The family felt the exhilaration of a people which, by a revolution, recovers its liberty.
They approached the ca.n.a.l, which was murmuring in the shade. The immense plain was lost in the blue shadow, the cane-brake undulated in dark and murmuring ma.s.ses, and the stars twinkled in the heavens.
Batiste went into the ca.n.a.l knee-deep, lowering the gates which held the water, while his son, his wife and even his daughter attacked the sloping banks with the hoes, opening gaps, through which the water gushed.
All the family felt a sensation of coolness and of well-being.
The earth sung merrily with a greedy glu-glu, which touched the heart.
"Drink, drink, poor thing!" And their feet sank in the mud, as bent over they went from one side to the other of the field, looking to see if the water had reached every part.
Batiste muttered with the cruel satisfaction which the joy of the prohibited produces. What a load was lifted from him! The Tribunal might come now, and do whatever it wished. His field had drunk; this was the main thing.
And as with the acute hearing of a man accustomed to the solitude, he thought that he perceived a certain strange noise in the neighbouring cane-brake, he ran to the farm, and returned immediately, holding a new shotgun.
With the weapon over his arm, and his finger on the trigger, he stood more than an hour close to the bars of the ca.n.a.l.
The water did not flow ahead; it spread itself out in the fields of Batiste, which drank and drank with the thirst of a dropsical man.
Perhaps those down below were complaining; perhaps Pimento, notified as an _atandador_, was prowling in the vicinity, outraged at this insolent breach of the law.
But here was Batiste, like a sentinel of his harvest, a hero made desperate by the struggle of his family, guarding his people who were moving about in the field, extending the irrigation; ready to deal a blow at the first who might attempt to raise the bars, and re-establish the water"s course.
So fierce was the att.i.tude of this great fellow who stood out motionless in the midst of the ca.n.a.l; in this black phantom there might be divined such a resolution of shooting at whoever might present himself, that no one ventured forth from the adjoining cane-brake, and the fields drank for an hour without any protest.
And this is what is yet stranger: on the following Thursday the _atandador_ did not have him summoned before the Tribunal of the Waters.
The _huerta_ had been informed that in the ancient farm-house of Barret the only object of worth was a double-barreled shotgun, recently bought by the intruder, with that African pa.s.sion of the Valencian, who willingly deprives himself of bread in order to have behind the door of his house a new weapon which excites envy and inspires respect.
V
Every morning, at dawn, Roseta, Batiste"s daughter, leaped out of bed, her eyes heavy with sleep, and after stretching out her arms in graceful writhings which shook all her body of blonde slenderness, opened the farm-house door.
The pulley of the well creaked, the ugly little dog, which pa.s.sed the night outside the house, leaped close to her skirts, barking with joy, and Roseta, in the light of the last stars, cast over her face and hands a pail of cold water drawn from that round and murky hole, crowned at the top by thick clumps of ivy.
Afterward, in the light of the candle, she moved about the house preparing for her journey to Valencia.
The mother followed her without seeing her from the bed with all kinds of suggestions. She could take away what was left from the supper: that with three sardines which she would find on the shelf would be sufficient. And take care not to break the dish as she did the other day. Ah! And she should not forget to buy thread, needles and some sandals for the little one. Destructive child!... She would find the money in the drawer of the little table.
And while the mother turned over in bed, sweetly caressed by the warmth of the bedroom, planning to sleep a half-hour more close to the enormous Batiste, who snored noisily, Roseta continued her evolutions. She placed her poor meal in a basket, pa.s.sed a comb through her light-blond hair, which looked as though the sun had absorbed its colour, and tied the handkerchief under her chin. Before going out, she looked with the tender solicitousness of an elder sister, to see if the little ones who slept on the floor, all in the same room, were well covered. They lay there in a row from the eldest to the youngest, from the overgrown Batistet to the little tot who as yet could hardly talk, like a row of organ pipes.
"Good-bye, until tonight!" shouted the brave girl, and pa.s.sing her arm through the handle of the basket, she closed the door of the farm-house, placing the key underneath.
It was already daylight. In the bluish light of dawn the procession of workers could be seen pa.s.sing over the paths and roads, all walking in the same direction, drawn by the life of the city.
Groups of graceful spinning-mill girls pa.s.sed by, marching with an even step, swinging with jaunty grace their right arms which cut the air like a strong oar, and all screaming in chorus every time that any strapping young fellow saluted them from the neighbouring fields with coa.r.s.e jests.
Roseta walked to the city alone. Well did the poor child know her companions, daughters and sisters of those who hated her family so bitterly.
Several of them were working in the factory, and the poor little yellow-haired girl, making a show of courage more than once, had to defend herself by sheer scratching. Taking advantage of her carelessness, they threw dirty things into her lunch-basket; made her break the earthenware dish of which she was reminded so many times, and never pa.s.sed near her in the mill without trying to push her over the smoking kettle where the coc.o.o.n was being soaked while they called her a pauper, and applied similar eulogies to her and her family.
On the way she fled from them as from a throng of furies, and felt safe only when she was inside the factory, an ugly old building close to the market, whose facades, painted in water-colours the century before, still preserved between peeling paint and cracks certain groups of rose-coloured legs, and profiles of bronzed colour, remnants of medallions, and mythological paintings.
Of all the family, Roseta was the most like her father: a fury for work, as Batiste said of himself. The fiery vapour of the caldron where the coc.o.o.n is soaked mounted about her head, burning her eyes; but, in spite of this, she was always in her place, fishing in the depths of the boiling water for the loosened ends of those capsules of soft silk of the mellow colour of caramel, in whose interior the laborious worm, the larva of precious exudation, had just perished for the offence of creating a rich dungeon for its transformation into the b.u.t.terfly.
