D'Aurevilly Catherine's Coquetries A Tale of French Country Life

1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-3-98826-276-9
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 144 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

Catherine's Coquetries: A Tale of French Country Life is a novel by French author and journalist Jules Amédée Barbey d'Aurevilly. The novel was first published in 1861, and tells the story of Catherine, a beautiful and flirtatious young woman who lives in the French countryside. The novel explores the themes of love, seduction, and betrayal, as Catherine uses her beauty and charm to manipulate the men around her. Through her various coquetries, Catherine causes several love triangles to form, leading to heartbreak and tragedy for several of the novel's characters. Catherine's Coquetries is considered one of Barbey d'Aurevilly's most important works, and is notable for its vivid descriptions of French country life and its exploration of the darker side of human nature. The novel has been translated into several languages and remains a classic of French literature.

Autoren/Hrsg.

D'Aurevilly, Jules Amédée Barbey

Leseproben

CHAPTER II.
THE ALTERCATION.
Savin Barrau was naturally a soldier. As Catherine was a beautiful woman, so was Savin a distinguished-looking man. His regular-featured face wore an expression of hauteur and valor, as though he often had stood in the face of death. But upon his lips one could have fancied there lurked a smile both touching and tender. His handsome dark eyes brightened his face to an extraordinary degree. Brave and noble he seemed as he stood gazing upon the scene. “Ah, ha,” said the vindictive Andoche, “I have brought trouble to our charming Madame Catherine with my remarks, I fear. Another time I shall hold my tongue.” Savin approached, carrying his gun in his left hand. His dog Patachaud was still bounding at his side. A feeling of restlessness possessed the crowd, hitherto so joyous. A jealous glitter suddenly came into Barrau’s eyes. He could not disguise his disapproval of his wife’s frivolity. Every one thought Catherine would discontinue the game and run to meet him. But no. Either bravado or the testy consciousness of her virtue led her to continue it. Firmin, who as yet had not perceived Barrau, darted after her with increased zest. The gamekeeper came forward with even tread. “Ah, some game seems to be in progress,” said he as he halted. His wife and Firmin now disappeared from view. A look of displeasure clouded Savin’s features. With a military gesture he rested his hand on his knee. The dog continuing to leap upon him, he shouted: “Down, Patachaud, down, sir!” a little rudely. A profound silence enveloped the scene. Every one was impressed, for all knew the keeper’s mood. Why indeed should the coquettish Catherine so vex her brave husband? Presently she again came in sight. Merrily she went toward Savin, smiled up at him, and seizing his shoulders swung around him, without a thought of abandoning the game. Certainly Savin’s look of displeasure should have warned her to desist, but that look she obstinately refused to see. Fortified by her husband’s tall figure, Catherine stood panting and laughing, while Firmin foolishly advanced toward her in pursuit. At this juncture, the gamekeeper, impatiently tapping the ground with his foot, exclaimed: “Come, come! this is a little too bold.” “Now for a storm,” murmured Andoche. “Firmin would have passed the time better by drinking a couple of glasses of beer with me.” Firmin stupidly stared at Barrau, with an air of indifference; while Catherine, vexed at Savin’s interference, addressed him brusquely in these words: “Well, what are you going to do about it?” “Not much. You have played too long. You must go and rest.” “But we have not yet gathered the berries.” “Well, let the others do that. Come, let us go.” “Oh, no, indeed,” said Catherine, perversely. “You may go on if you like, but I——” “Come along, Catherine. Do not provoke me.” A hard look entered her eyes. To be led away before everybody appeared to her, at that moment, the acme of humiliation. It was wiser to concede to her husband’s wishes, she well knew, for he loved her ardently, and had only her welfare at heart. But she did not wish to seem so meek before her friends. Indeed, she would show them that she was not to be bullied. “It would have been surprising had you not come to spoil all our sport. But, as I said before, you may go. I shall remain longer.” “Poor little one,” said Andoche, hatefully. The gamekeeper’s wife turned toward a group of peasants, some of whom were regarding her approvingly, others with displeasure. “Catherine,” said Barrau, in vibrating tones, “I am the master, you understand, and never shall I submit to being laughed at by a Firmin.” “Pooh! You always see evil in everything. Am I doing wrong? Whenever I try to enjoy myself you are angry. In order to please you, I ought always to stay at home. But I don’t care for that sort of life—not I.” “Come!” “No.” Savin was visibly disturbed. His resolute face looked pained. He said