. It’s customary for healers to work in secret, so nobody objected, and they all left the room. At first Fadette laid her hand on the twin’s hand, hanging over the edge of the bed. So gentle was her touch that he didn’t notice a thing, even though a passing fly would usually wake him. Sylvinet’s hand was hot as fire, and it became even hotter touching Fadette’s. He tossed and turned, but without trying to pull away. Then Fadette put her other hand on his forehead, as gently as before, and he tossed and turned even more. But bit by bit he calmed down, and she felt her patient’s head and hand growing cooler with every passing minute and his sleep becoming peaceful as a little babe’s. She stayed with him like this until she sensed that he was about to wake up. Then she slipped back behind his bed curtain and left, telling Barbeau’s wife, “Go to your son and give him something to eat, for his fever is gone. Above all, not a word to him about me if you want me to make him better. I’ll be back this evening, when you said he’d take a turn for the worse, and I’ll try to break this nasty fever once again.”

chapter 35 Amazed to see Sylvinet without a fever, Barbeau’s wife quickly fed him, and he ate with a bit of appetite. Since this fever had kept him in its grip for six days, with Sylvinet refusing to eat a thing, they were all ecstatic about the things Fadette knew. Without waking him up or having him drink any potions, solely by virtue of her spells, or so people thought, she had already made him take such a turn for the better. Come evening, the fever started up again and rose very high. Sylvinet would doze off, slip into his own little world, and begin raving, then wake up, scared of all the people around his bed. Fadette returned. As in the morning, she was alone with him for under an hour. Her only magic was laying her hands very gently on his hands and head and cooling his burning face with her breath. As she had done that morning, she rid him of his delirium and fever. When she left, again saying that nobody should mention

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what she had done, they found him sleeping peacefully, no longer flushed or looking ill. I don’t know where Fadette got this idea. It had come to her by accident and from experience with her little brother, Jeanet. She had pulled him back from death’s door ten times or more without giving him any remedy other than cooling him with her hands and breath or warming him up the same way when he had the chills. She figured that the love and willpower of a healthy person, plus the touch of a pure and virtuous hand, can ward off illness when that person is endowed with a certain spirit and great confidence in God’s goodness. For that reason, whenever she was laying on hands, her soul would be composing beautiful prayers to the good Lord. And what she had done for her Jeanet, what she was now doing for Landry’s brother, she wouldn’t have wanted to try on anybody less dear to her and in whom she did not take such great interest, for she thought the prime virtue of this remedy was the great love in one’s own heart for the ailing person. Otherwise, God gave one no power over the other’s illness. When little Fadette was casting a spell this way on Sylvinet’s fever, she was praying to God with the same words she had used for her brother: “My good Lord, grant that my health may pass from my body into this ailing body. Just as sweet Jesus offered you his life to redeem the souls of all mankind, take my life and give it to this suffering creature. Gladly I give you back my life for healing him, and so I pray.” Little Fadette had thought a lot about trying the virtue of this prayer at her grandmother’s deathbed, but finally had not dared. It seemed to her that the life of the old woman’s soul and body was ebbing away because of age and the law of nature that is God’s own will. And little Fadette, who clearly put more religion than devilry in her spells, would have feared displeasing God by asking him for something that he was not in the habit of granting other Christians without a miracle. Whether the remedy was useless or sovereign on its own merits, there is no doubt that in three days’ time she rid Sylvinet of his fever. Had he not woken up a bit early at the end of Fadette’s last visit, to see her leaning over him and gently removing her hands, he never would have known how.

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Thinking it was an apparition, he closed his eyes to block it out. But when he asked his mother if Fadette had touched his head and wrists or if this had been a dream, she said Fadette had in fact come three days in a row, morning and evening, and that her secret healing had miraculously put an end to his fever. Barbeau, hoping that Sylvinet would get over his loathing of Fadette, had finally told his wife a thing or two about his plans. Sylvinet seemed not to believe a word of it, saying his fever had gone away all by itself and that Fadette’s words and secrets were nothing but vain, foolish notions. For a few days he remained quite calm and healthy, and old Barbeau thought he ought to make hay while the sun was shining and say something about Landry’s possibly getting married, without naming any names. “There’s no need to hide the name of the person you mean to make his wife,” said Sylvinet. “I know perfectly well it’s that Fadette who’s cast a spell over every last one of you.” In fact, old Barbeau’s secret inquiries had gone so well that he no longer had any hesitation about Fadette, and he was really eager to bring Landry back home. Now the only thing he feared was the twin’s jealousy, and he was striving to cure him of it by telling him that his brother would never be happy without little Fadette, to which Sylvinet replied, “So get on with it, since my brother has got to be happy.” But they didn’t yet dare because Sylvinet would get another fever as soon as he seemed to have agreed.

chapter 36 Meanwhile old Barbeau was afraid that little Fadette bore a grudge against him for his past unfairness. Maybe she had gotten over the pain of Landry’s absence and was thinking about someone else? While she was at the Twinnery tending to Sylvinet, he had tried to talk to her about Landry, but she had pretended not to hear, and he found himself in a mighty tight corner. Finally, one morning he made up his mind and went looking for little Fadette.

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“Fanchon Fadet,” he said, “I’ve come to ask you a question, and I beg you to answer in all truth and sincerity. Before your grandmother died, did you have any inkling of the great fortune she was going to leave you?” “Yes, I did, Father Barbeau,” replied little Fadette. “For I’d often watched her counting pieces of gold and silver without ever seeing anything but small coins leave the house. And when the other girls were making fun of my rags, she’d often say, ‘Don’t let it bother you, little one. You’ll be richer than every last one, and some day you’ll be able to dress in silk from head to toe if that is your pleasure.’” “And so,” old Barbeau went on, “had you told Landry about this? And wouldn’t this be why he pretended to be smitten with you?” “Father Barbeau,” replied little Fadette, “I’ve always wanted to be loved for my beautiful eyes. They’re the only thing nobody has ever refused me. So I certainly wasn’t going to be so stupid as to tell Landry my eyes came in eel-skin1 purses! Yet I could have done so without any danger. Landry’s love has been so sincere and wholehearted that he’s never cared to know if I was rich or poor as a church mouse.” “And since your grandmother’s died, my dear Fanchon,” old Barbeau went on, “can you give me your word Landry hasn’t been told by you or anybody else?” “I give you my word,” said Fadette. “As truly as I love God, nobody knows, aside from the two of us.” “Fanchon, do you think Landry still loves you? And since your grandmother’s died, have you had some sign he’s been faithful to you?” “The best,” she replied. “I’ll confess he came to see me three days afterward, swearing he’d either die of despair or have me for his wife.” “And what did you say, Fadette?” “That, Father Barbeau, I wouldn’t have to say, but for you I will. I told him we still had time to think about it and that I wouldn’t gladly choose someone courting me against his parents’ will.” Her rather proud, breezy tone made old Barbeau nervous. “I’ve got no right to question you, Fanchon Fadet,” he said,