Throughout the large building reigned the din of work, deafening and tiresome for the daughters of the _huerta_, who were used to the calm of the immense plain, where the voice carries a great distance. Below roared the steam-engine, giving forth frightful roaring sounds which were transmitted through the multiple tubing: pulleys and wheels revolved with an infernal din, and as though there were not noise enough, the spinning-mill girls, according to traditional custom, sang in chorus with a nasal voice, the _Padre nuestro_, the _Ave Maria_, and the _Gloria Patri_, with the same musical interludes as the chorus which roamed about the _huerta_ Sunday mornings at dawn.
This did not prevent them from laughing as they sang, nor from insulting each other in an undertone between prayers, and threatening each other with four long scratches on coming out, for these dark-complexioned girls, enslaved by the rigid tyranny which rules in the farmer"s family, and obliged by hereditary conventions to lower their eyes in the presence of men, when gathered together without restraint were regular demons, and took delight in uttering everything they had heard from the cart-drivers and labourers on the roads.
Roseta was the most silent and industrious of them all. In order not to distract her attention from her work, she did not sing; she never provoked quarrels and she learned everything with such facility, that in a few weeks she was earning three reals, almost the maximum for the day"s work, to the great envy of the others.
At the lunch-hour these bands of dishevelled girls sallied forth from the factory to gobble up the contents of their earthen-ware dishes. As they formed a loafing group on the side-walk or in the immediate porches, and challenged the men with insolent glances to speak to them, only falsely scandalized, to fire back shameless remarks in return, Roseta remained in a corner of the mill, seated on the floor with two or three good girls who were from another _huerta_, from the right side of the river, and who did not care a rap for the story of old Barret and the hatred of their companions.
During the first weeks, Roseta saw with a certain terror the arrival of dusk, and with it, the hour for departure.
Fearing her companions, who took the same road as herself, she stayed in the factory for a time, letting them set out ahead like a cyclone, with scandalous bursts of laughter, flauntings of skirts, daring vulgarisms, and the odour of health, of hard and rugged limbs.
She walked lazily through the streets of the city in the cold twilight of winter, making purchases for her mother, stood open-mouthed before the shop windows which began to be illumined, and at last, pa.s.sing over the bridge, she entered the dark narrow alleys of the suburbs to set forth upon the road of Alboraya.
So far, all was well. But after she came to the dark _huerta_ with its mysterious noises, its dark and alarming forms which pa.s.sed close to her saluting with a deep "Good night," fear set in, and her teeth chattered.
And it was not that the silence and the darkness intimidated her. Like a true daughter of the country, she was accustomed to these. If she had been certain that she would encounter no one on the road, it would have given her confidence. In her terror, she never thought, as did her companions, of death, nor of witches and phantasms; it was the living who disturbed her.
She recalled with growing fear certain stories of the _huerta_ that she had heard in the factory; the fear that the little girls had of Pimento, and other bullies who congregated in the tavern of Copa: heartless fellows who pinched the girls wherever they could, and pushed them into the ca.n.a.ls, or made them fall behind the haylofts. And Roseta, who was no longer innocent after entering the factory, gave free rein to her imagination, till it reached the utmost limits of the horrible; and she saw herself a.s.sa.s.sinated by some one of these monsters, her stomach ripped up and soaked in blood, like those children of the legends of the _huerta_ whose fat sinister and mysterious murderers extracted and used in making wonderful salves and potions for the rich.
In the twilight of winter, dark and oftentimes rainy, Roseta pa.s.sed over more than half of the road all a tremble. But the most cruel crisis, the most terrible obstacle was almost at the end, and close to the farm--the famous tavern of Copa.
Here was the den of the wild beast. This was the most frequented and the brightest bit of road. The sound of voices, the outbursts of laughter, the thrumming of a guitar, and couplets of songs with loud shouting came forth from the door which, like the mouth of a furnace, cast forth a square of reddish light over the black road, in which grotesque shadows moved about. And nevertheless, the poor mill girl, on arriving near this place, stopped undecided, trembling like the heroines of the fairy-tales before the den of the ogre, ready to set out through the fields in order to make a detour around the rear of the building, to sink into the ca.n.a.l which bordered the road, and to slip away hidden behind the sloping banks; anything rather than to pa.s.s in front of this red gullet which gave forth the din of drunkenness and brutality.
Finally she decided; made an effort of will like one who is going to throw himself over a high cliff, and pa.s.sed swiftly before the tavern, along the edge of the ca.n.a.l, with a very light step, and the marvellous poise which fear lends.
She was a breath, a white shadow which did not give the turbid eyes of the customers of Copa time to fix themselves upon it.
And the tavern pa.s.sed, the child ran and ran, believing that some one was just behind her, expecting to feel the tug of his powerful paw at her skirt.
She was not calm until she heard the barking of the dog at the farm-house, that ugly animal, who by way of ant.i.thesis no doubt, was called The Morning Star, and who came bounding up to her in the middle of the road with bounds and licked her hands.
Roseta never told those at home of the terrors encountered on the road.
The poor child composed herself on entering the house, and answered the questions of her anxious mother quietly, meeting the situation valorously by stating that she had come home with some companions.
The spinning-mill girl did not want her father to come out nights to accompany her on the road. She knew the hatred of the neighbourhood: the tavern of Copa with its quarrelsome people inspired her with fear.
And on the following day she returned to the factory to suffer the same fears upon returning, enlivened only by the hope that the spring would soon come with its longer days and its luminous twilights, which would permit her to return to the house before it grew dark.
One night, Roseta experienced a certain relief. While she was still close to the city, a man came out upon the road and began to walk at the same pace as herself.