nothing, but going straight up to his wife, he took her by the arm and forced her to go by his side. Vexed with rage, she attempted to free herself, but in vain. Her husband held her closely. But rather than go with him she fell to the ground, sobbing. “Catherine, my girl, come,” urged Savin, more gently. “Do not be a baby; come willingly. People are mocking at us.” Did the young woman believe her husband would weaken? Or did she think it dramatic to make a scene? Who knows? At all events, she raised her hand to strike her husband on the face, when he, foreseeing the intention, arrested the blow. His movement was so rapid that he did not realize what strength he exerted in seizing her fingers. Held as firmly as though she were in a vice, Catherine uttered a little cry of pain. “You hurt me, Savin. See! You hurt me!” But the gamekeeper, swayed by his anger, did not listen to her complaint. “A blow!” cried he. “You wished to strike me—you! Before all these people!” Catherine reiterated her complaint. “Be quiet,” said her husband, in tones of thunder. “Do not forget that I am Savin Barrau. You will have cause to remember this twentieth of July. Ask my pardon!” At these words Catherine made another effort to release herself from his grasp, but Savin held her all the more firmly. “Apologize, I tell you!” “I will not!” Pride overcame her pain. Her arm was aching terribly, but—she would never yield. Drops of perspiration stood on her forehead. Her heart within her seemed to stop beating. Though ready to faint, she still would have resisted, but her suffering was too great. “Pardon me,” she cried, at length, in a grieved voice. “You will not do so again?” demanded Savin, severely. “No, no. Release me!” “You will never again do so rude a thing?” “No. Oh, how you hurt me!” Savin dropped her arm and pushed her toward the pathway. “Come, let us go,” said he. Catherine, humiliated and angry, did not resist. Without once turning her head, Madame Barrau walked away, bewildered and wretched. No one had thought of interfering between the man and wife. Country people, as a rule, have great respect for strength and authority. Savin’s behavior seemed to them quite the natural sequence of Catherine’s. A profound silence reigned for several minutes. By tacit consent all waited until the gamekeeper and his wife were beyond hearing, and then soon enough each tongue began to wag. Catherine was very pretty, and therefore could not escape calumny. More than one venomous smile was to be seen on the lips of her enemies. “Did you see what a look she gave him when they started?” “And how vexed she was because he came?” “She could have strangled him,” said Andoche, wickedly. “Poor Barrau! how sad!” Bruno alone was silent. Now and then he opened his mouth as though he had something to say, but he closed it again without speaking. Amid the babble Firmin ventured a word. He had been a valet in Paris, and more than one pretty chambermaid had smiled upon him: so he felt himself to be quite a squire of dames. “Madame Barrau is such a fine-looking woman that her husband ought to be satisfied if—if—don’t you know?” Every one save Bruno burst into laughter. He turned pale, clinched his fists, and muttered something to himself. Finally he said with vehemence, as he planted himself before Firmin: “You are a scoundrel. You, at least, have no right to say anything. I repeat, you are a scoundrel!” “Ah, my dear fellow, how excited you are!” “You know very well that Madame Catherine is an honest woman. I will answer for it, and I forbid you to say a word to the contrary.” “You forbid me! You forbid me!” retorted Firmin, pale and exasperated. “And what if I laugh in your face?” “I will break your head as I would a cat’s,” cried Bruno, more and more enraged. “Ah, ha!” said Andoche, in his maddening way: “you are then in love with Madame Catherine?” “I also forbid you to speak like that, Andoche. Indeed, one ought never to allow drunkards in company.” He must be a hot-brained fellow to speak like that—this young Bruno. Fair-skinned, slight, graceful, and blond, the son of Mother Mathurine would have been taken anywhere for a gentleman. But he could not boast that strength of limb and muscle which distinguished the young fellows with whom he had often come in contact, and who were always ready for a quarrel. Firmin was as strong as an ox, and Andoche, the old blacksmith, had sinews of steel. Young Bruno could hardly expect to enter the lists with either, and he was rather foolhardy to challenge a dispute. Firmin and Andoche Grignon were both well enough settled in life, in a pecuniary way; while young Bruno was but the son of a poor mother, who passed as a good woman, though his father had insisted upon remaining away from home for over twenty years. Bruno’s last remark lent a sharp piquancy to the situation. The women were quite elated at the prospect of a dispute; while the men crowded around, fearing lest they should lose a word. Andoche frowned and his face assumed an ugly expression. He never hesitated to give a blow, and his two short arms had a terrible reputation at Quarré, Rouvray, and...