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“and I don’t know if you mean to make my son happy or miserable his whole life long, but it’s clear to me he loves you with his whole heart. If I were in your shoes, wanting to be loved just for myself, I’d take myself aside and say, ‘Landry Barbeau loved me in rags, when nobody would have me, when even his parents were telling him it was a great sin. He found me beautiful when nobody would give me any hope of ever becoming so. He loved me in spite of all the pain this caused him. He loved me far away and near at hand. In short, he’s loved me so well I cannot doubt him and won’t ever have anyone else for my husband.’” “A long time ago I told myself all that, Father Barbeau,” said little Fadette. “But I’ll say it again: I’d hate to enter a family who felt ashamed of me and caved in only out of weakness and pity.” “If that’s the only thing holding you back, make up your mind, Fanchon,” said old Barbeau, “for Landry’s family honors you and wants you to be his wife. Don’t think the family has changed because you’re rich. It’s not poverty that put us off, but the nasty things people were saying. If those things had been true, I’d never have agreed to make you my daughter-in-law, even if that had killed Landry. But I wanted to put down the rumors, and that’s why I went to Château-Meillant. I made inquiries down to the slightest detail over there and here as well, and now I see I’d been lied to. You’re a wise and upstanding person, just as Landry so fervently declared. And so, Fanchon Fadet, I’m here to ask you to marry my son. If you say yes, he’ll be back next week.” This overture, which she had of course foreseen, pleased little Fadette to no end. Still she didn’t much want to let it show. Eager to have the respect of her future family all the rest of her days, she replied rather gingerly, at which point old Barbeau said, “I can see, daughter, you’re still holding something of a grudge against me and mine. Don’t make an old man apologize when a good word will do. I’m saying you can count on our love and esteem. Just trust old Barbeau, who has yet to deceive a single soul. Come now, do you want to give the kiss of peace to the guardian you’ve chosen for yourself or to the father who wants to adopt you?” Little Fadette couldn’t hold back any longer. She flung her arms around old Barbeau’s neck, and his old heart was overjoyed.

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chapter 37 Their marriage contract was soon drawn up. The wedding would take place just as soon as Fadette was no longer in mourning. The only other thing was to bring Landry home. But when Barbeau’s wife visited Fanchon that evening to give her a kiss and her blessing, she demurred, saying that when Sylvinet heard that his brother was about to get married, he had taken ill again. She asked that they wait a few more days for him to be healed or comforted. “It was a mistake, Mother Barbeau,” said little Fadette, “to tell Sylvinet he wasn’t dreaming when he thought he saw me at his bedside once his fever had broken. Now his mind will go against mine, and I won’t have the same power to heal him in his sleep. Maybe he’ll push me away and my being there will only make him worse.” “I don’t think so,” said Barbeau’s wife. “Just now when he felt ill and took to bed, he asked, ‘So where’s that Fadette? She made me feel better, I think. Isn’t she coming back anymore?’ I told him I was coming to fetch you, and he looked pleased, even impatient.” “I’m on my way,” replied Fadette. “Only this time I’ll have to do something different, for I’m telling you, what worked with him when he didn’t know I was there won’t work anymore.” “So you’re not bringing along any potions or powders?” asked Barbeau’s wife. “No,” said Fadette. “His body’s not the problem. I’m up against his mind. I’ll try and insinuate mine into his, but there’s no promise of success. But this I can promise you: I’ll be patient about Landry’s homecoming. Don’t say a word to him until we’ve done all we can to make his brother healthy again. Landry was so eager for me to try and heal him. He won’t mind at all having to wait.” When Sylvinet saw little Fadette near his bed, he looked annoyed and refused to say how he was doing. She tried to feel his pulse, but he pulled his hand away and turned to the wall. Then Fadette motioned that she wanted to be left alone with him. Once everybody had gone, she snuffed out the lamp so that the full moon provided the only light in the room. Drawing near Sylvinet, she said in a commanding tone that he obeyed like a child, “Sylvinet,

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give me your hands and tell me the truth. I’m not here for money, and if I took the trouble to come tend to you, it’s not so that you could be rude and ungrateful. Now pay close attention to what I’m going to ask and to what you’re going to say, for there’s no way you could ever pull the wool over my eyes.” “Ask me what you will, Fadette,” said the twin, dumbfounded to hear how stern little Fadette was being. In the old days he had often replied to her taunts by throwing stones. “Sylvain Barbeau,” she continued, “it seems you want to die.” Sylvain reeled inwardly. Fadette had his hand in a strong grip, making him sense her great will, and he said, all flustered, “Wouldn’t that be for the best? It’s clear I’m a bother and a burden to my family with my poor health and . . .” “Spit it all out, Sylvain; you mustn’t hide a thing.” “And this fretful spirit of mine I can’t change,” said the twin, utterly undone. “And your rotten heart as well,” said Fadette. Her tone was so harsh he felt even more riled up and scared.

chapter 38 “What rotten heart?” he asked. “You can see I don’t have the strength to defend myself, so now you’re insulting me.” “I’m telling you some home truths, Sylvain,” said Fadette, “and you’re going to hear a lot more. I’ve got no pity for your illness because I’m a good enough judge to see it’s not very serious. Going mad is your only danger. And without seeing where your spite and cowardice are leading you, that’s just what you’re doing your best to do.” “Go on and blame me for being a coward,” said Sylvinet, “but I sure don’t deserve being called spiteful.” “Don’t try and defend yourself,” said little Fadette. “I know you a bit better than you know yourself, Sylvain, and I’m telling you that weakness begets deceitfulness. That’s why you’re selfish and ungrateful.” “If you’ve got such a lousy opinion of me, Fanchon Fadet, it’s no doubt because my brother Landry has said some really nasty

