"What then? what then?" they cry from all sides, with outstretched
necks and open mouths.
"But ... I should not be astonished ... if it were...."
We are breathless.
"Monsieur Lanlaire. There, that is what I think, if you want to know,"
she concludes, with an expression of base and atrocious ferocity.
Several protest; others reserve judgment. I declare that Monsieur
Lanlaire is incapable of such a crime, and I cry:
"He, Lord Jesus? Oh, the poor man! He would be too much afraid."
But Rose, with still more hatred, insists:
"Incapable? Ta, ta, ta! And the little Jézureau? And Valentin's little
girl? And the little Dougère? Do you remember them? Incapable?"
"It is not the same thing; it is not the same thing."
In their hatred of Monsieur they do not, like Rose, go so far as
to make a formal charge of murder. That he outrages little girls
who consent to be outraged,--yes, that is possible. That he kills
them,--that is scarcely credible. But Rose stormily insists. She froths
at the mouth; she pounds the table with her soft, fat hands; she cries,
with excited gestures:
"Do I not tell you yes? I am sure of it."
Mme. Gouin, who has been listening in a dreamy fashion, finally
declares, in her meaningless voice:
"Oh! indeed, young women, in these matters one can never tell. As for
the little Jézureau, it was a famous bit of luck, I assure you, that he
did not kill her."
In spite of the authority of the grocer, in spite of the obstinacy of
Rose, who will not consent to change the subject, they pass in review,
one after another, all the people in the neighborhood who could have
done the deed. They find heaps of them,--all those whom they detest,
all those of whom they have any jealousy, against whom they have any
spite. Finally the pale little woman with the rat-like nose remarks:
"You know that last week there were two capuchins begging around here,
who did not present a very inviting appearance, with their dirty
beards. May it not have been they?"
A cry of indignation arises:
"Worthy and pious monks? The good God's holy souls! It is abominable!"
And, as we take our departure, after laying everybody under suspicion,
Rose, bent on establishing her theory, repeats:
"Do I not tell you that it is he? It is he, be sure!"
Before re-entering the house, I stop a moment in the harness-room,
where Joseph is polishing his harnesses. Above a dresser, on which
bottles of varnish and boxes of blacking are symmetrically arranged,
I see flaming on the pine wainscoting the portrait of Drumont. To give
him greater majesty, undoubtedly, Joseph has recently adorned him
with a crown of laurel. Opposite, the portrait of the pope is almost
entirely hidden by a horse-blanket hung upon a nail. Anti-Jewish
pamphlets and patriotic songs are piled up on a shelf, and in a corner
Joseph's club stands lonely among the brooms.
Suddenly I say to Joseph, solely from a motive of curiosity:
"Do you know, Joseph, that the little Claire has been found in the
woods, murdered and outraged?"
At first Joseph cannot suppress a movement of surprise,--is it really
surprise? Rapid and furtive as this movement was, it seems to me that,
at the sound of the little Claire's name, a sort of strange shock,
something like a shudder, passed through him. He recovers very quickly.
"Yes," he says, in a firm voice, "I know it. I was told so in the
neighborhood this morning."
Now he is indifferent and placid. He rubs his harnesses methodically
with a thick, black cloth. I admire the muscular development of his
bare arms, the harmonious and powerful suppleness of his biceps,
the whiteness of his skin. I cannot see his eyes under the lowered
lids,--his eyes so obstinately fixed upon his work. But I see his
mouth, his large mouth, his enormous jaw, the jaw of a cruel and
sensual beast. And I feel a sort of light tremor at my heart. I ask him
further:
"Do they know who did it?"
Joseph shrugs his shoulders. Half jesting, half serious, he answers:
"Some vagabonds, undoubtedly; some dirty sheenies."
Then, after a short silence:
"Puuutt! you will see that they will not pinch them. The magistrates
are all sold."
He hangs up the finished harnesses, and, pointing to Drumont's
portrait, in its laurel halo, he adds:
"If we only had him? Oh, misfortune!"
