THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER

by Emile Zola
CHAPTER I

THE BETROTHAL
Pere Merlier's mill, one beautiful summer evening, was arranged for

a grand fete. In the courtyard were three tables, placed end to
end, which awaited the guests. Everyone knew that Francoise,

Merlier's daughter, was that night to be betrothed to Dominique, a
young man who was accused of idleness but whom the fair sex for

three leagues around gazed at with sparkling eyes, such a fine
appearance had he.

Pere Merlier's mill was pleasing to look upon. It stood exactly in
the center of Rocreuse, where the highway made an elbow. The

village had but one street, with two rows of huts, a row on each
side of the road; but at the elbow meadows spread out, and huge

trees which lined the banks of the Morelle covered the extremity of
the valley with lordly shade. There was not, in all Lorraine, a

corner of nature more adorable. To the right and to the left thick
woods, centenarian forests, towered up from gentle slopes, filling

the horizon with a sea of verdure, while toward the south the plain
stretched away, of marvelousfertility, displaying as far as the eye

could reach patches of ground divided by green hedges. But what
constituted the special charm of Rocreuse was the coolness of that

cut of verdure in the most sultry days of July and August. The
Morelle descended from the forests of Gagny and seemed to have

gathered the cold from the foliage beneath which it flowed for
leagues; it brought with it the murmuring sounds, the icy and

concentrated shade of the woods. And it was not the sole source of
coolness: all sorts of flowing streams gurgled through the forest;

at each step springs bubbled up; one felt, on following the narrow
pathways, that there must exist subterranean lakes which pierced

through beneath the moss and availed themselves of the smallest
crevices at the feet of trees or between the rocks to burst forth in

crystalline fountains. The whispering voices of these brooks were
so numerous and so loud that they drowned the song of the

bullfinches. It was like some enchanted park with cascades falling
from every portion.

Below the meadows were damp. Gigantic chestnut trees cast dark
shadows. On the borders of the meadows long hedges of poplars

exhibited in lines their rustling branches. Two avenues of enormous
plane trees stretched across the fields toward the ancient Chateau

de Gagny, then a mass of ruins. In this constantly watered district
the grass grew to an extraordinaryheight. It resembled a garden

between two wooded hills, a natural garden, of which the meadows
were the lawns, the giant trees marking the colossal flower beds.

When the sun's rays at noon poured straight downward the shadows
assumed a bluish tint; scorched grass slept in the heat, while an

icy shiver passed beneath the foliage.
And there it was that Pere Merlier's mill enlivened with its

ticktack a corner of wild verdure. The structure, built of plaster
and planks, seemed as old as the world. It dipped partially in the

Morelle, which rounded at that point into a transparent basin. A
sluice had been made, and the water fell from a height of several

meters upon the mill wheel, which cracked as it turned, with the
asthmatic cough of a faithful servant grown old in the house. When

Pere Merlier was advised to change it he shook his head, saying that
a new wheel would be lazier and would not so well understand the

work, and he mended the old one with whatever he could put his hands
on: cask staves, rusty iron, zinc and lead. The wheel appeared

gayer than ever for it, with its profile grown odd, all plumed with
grass and moss. When the water beat upon it with its silvery flood

it was covered with pearls; its strange carcass wore a sparkling
attire of necklaces of mother-of-pearl.

The part of the mill which dipped in the Morelle had the air of a
barbaric arch stranded there. A full half of the structure was

built on piles. The water flowed beneath the floor, and deep places
were there, renowned throughout the district for the enormous eels

and crayfish caught in them. Below the fall the basin was as clear
as a mirror, and when the wheel did not cover it with foam schools

of huge fish could be seen swimming with the slowness of a squadron.
Broken steps led down to the river near a stake to which a boat was

moored. A woodengallery passed above the wheel. Windows opened,
pierced irregularly. It was a pell-mell of corners, of little

walls, of constructions added too late, of beams and of roofs, which
gave the mill the aspect of an old, dismantled citadel. But ivy had

grown; all sorts of clinging plants stopped the too-wide chinks and
threw a green cloak over the ancient building. The young ladies who

passed by sketched Pere Merlier's mill in their albums.
On the side facing the highway the structure was more solid. A

stone gateway opened upon the wide courtyard, which was bordered to
the right and to the left by sheds and stables. Beside a well an

immense elm covered half the courtyard with its shadow. In the
background the building displayed the four windows of its second

story, surmounted by a pigeon house. Pere Merlier's sole vanity was
to have this front plastered every ten years. It had just received

a new coating and dazzled the village when the sun shone on it at
noon.

For twenty years Pere Merlier had been mayor of Rocreuse. He was
esteemed for the fortune he had acquired. His wealth was estimated

at something like eighty thousand francs, amassed sou by sou. When
he married Madeleine Guillard, who brought him the mill as her

dowry, he possessed only his two arms. But Madeleine never repented
of her choice, so briskly did he manage the business. Now his wife

was dead, and he remained a widower with his daughter Francoise.
Certainly he might have rested, allowed the mill wheel to slumber in

the moss, but that would have been too dull for him, and in his eyes
the building would have seemed dead. He toiled on for pleasure.

Pere Merlier was a tall old man with a long, still face, who never
laughed but who possessed, notwithstanding, a very gay heart. He

had been chosen mayor because of his money and also on account of
the imposing air he could assume during a marriage ceremony.

Francoise Merlier was just eighteen. She did not pass for one of
the handsome girls of the district, as she was not robust. Up to

her fifteenth year she had been even ugly.
The Rocreuse people had not been able to understand why the daughter

of Pere and Mere Merlier, both of whom had always enjoyed excellent
health, grew ill and with an air of regret. But at fifteen, though

yet delicate, her little face became one of the prettiest in the
world. She had black hair, black eyes, and was as rosy as a peach;

her lips constantly wore a smile; there were dimples in her cheeks,
and her fair forehead seemed crowned with sunlight. Although not

considered robust in the district, she was far from thin; the idea
was simply that she could not lift a sack of grain, but she would

become plump as she grew older--she would eventually be as round and
dainty as a quail. Her father's long periods of silence had made

her thoughtful very young. If she smiled constantly it was to
please others. By nature she was serious.

Of course all the young men of the district paid court to her, more
on account of her ecus than her pretty ways. At last she made a

choice which scandalized the community.
On the opposite bank of the Morelle lived a tall youth named

Dominique Penquer. He did not belong to Rocreuse. Ten years before
he had arrived from Belgium as the heir of his uncle, who had left

him a small property upon the very border of the forest of Gagny,
just opposite the mill, a few gunshots distant. He had come to sell

this property, he said, and return home. But the district charmed
him, it appeared, for he did not quit it. He was seen cultivating

his little field, gathering a few vegetables upon which he
subsisted. He fished and hunted; many times the forest guards

nearly caught him and were on the point of drawing up proces-verbaux
against him. This free existence, the resources of which the