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things about me and made you see what little love he has for me. If you know me or think you do, it can only be through him.” “I saw you coming on that one, Sylvain. I just knew you wouldn’t say three words without complaining about your twin and making accusations. Your love for him is so insane and unruly it turns to spite and resentment. That tells me you’re half crazy and also mean. Now listen here, Landry loves you ten thousand times more than you love him, proof being he never holds anything against you, no matter what you make him put up with, whereas you hold every little thing against him even though he does nothing but give in to you and try and help. How could you expect me not to see the difference between the two of you? So the more good things Landry said about you, the worse I thought of you. Only somebody without any sense of justice could so misjudge a good brother.” “And you hate me, Fadette? So I wasn’t wrong. I knew of course you were preying on my brother’s feelings for me by telling him nasty things about me.” “Once again I knew just what you were going to say, Master Sylvain, and I’m glad you’re finally lacing into me. Well, let me tell you this: you’re nothing but a scoundrel and a liar, misjudging and insulting someone who’s always been on your side and defended you in her heart, even though I knew you were dead set against me. A hundred times over I’ve deprived myself of my greatest and only pleasure in this world—seeing Landry and spending time with him—just to send him your way and give you the happiness I was denying myself. Yet I didn’t owe you a thing. You’ve always been my enemy, and from as far back as I can remember, I’ve never known a child more haughty and hard-hearted with me. I could have hoped to get back at you, and there was no lack of opportunity. But I didn’t take revenge. Instead I gave you back good for evil without your even knowing it. And why? Because of my great notion of what a Christian soul has to forgive her fellow creatures to please God. But why talk to you about God? I’ll bet you scarcely understand, you being the enemy of God and your own salvation.” “I’ve let you say a lot of things, Fadette, but now you’re going too far. You’re accusing me of being a heathen.” “Didn’t you just say you were wanting to die? And you think that’s a Christian notion?”

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“I didn’t say that, Fadette. I said . . .” And Sylvinet stopped, horrified at the thought of what he had said. It seemed so bad in the face of Fadette’s dressing-down. But she did not leave him be and went on scolding him. “Maybe,” she said, “your words were worse than what you were thinking, for I certainly think you don’t want to die as much as you like making other people think you do. Then you can lord it over your family and torment your poor, distressed mother as well as your twin, who is simpleminded enough to believe you want to do yourself in. But you don’t fool me, Sylvain. I think you’re afraid of dying as much and even more so than other folks, and you make a game out of scaring the people who love you. You like seeing the wisest and most necessary resolutions always giving way to your suicidal threats. Indeed, how sweet and easy just to say one word to make everybody back down. That way you’re the master of all. But that goes against nature and you win by means that God reproves, so he punishes you, making you even more unhappy than you’d be obeying, rather than commanding. Now here you are, sick of a life people have made too easy for you. Here’s what you should have had to be a good-hearted and wise young man, Sylvain: cruel parents, wretched poverty, bread only every now and then, and regular thrashings. If you’d been reared in the same school as my brother and I, you wouldn’t be ungrateful. Instead, you’d give thanks for every little thing. Now then, Sylvain, don’t go trying to take refuge in your being a twin. I know you’ve heard far too much talk about the love between twins, everybody saying it’s a law of nature and that you were bound to die if anything stood in its way. So you thought you were fated to carry this love to extremes. But God is not so unjust as to mark us for misery in our mothers’ wombs, nor so cruel as to give us notions we could never overcome. If you believe there’s more might and malediction in your blood than resistance and reason in your mind, you insult God with your superstitions. Unless you’ve gone mad, I’m sure you could do battle with your jealousy if you wanted to. But you don’t want to. People have pandered to this inner vice of yours, and you prize your desires more than your duty.” Sylvinet said nothing and let Fadette go on mercilessly scolding him for quite some time yet. He felt that she was fundamentally

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right, lacking indulgence only in this: she seemed to believe that he had never tried to tackle his problem and that he really understood how selfish he was. In fact, he hadn’t wanted to be selfish, nor had he been aware of it. This really hurt and humiliated him, and he would have wished to give her a better idea of his conscience. Fadette, on the other hand, knew full well she had gone too far. She purposely wanted to rough him up inside before turning to sweet words of comfort. All the while she was making herself tear him apart, her heart was brimming with such pity and love that her sham made her sick, and she left feeling even more drained than Sylvinet.

chapter 39 In truth, Sylvinet was not half as ill as he looked and liked to think. Feeling his pulse, little Fadette saw right away that he didn’t have much of a fever. If he was a bit delirious, it was because his sickness and frailty came from his mind more than his body. So she thought it necessary to take hold of the depths of his being by making him scared to death of her. At daybreak she returned to see him. He had scarcely slept a wink, but he was calm and looked exhausted. As soon as he laid eyes on her, he stretched out his hand, instead of pulling it back as he had done the evening before. “Why are you giving me your hand, Sylvain?” she asked. “So I can check on your fever? From your face I can see it’s gone.” Sylvinet, ashamed to see his hand refused, said, “I wanted to say hello, Fadette, and thank you for all the trouble you’re going to.” “Okay then,” she said, taking his hand and keeping it clasped in her own. “I’ve never spurned a courtesy, and I don’t think you’re insincere enough to show me interest if that weren’t a bit the case.” Even though he was wide awake, it felt very good to be holding her hand, and he said tenderly, “Still you were really rough on me last night, Fanchon. I have no idea why I don’t have the slightest grudge against you. And how kind of you, after all that scolding, to come and see me.” Fadette sat down near his bed and talked to him altogether differently from the evening before. She was so kind, sweet, and