I know not why I left him with a singular feeling of uneasiness in my
soul.
At any rate, this story is going to give us something to talk about,
something to divert us a little.
Sometimes, when Madame is out, and I cannot stand the ennui, I go to
the iron fence by the roadside, where Mlle. Rose comes to meet me.
Always on the watch, nothing that goes on in our place escapes her.
She sees all who come in and go out. She is redder, fatter, flabbier
than ever. Her lips hang more than they did, and she is more and more
haunted by obscene ideas. Every time that we meet, her first look is at
my person, and her first words, uttered in her thick voice, are:
"Remember my advice. As soon as you notice anything, go straight to
Mme. Gouin; straight."
It is a veritable obsession, a mania. A little annoyed, I reply:
"But why do you expect me to notice anything? I know nobody here."
"Ah!" she exclaims, "a misfortune comes so quickly! A moment of
forgetfulness,--it is very natural,--and there you are! Sometimes one
does not know how it happens. I have seen some who were as sure as
you are, and then it happened all the same. But with Mme. Gouin one
can rest easy. So expert a woman is a real blessing to a town. Why,
formerly, my dear little one, you saw nothing but children around
here. The town was poisoned with children. An abomination! They
swarmed in the streets, like chickens in a hen-yard. They bawled on
the door-steps, and made a terrible hullaballoo. One saw nothing else.
Well, I don't know whether you have noticed it, but to-day there are no
more to be seen, almost none at all."
With a more slimy smile, she continues:
"Not that the girls amuse themselves any less. Oh! heavens, no! On
the contrary. You never go out in the evening; but, if you were to
take a walk at nine o'clock under the chestnut trees, you would see.
Everywhere couples on the benches, kissing and caressing. It is a very
pretty spectacle. Oh! to me, you know, love is so pretty. I perfectly
understand that one cannot live without love. Yes, but it is very
annoying also to have a lot of children tagging at one's heels. Well,
they have none now; they have no more. And it is to Mme. Gouin that
they owe that. Just a disagreeable moment to pass through; after all,
it is not like having to swallow the sea. In your place I would not
hesitate. A pretty girl like you, so distinguished, and who must have
so good a figure,--a child would be a murder."
"Reassure yourself. I have no desire to have one."
"Yes, I know; nobody has any desire to have one. Only ... But, tell me,
has Monsieur never made advances to you?"
"Why, no."
"That is astonishing, for he has a great reputation for that. Not even
that morning in the garden?"
"I assure you."
Mam'zelle Rose shakes her head.
"You are unwilling to say anything. You distrust me. Well, that is your
business. Only, we know what we know."
Peasants pass in the road, and salute Mam'zelle Rose, with respect.
"How do you do, Mam'zelle Rose? And the captain,--is he well?"
"Very well, thank you. He is drawing some wine just now."
_Bourgeois_ pass in the road, and salute Mam'zelle Rose with respect.
"How do you do, Mam'zelle Rose? And the captain?"
"Always vigorous, thank you; you are very good."
The priest passes in the road, with a slow step, wagging his head. At
the sight of Rose, he bows, smiles, closes his breviary, and stops.
"Ah! it is you, my dear child? And the captain?"
"Thank you, Father, things are going very nicely. The captain is busy
in the cellar."
"So much the better, so much the better! I hope that he has planted
some beautiful flowers, and that next year, on Corpus Christi day, we
shall have again a superb street altar."
"You may be sure of it, Father."
"All my friendships to the captain, my child."
"And the same to you, Father."
And, as he goes away, his breviary again open:
"_Au revoir! au revoir!_ All that a parish needs is parishioners like
you."
And I go back, a little sad, a little discouraged, a little hateful,
leaving this abominable Rose to enjoy her triumph, saluted by all,
respected by all, fat, happy, hideously happy. Soon, I am sure, the
priest will place her in a niche in his church, between two candles,
with a nimbus of gold about her, like a saint.