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caring that Sylvain was flooded with pleasure and relief, especially since he had thought she would be angrier with him. He shed lots of tears, confessed all his failings, and even asked for her forgiveness and friendship in such a witty, gracious way that she could see his heart was better than his head. She let him pour out his feelings, still scolding him every now and then. When she wanted to let go of his hand, he held on, feeling she was healing his body and soul at one and the same time. When she saw that he was where she wanted him, she said, “I’m going now, and you’re going to get up, Sylvain. Your fever is gone, and you mustn’t go on coddling yourself while your mother wears herself out waiting on you hand and foot and wastes her time keeping you company. Then you’ll eat what I’ve asked your mother to fix for you. It’s meat, and I know you say meat disgusts you and you won’t eat anything but awful greens. But no matter; you’ll force yourself, and even if you hate it, you won’t let it show. Your mother will enjoy seeing you eat solid food, and the feelings of disgust you overcome and keep hidden will be fewer the second time, and all gone the third. You’ll see if I’m wrong. Goodbye now, and I don’t want to have to come back here anytime soon to tend to you. You won’t be ill if you don’t want to be.” “You won’t be back this evening?” asked Sylvinet. “I was thinking you’d come by.” “I’m no doctor for money, Sylvain, and I’ve got other things to do besides tending to you when you’re not ill.” “Of course, Fadette. But you think I was just being selfish. It was something else; it’s a relief to talk with you.” “Well, you’re no cripple, and you know where I live. You know I’m going to be your sister by marriage, and I’m already so in my heart. So you can certainly come over and talk. That would be just fine.” “All right then, since you say so,” said Sylvinet. “Goodbye, Fadette. I’m going to get up now, even though I’ve got a bad headache for not having slept a wink and feeling upset all night long.” “I’ll be happy to rid you of this headache,” she said, “but remember, this will be the last one, and you’ve got orders to sleep well tonight.”

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She lay a hand on his forehead. Five minutes later he felt so refreshed and comforted that all his pain was gone. “Now I see what a mistake it was to refuse your help, Fadette,” he said. “You’re a great healer, and you know how to cast a spell on ailments. Everybody else did me harm with their drugs, and you, just by the touch of your hand, heal me. If I could always be near you, I think you’d stop me from ever getting ill or doing anything wrong. But tell me, Fadette, you’re not angry any longer, are you? And do you believe my promise to do everything you say?” “Of course,” she said, “and unless you change your mind, I’ll love you as though you were my twin.” “In that case, Fanchon, you’d say ‘thou’ to me instead of ‘you.’ Twins don’t stand on such ceremony.” “Well then, Sylvain, rise from your bed, eat, talk, take a walk, and then lie back down to sleep,” she said, standing up. “Such are my orders for today. Tomorrow thou shalt work.” “And I’ll come visit thee,” said Sylvinet. “Fine,” she said and left, gazing at him with such fond, forgiving eyes that he suddenly had the strength and desire to quit his bed of idleness and woe.

chapter 40 Barbeau’s wife couldn’t stop marveling at how clever little Fadette was, and that evening she said to her husband, “Sylvinet is better now than he has been for the last six months. He ate everything I gave him today, without making the usual faces. Even more amazing, he talks about little Fadette like the good Lord. He can’t say enough good things about her, and he’s really eager for his brother to come back and get married. It’s like a miracle, and I wonder if I’m awake or dreaming.” “Miracle or not,” said old Barbeau, “she’s quite a girl, and it’s surely lucky to have her in a family.” Three days later Sylvinet went to get his brother at Arthon. He had asked his father and Fadette to let him have the great reward of telling Landry the glad news. “So everything good comes to me at

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once,” said Landry, swooning with delight in his twin’s arms. “Here you are, fetching me home and looking just as happy as I am.” They of course went home without fooling around along the way, and everybody at the Twinnery was happy as could be sitting down to supper with little Fadette and little Jeanet. Life was sweet indeed for every single one for the next six months. Young Nanette got engaged to Cadet Caillaud, Landry’s best friend outside the family, and it was decided to celebrate the two weddings at the same time. Sylvinet was now so fond of Fadette that he wouldn’t do a thing without consulting her, and her dominion over him was such that he seemed to consider her a sister. His health was good, and there was no more talk of jealousy. If sometimes he still looked sad and dreamy, Fadette would scold him, and at once he would smile and start chatting. The two weddings took place on the same day and at the same Mass. Money was not short, and the festivities were so fine that old Caillaud, who had never lost his composure his whole life long, looked a bit tipsy by the third day.1 There was nothing to spoil Landry’s joy, nor that of the whole family or even the entire countryside. The two families were rich, little Fadette was as rich as the Barbeau and Caillaud clans all together, and they were all very nice and generous to every last soul. Fanchon was so kindhearted that she preferred to return good for evil to all the people who had misjudged her. Later on, when Landry bought a fine piece of land that prospered wonderfully well thanks to everything he and his wife knew, Fadette had a pretty shelter built there, where she took in all the unfortunate children of the town four hours a day, seven days a week. Along with her brother, Jeanet, she went to the trouble of teaching them herself, instructing them in true religion, and even assisting the poorest in their need. She never forgot having been a wretched, neglected child, and the beautiful children she brought into the world learned from an early age to be cordial and compassionate to those who were neither rich nor coddled. But what happened to Sylvinet in the midst of this happy family? Something nobody could understand, and it gave old Barbeau a lot to think about. About a month after the wedding his father was urging Sylvinet to look around for a wife, when he said

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that he had no desire to get married. On the other hand, he’d been thinking for some time about enlisting in the army. There aren’t too many men in the families around here, and the farms don’t have more hands than they need, so we practically never see anyone volunteer for military service. Everybody was stunned by his resolution. Sylvinet could not explain, aside from saying he just felt like it. Nobody had ever known that he was drawn to the army. It didn’t matter what anybody said—his father and mother, brothers and sisters, or Landry. Nobody could change his mind, and they had no choice but to turn to Fanchon, the finest head and best adviser in the family. She spent at least two whole hours talking with Sylvinet. Afterward they could all see that Sylvinet and his sister-in-law had been crying. Still they looked so calm and determined that nobody objected when Sylvinet said that he hadn’t changed his mind. Fanchon approved, saying she expected much good would finally come of his resolution. Nobody could be quite sure she didn’t know even more than she’d let on, so they dared not stand in Sylvinet’s way any longer. Even Barbeau’s wife gave in, but only after a lot of tears. Landry was desperate, but his wife told him, “It’s God’s will and the duty of us all to let Sylvain go. I know what I’m telling you, and don’t ask me a thing more.” Landry, with Sylvinet’s bundle on his shoulder, accompanied him as far as he could. Handing it back to him, Landry felt that Sylvinet was going off with his heart. After he got back home, his dear wife had to tend to him. He was truly ill with grief for over a month. Sylvain felt just fine and kept on to the border, for this was the time of Emperor Napoleon’s great wars.2 And even though he’d never had the slightest taste for military life, his willpower was so strong that he soon distinguished himself as a good soldier, courageous in battle like a man just looking for an opportunity to get himself killed, and yet sweet and obedient like a child, even though he was tough as an old veteran. Having had enough schooling to move up through the ranks, he was quickly promoted. After ten years of training and drudgery, bravery and fine conduct, he became a captain, even earning a military cross.

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“Ah! If only he could finally come back home!” said Barbeau’s wife to her husband the evening after they had received a lovely letter from Sylvinet with lots of affection for them, for Landry, for Fanchon—in short for all the young and old in the family. “Now that he’s nearly a general, it would be high time for a rest.” “No need to jack up his rank. It’s pretty good as it is,” said old Barbeau, “and a great honor for a family of peasants!” “Of course, Fadette predicted as much,” replied Barbeau’s wife. “Yes, sirree!” “All the same,” said the father, “I’ll never understand why he suddenly upped and changed just like that. He’d been such a homebody and so fond of his creature comforts.” “Well, old man, our daughter-in-law knows more than she wants to say, but nobody can pull the wool over the eyes of a mother like me. I reckon I know as much as our Fadette.” “Then it would be high time to tell me, if I don’t say so myself!” said old Barbeau. “Well,” replied his wife, “our Fanchon is too good at casting spells, and she cast more of a spell on Sylvinet than she would have wished. When she saw how strong it was, she tried to tone it down, but without any luck. And our Sylvain, seeing he was thinking too much about his brother’s wife, left for reasons of honor and virtue, with Fanchon’s blessing.” “If that’s so,” said old Barbeau, scratching his ear, “I really fear he’ll never marry. The Baigneuse from Clavières once said that when he fell for a woman, he’d be less crazy about his brother, but he’d only ever love one woman his whole life long, his heart being too tender and passionate.”

Appendix: French Adaptations of La Petite Fadette as Musical Comedy, Opera, and Film 1850 La Petite Fadette, comédie-vaudeville en deux actes (Paris: Barbré, n.d.). Adapted from the novel by Anicet Bourgeois and Charles Lafont, music by Théodore Semet. 1869 La Petite Fadette, opéra-comique en trois actes en cinq tableaux (Paris: Michel Lévy Frères). Libretto by George Sand (and Michel Carré, whose name does not appear in the libretto), music by Théodore Semet. A new edition of the opéra-comique, coedited by Gretchen van Slyke and Bruce Gustafson, is forthcoming from the Éditions Honoré Champion, Paris, in the Œuvres complètes de George Sand, under the direction of Béatrice Didier. This edition also contains the text of the 1850 comédie-vaudeville by Anicet Bourgeois and Charles Lafont, plus an extensive discussion of the relationship between the text of the novel La Petite Fadette and the librettos of the comédie-vaudeville and the opéra-comique. 1921 La Petite Fadette, silent film directed by Raphael Adams. With Raphael Adams, Jean Adam, Jean Lorette, Jeanne Ronsay, and Jeanne Van Elsche. 1963 La Petite Fadette, film for television (ORTF) directed by Jean-Paul Carrère. Adaptation and dialogue by Michel de Subiela, music by Yves Baudrier. With Daniel Philippon, Gerard Carbillet, and Michel Carlier. 1978 La Petite Fadette, film directed by Lazare Iglesis. Adaptation and dialogues by Alain Quercy, music by Louis Bessières. With Françoise Dorner, Patrick Raynal, Jean-Michel Dupuis, and Maurice Garrel. 2004 La Petite Fadette, film for television (France 2) directed by Michaëla Watteaux. With Mélanie Bernier, Annie Girardot, Jérémie Renier, and Richard Bohringer.

Notes Introduction 1. This introduction argues against most of the points I made some twenty-five years ago in an article entitled “Historical Referents in Sand’s La Petite Fadette,” Romanic Review 82 (1991): 49–65. 2. Sand, La Petite Fadette (edited by Reid), 248. All further references to the novel will be drawn from this edition and given parenthetically in the text. The translations, here and elsewhere, are mine. 3. On this matter, see Reid, George Sand, 184–87; Cohen, “Woman’s Place”; Cohen, “Mad Sisters, Red Mothers.” 4. For details about Sand’s political activity in 1848, see Reid, George Sand, and Lubin, “George Sand in 1848.” 5. Sand, Correspondance, 8:702 (letter to Louis Jourdan, 17 November 1848). 6. Ibid., 8:573 (letter to Pierre-Jules Hetzel, 29 July 1848). 7. Cohen, “Woman’s Place,” 28. 8. Schor, “Reading Double”; Grimm, “Les Romans champêtres de George Sand.” 9. Sand, “Avant-Propos,” in François le Champi, 48–49. 10. See the analysis in Lane, “George Sand,” 153. 11. See Reid, George Sand, 189. 12. Van Slyke, “Women at War.” 13. Le Moniteur Universel 18, 290. 14. See Cohen, “Woman’s Place” and “Mad Sisters, Red Mothers.” 15. Bargues-Rollins makes an eloquent presentation about the power of Fadette’s voice in her article “La Petite Fadette ou le Verbe fait Femme.” 16. See the introduction to Sand, Countess von Rudolstadt, ix–xi. 17. For Leroux’s influence on Sand’s social ideals, see Naginski, George Sand, 141–51, 172–74, 178, 181–85, and Lacassagne, Histoire d’une amitié. 18. Grossman, “Ideal Community,” 27. 1848 Preface This preface was originally composed for the publication of La Petite Fadette in serial form in Le Spectateur Républicain. However, when Le Spectateur Républicain went bankrupt, George Sand had to find another venue for the serial publication of the novel. La Petite Fadette finally appeared in the pages of Le Crédit in December 1848 and January 1849, but without this preface,

Notes to Pages 34–38  169 as the author felt that these lines demonstrated a state-of-siege mentality that no longer suited her purposes. The preface nonetheless appeared in the 1849 edition of the novel published by Michel Lévy Frères. In the 1852 edition published by Pierre-Jules Hetzel, the 1848 preface was replaced by an introductory note that Sand composed in December 1851. Likewise, the 1848 preface was absent from subsequent editions of the novel published during the author’s lifetime. Later editions of the novel have varied with regard to this preface, sometimes including it, sometimes not. 1. The ancestral home of Sand’s paternal family in central France, midway between Tours and Clermont-Ferrand. 2. A socialist republic promoting, among other things, workers’ rights and welfare, as did the Second Republic in the first months after the February Revolution of 1848. 3. What the Second Republic became after conservatives won the elections toward the end of April and the workers’ revolt in early June was brutally repressed. 4. Sand’s old friend François Rollinat, a lawyer who was elected as a representative of the Département de l’Indre after the Revolution of 1848. Nohant is located in this district. 5. This story became the 1847 novel François le Champi, often translated as Francis the Waif. 6. In the penultimate scene of the first part of Goethe’s Faust (1808), Faust and Mephistopheles are galloping through fields when they encounter a group of witches “sowing and consecrating.” In the original German, Goethe writes, “Sie streuen und weihen,” which Gérard de Nerval translates as “Ils sèment et consacrent” in his translation of this work. Faust, tragédie de Goëthe: Nouvelle traduction complète, en prose et en vers, par Gérard [de Nerval] (Paris: Dondy-Dupré Père et Fils, 1828), 300. 7. The elections that took place in the newly formed Second Republic in late April 1848 put in place a conservative government that dashed the hopes of many workers and socialists, Sand and many of her friends being among the latter. Although Sand’s sympathies lay clearly with the left, her analyses of the political sphere remained generally lucid and insightful. 8. One of many laborious steps in hemp dressing, breaking means crushing the dry stalks of flax in a special wooden contraption known as a brake so that the fibers can be harvested. 9. Breathing flax dust, a by-product of hemp dressing, can seriously impair the lung function of workers in this industry. 10. The French title of this 1846 novel is La mare au diable. 11. Armand Barbès (1809–1870), a leftist republican activist and conspirator, found himself frequently in prison during the July Monarchy, the Second Republic, and the Second Empire. In her correspondence Sand often described Barbès as being honest, heroic, and dedicated to the cause of the proletariat, and as a man whom she loved and respected with all her soul; see, for example, her letter to Barbès of 10 June 1848. Sand, Correspondance,

170  Notes to Pages 39–41 8:497–500. Following his imprisonment after the events of 15 May 1848, she published an article defending Barbès and calling for his release, not fearing to express her opinions in an increasingly polarized political climate. George Sand and Armand Barbès faithfully exchanged letters from the time they met in 1848 until the latter’s death. 1851 Preface This prefatory note was composed for the 1852 edition of La Petite Fadette published by Pierre-Jules Hetzel. 1. After months of growing tension between workers and socialists, on the one hand, and increasingly conservative authorities, on the other, civil war broke out in the streets of Paris at the end of June when the government shut down the Ateliers nationaux, or National Workshops, which had provided work to hordes of unemployed men. The bloody conflict claimed many victims on both sides and led to the arrest, imprisonment, and deportations of thousands of men and women. The June Days clearly signaled the end of the socialist phase of the Second Republic. 2. Sand is making reference here to Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte’s coup d’état on 2 December 1851. He had been elected president of the Second Republic in December 1848. As the constitution of the Republic did not allow the president to succeed himself and the first term of his presidency was drawing to an end, he overthrew the republic and would, the following year, declare an empire, emulating his uncle Napoleon Bonaparte. 3. In nearly all of her prefaces Sand refers to herself using masculine pronouns and masculine verb agreements. Chapter 1 1. In the Berrichon dialect (spoken in the region of Berry in western France, where George Sand’s paternal ancestors lived and where she spent a good part of her life), cosse, meaning “log” or “stump,” is a common toponym. Martine Reid’s edition of La Petite Fadette, published by Folio classique in 2004, includes a most helpful list of Berrichon expressions frequently employed in the novel. Subsequent citations to Reid refer to this text. 2. At the time most peasant houses had thatched roofs, as noted by Marie-France Azéma in the 1999 Livre de poche edition of La Petite Fadette (31n4). Subsequent citations to Azéma refer to this text, which employs footnotes. 3. Sand occasionally uses words of Berrichon dialect in this novel. Such words would have been unfamiliar to most of her French readers, and she often glosses them for that reason. This translation keeps a few of these Berrichon words, placing them in italics. 4. In Berrichon dialect, wives and daughters are often designated by a feminine form of their husband’s or father’s family name, as noted by Reid (38, 259n2). Hence, the female character here called Sagette is the wife of a man

Notes to Pages 41–61  171 with the patronymic Saget. Likewise, the eponymous Fadette would be the daughter of a man with the patronymic Fadet. 5. Even though the French Revolution had abolished the right of primogeniture, families throughout the nineteenth century continued to stress the importance of birth order, as noted by Azéma (32n8) and Reid (38, 260n3). 6. Church records show that brothers often had the same name, only to be distinguished by their nicknames, as noted by Azéma (32n9). 7. Wives in the Berry region frequently addressed their husbands in this manner (Reid, 39, 260n3). 8. As noted by Reid (41, 261n4), the franc had replaced the pound after 1795. Reid further adds that Sand, in her “Letter from a Black Valley Peasant” in Questions politiques et sociales, estimated that a farm family of four would need a minimum of 250 francs a year. Chapter 2 1. As Reid has pointed out (45, 261n2), babies before the French Revolution, both boys and girls, wore little dresses. This custom lived on in the provinces during the early years of the nineteenth century. 2. This possessive adjective signals the presence of the narrator, the Berrichon hemp-dresser. 3. In September 1798 the Jourdan Law established the draft for men between the ages of twenty and twenty-five. Chapter 5 1. For this line the 1869 Michel Lévy edition of La Petite Fadette gives “qu’il ne pouvait pourtant pas l’empêcher d’être content pour son compte,” whereas the 1849 Michel Lévy edition uses “s’empêcher.” The 1849 version makes better sense than the 1869 version, which I take as a misprint. Chapter 6 1. On 24 June, the appointed day for driving annual contracts for domestic labor, as noted by Azéma (63n1). Chapter 7 1. For this line the 1869 Michel Lévy Frères edition of La Petite Fadette gives “et on eût dit que Sylvinet se serait trouvé aussi malheureux s’il eût pu rendre son frère moins malheureux que lui.” The 1849 Michel Lévy Frères edition uses “et on eût dit que Sylvinet se serait trouvé moins malheureux s’il eût pu rendre son frère aussi malheureux que lui.” Without being able to explain the transposition of “aussi” and “moins,” I think that the 1849 version of the phrase makes more sense and better captures Sylvinet’s tormented frame of mind.

172  Notes to Pages 61–73 2. In Berry the dance of choice was the bourrée, performed with four, six, or eight dancers and led by someone playing a hurdy-gurdy or bagpipes (Reid, 70, 266n3). 3. Not to be taken literally, as both Azéma (71n4) and Reid (71, 266n1) observe, but used in the sense of “unacceptable,” “indecent,” or “shocking.” Chapter 8 1. Here Sand is referring to peasant wisdom that is akin to witchcraft, and the italics are hers. As she writes in her Promenade dans le Berry (as quoted in Reid, 76, 267n3; my translation here and below), “There is a secret for everything, and nearly all the peasants who are a bit solemn and experienced possess the secret of some thing or another, are thus witches, and believe that they are. There is the secret of oxen . . . ; the secret of cows . . . ; the secret of shepherdesses, to make the wool abundant; the secret of potters to prevent the bottom of pots from splitting. . . . There are as many secrets as there are scourges in nature and illnesses in man and beast. The secret is passed from father to son. . . . It is never betrayed.” 2. Freezing of the blood. According to Sand’s Promenade dans le Berry, peasants “have few infirmities and fear only the transition from hot to cold. That’s what they call sang glaçure. Thus they are afraid to perspire, and no one has the right to tell a worker to go faster than he wishes” (Reid, 76, 267n4). 3. This unleavened bread, according to Reid (77, 267n1), is still manufactured around La Châtre. It was distributed during the Mass and thought to have miraculous powers. For Sand, this mix of superstition and Catholicism characterized religion among the peasants of Berry. 4. Sand observed that peasants in her part of Berry were afraid of water and believed swimming to be an unhealthy and idle pursuit. They could, she maintained, drown in a foot of water (Reid, 78, 267n1). 5. In the dialect of Berry, a daughter or wife was often known by a feminized version of the father’s or husband’s last name, as has already been noted. Thus, the last name of little Fadette’s father was Fadet. Furthermore, in this dialect, there are many words for “fairy” (fée in standard French), such as fade, with the masculine diminutives farfadet and fadet and the feminine diminutive fadette. Fadet can also refer to a will-o’-the-wisp. Chapter 9 1. After the French Revolution a sou represented one twentieth of a franc or five centimes; ten sous would be half a franc. Chapter 10 1. The metric system, as Reid (87, 269n1) and Azéma (90n1) have indicated, went into official use in 1801, but it did not become mandatory until

Notes to Pages 73–86  173 1840. The majority of the population remained attached to traditional units of measurement. 2. Not to be interpreted solely in a strictly religious sense, but also meaning, as Reid has pointed out (92, 269n2), good, generous, and honest, in opposition to meanings then attached to “pagan,” such as drunken, mean, and dishonest. Chapter 11 1. La croix des Bossons, which is not far from Nohant, was still a recognized place-name in the early nineteenth century (Reid, 95, 270n3). 2. Before the advent of modern armies, soldiers bought their food, drink, and other supplies from individuals who moved around with them. This was still the case for the soldiers of the armies of the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Empire. The women (vivandières in French) who tended to the soldiers’ needs were generally considered to be prostitutes. 3. On 24 June. 4. These hiring fairs generally took place on 24 June, the feast of Saint John, throughout the larger towns of Berry (Reid, 99, 270n3). 5. The feast of Saint Andoche, a second-century martyr, is celebrated on 24 September (Reid, 100, 271n1). 6. A roulette in French is a little wheel, and in the dialect of Berry, as Reid has indicated (101, 271n1), a little round pebble is known as a roulet. Chapter 12 1. Sand, as Reid has noted (103, 271n1), took great interest in the “hallucinations” that went hand in hand with a great number of beliefs and legends in Berry. Sand writes in her Promenade dans le Berry, “The men who live closest to nature, the savages, and after them the peasants, are more prone and more subject than men of other classes to hallucinatory phenomena. No doubt ignorance and superstition force them to interpret as supernatural marvels these simple aberrations of their senses.” 2. The word here in French is follet, a diminutive derived from fou or fol, the latter adjective having a broad range of meaning, from “insane” to “whimsical.” A follet can be an odd, flighty, or scatterbrained person. A follet or an esprit follet can also be a goblin, whereas a feu follet refers either to an ignis fatuus, commonly known as a will-o’-the-wisp, or to an evil spirit. In his superstition and ignorance Landry sees the will-o’-the-wisp as a goblin, not as a natural phenomenon. 3. The common noun fadet means “fairy,” whereas the proper noun is little Fadette’s family name. 4. Follette is the feminine form of follet. 5. In French, météore has, in addition to the common English sense of “meteor,” another meaning—namely, phenomena visible in the atmosphere

174  Notes to Pages 86–100 or down on the ground that involve water, gases, electricity, or optics, as in “meteorology.” It is the latter sense that is pertinent here, as in French physicist Pierre Bertholon de Saint-Lazare’s De l’électricité des météores (1787). Following in the footsteps of Alessandro Volta and Joseph Priestley, Bertholon de Saint-Lazare tried to explain the phenomenon of ignes fatui as resulting from the interaction of natural electricity, such as lightning, with marsh gas. Chapter 13 1. Bessonnet is a diminutive of besson, or “identical twin,” in Berrichon dialect. Chapter 14 1. Grelet: cricket; fadet: fairy; cornet: horn lantern; capet: cloak; follet: goblin; bessonnet: identical twin. These were the words of the magical incantation that Landry heard Fadette singing in the last two chapters. Chapter 15 1. Wheat porridge, a favorite dish in Berry; see Reid (115, 273n1) and Azéma (123n2). Chapter 16 1. As Reid (118, 273n2) has pointed out, Sand devotes chapter 8 of her Légendes rustiques to this belief. Sand writes, “The leaders of wolves . . . are knowing and mysterious men, old woodcutters or clever gamekeepers, who know the secret of bewitching, subduing, taming, and leading real wolves.” Chapter 18 1. Reid (126, 273n1) notes that the young Aurore Dupin was encouraged by her tutor to dress like a boy in order to go horseback riding at the Berrichon estate, where she often lived with her paternal grandmother. This way of dressing, in addition to the liberty such clothes afforded the girl, was considered bizarre and reprehensible by many people in the vicinity. 2. Landry’s complaints about Fadette recall the reproaches that Aurore Dupin’s grandmother sometimes addressed to her young charge. George Sand recalls some of these in her autobiography: “My girl, . . . you could be pleasant enough, and you seem to enjoy making yourself ugly. Your skin is swarthy, your hands chapped, your feet will get deformed in those wooden shoes. . . . Your manners are dreadful; you’re not at all gracious or seemly. You’ve got a good heart and pitiful look about you. All this has got to change” (Reid, 126, 274n2).

Notes to Pages 100–116  175 3. Reid points out (129, 274n1) that this passage recalls the situation of Sand’s own mother, Sophie Delaborde, who was the daughter of a Parisian bird seller. In her autobiography Sand discusses at length her mother’s humble origins, her reputation as a loose woman, and the scorn that her aristocratic mother-in-law heaped upon her. These pages also contain Sand’s earnest defense of her mother. Chapter 19 1. In her Promenade dans le Berry, Sand writes that girls, up until they got married, were often shepherdesses on tenant farms or house servants in cities (Reid, 132, 274n2). 2. Land owned by the town on which the poor could graze their animals (Reid, 133, 275n1). Chapter 20 1. In Promenade dans le Berry, Sand notes, “Georgeon was the devil in that part of the Berry known as the Black Valley. . . . That’s the name that one had to call out at crossroads or under certain trees of evil repute to make the mysterious spirit appear. . . . Georgeon was half invisible, meaning that he only appeared on moonless nights or in thick fog. Then one would see a human form bigger than life; but the clothing, the face, the details of this form always remained elusive” (Reid, 143, 275n1). 2. In Promenade dans le Berry, Sand writes, “Around here people know perfectly well horses that have been groomed by the goblin. He ties thousands of inextricable knots in their manes. It’s [in fact] a rather common malady . . . affecting the manes and tails of horses in our pastures” (Reid, 143, 275n2). Chapter 21 1. Although the metric system had already been introduced by this time, many people in provincial France continued to use such traditional units of measure. As Reid (147, 246n1) explains, a “gunshot”—in other words, the range of a gun—was about fifty meters. Chapter 22 1. Guenille means “rag,” and therefore guenillière means “a collection of rags.” 2. A set of prayers said at the beginning of the Consecration, well into the Mass. According to Azéma (163n5), this term would have been well known to villagers who frequently attended Mass. 3. An allusion to the tallage tax (la taille) and unpaid work details (la corvée) required of peasants before the French Revolution.

176  Notes to Pages 123–144 Chapter 25

1. A Berrichon version of the devil. Chapter 26

1. A shed or lean-to, according to Reid’s glossary of Berrichon dialect (241). 2. Meaning a place containing all kinds of things and in great disorder. The French word derives from the biblical toponym for the shores of the Sea of Galilee, where Jesus was beset by a motley crowd calling upon him to heal their various maladies. Chapter 28 1. Sylvain is the twin’s baptismal name, of which Sylvinet is a diminutive. See chapter 1, paragraph 5. Chapter 29 1. A town located about twenty kilometers east of the ancestral home where Sand spent a good part of her childhood with her grandmother (Reid, 181, 277n1). Chapter 31 1. Another town about twenty kilometers away from Sand’s ancestral home in Berry (Reid, 190, 278n2). Azéma states that this name refers to a real person renowned for her talent in dealing with difficult situations (211n2). 2. Some twenty kilometers northwest of Nohant. Chapter 32 1. This same line minus the capitalization of the nouns—“Toute fadette a son fadet”—occurs in chapter 12. With the capitalization, “Fadette” refers quite specifically to the eponymous character in this novel, rather than to fairies in general. To whom does “Fadet” refer? Fadette’s father is dead, so that person is excluded. Perhaps it is Fadette’s little brother, but the more likely candidate is Landry, which presents an interesting twist. As Reid has noted (38, 259n2), a wife or daughter in Berrichon dialect is often called by the husband’s or father’s last name, with the addition of a feminine suffix; for example, Sagette would be the wife or daughter of Saget. But if Landry is being referred to here, Fadette is giving him her name, with the feminine suffix removed.

Notes to Pages 145–165  177 Chapter 33 1. The matter of old and new currencies, prerevolutionary and postrevolutionary, is in fact confusing, as the reader will appreciate in the following paragraphs. The decimal franc (1 franc = 100 centimes) was established in 1795, some six years after the beginning of the French Revolution. The term franc écu designates a postrevolutionary silver coin worth five francs, sometimes called simply an écu. The term écu, however, can also refer to various ancien régime coins first minted in the thirteenth century, whose use would continue into the early years of the revolution. 2. Such a purse would have been traditional for a Berrichon peasant of the time, according to Reid (199, 278n2). 3. First struck in 1640 and issued up until 1792, the louis d’or “minted the old way” bore the effigy of various French kings—Louis XIII through Louis XVI. 4. A very considerable sum at that time (Reid, 199, 278n4). 5. The term pistole refers to a Spanish double escudo, to a louis d’or from the time of Louis XIII, or to other European gold coins whose value was comparable to the Spanish coin. 6. In the 1869 Michel Lévy edition this line reads “l’héritage de votre mère et le vôtre,” while the 1849 edition reads “l’héritage de votre frère et le vôtre.” Here the latter makes sense, whereas the former does not. Chapter 34 1. In her Promenade dans le Berry, Sand, using the terms remégeux and remégeuse, writes that such healers “are sometimes most extraordinary beings, either because of the magnetic power with which the faith of their clients invests them or because of their knowledge of certain very simple remedies that the peasants accept from them and would not consider efficacious if such remedies were to come from a true doctor. Bare science does not convince these minds eager for marvelous things [i.e., the peasants’ minds]. They scorn that which is acquired through study and experience; they need fantastic things, incomprehensible words, theatrical displays” (Reid, 204, 279n1). Chapter 36 1. Eel-skin leather is a luxury product, highly prized because it is soft and smooth and yet durable. Chapter 40

1. As a wedding was often the only great celebration in a peasant’s life,

178  Notes to Pages 165 the festivities lasted three days and included specific rituals that Sand has described in other writings about Berry (Reid, 224, 279n1). 2. Having taken power in 1799, Napoleon Bonaparte became emperor of France in 1804.

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