MAITRE MAGLOIRE
In this reckless state of mind Thibault, who had not as yet decided on
any special course of action, spent the last days of the old year and
the first of the new. Still, remembering the heavy expenses entailed on
each and all by New Year’s Day, he had exacted double rations from his
usual purveyor’s, as the trying time drew nearer and nearer,
simultaneously, drawing double profits from the landlord of the
_Boule-d’Or_.
Thus it came about that, apart from the disquieting fact that his mesh
of red hair was getting larger and larger almost every day, Thibault
entered upon the New Year in a better condition as to material matters
than he had ever known before. Observe, I say, as to _material_ matters,
and material matters only; for albeit the body might seem in good
plight, the soul was already alarmingly compromised. The body, at any
rate was well clothed, and ten crowns or more made a merry jingling in
his waistcoat pocket; and so dressed, and so accompanied by this silvery
music, Thibault no longer appeared like a wooden shoe-maker’s
apprentice, but like some well-to-do farmer, or even a comfortable
citizen, carrying on a trade maybe, but simply for his own pleasure.
Looking such as he now did, Thibault went to one of those village
functions, which are fête-days for the whole province. The magnificent
ponds of Berval and Poudron were to be drawn. Now the drawing of a pond
is a grand affair for the owner, or for the one who farms it, not to
mention the great pleasure it affords to the spectators. Such an event
therefore is advertised a month in advance, and people come from thirty
miles round to enjoy this fine entertainment. And to those of my readers
who are not accustomed to the manners and customs of the provinces, let
me explain that the fishing which takes place is not a fishing with the
line, baited with worms, or scented wheat, or with the cast-net, or the
sweep-net, nothing of the kind; this fishing consists in emptying a
pond, sometimes nearly a mile, or even three miles long, of every fish
from the largest pike to the smallest minnow. This is how the thing is
managed. In all probability, not a single one of my readers has ever
seen the kind of pond to which I refer. I will describe it; to begin
with, it always has two issues, that by which the water flows in, that
by which the water flows out; that by which the water enters has no
particular name, that by which it is let out is called the sluice. The
water as it leaves the sluice falls into a large reservoir whence it
escapes through the meshes of a strong net; the water flows away, but
the fish remain. Everyone knows that it takes several days to empty a
pond, therefore those who wish to take a share in the fishing, and the
onlookers, are not summoned to attend before the second, third, or
fourth day, according to the volume of water which the pond has to
disgorge before it is ready for the final act, and this takes place as
soon as the fish appear at the sluice.
At the hour announced for the fishing, a crowd assembles, varying in
number according to the size and the celebrity of the pond, but
comparatively as large and as fashionable as that to be seen at the
Champ de Mars or Chantilly on race days when favourite horses are to run
and favourite jockeys to ride. Only here the spectators do not look on
from grand stands and carriages; on the contrary, they come as they can,
or as they like, in gigs, pleasure vans, phaëtons, carts, on horse-back,
on donkey-back, but once on the spot everyone rushes to find a place,
stationing him or herself either in order of arrival, or according to
the amount of elbowing and pushing of which each is capable, always,
however, with that due respect for authority which is observed even in
the least civilised districts. A sort of stout trellis-work, however,
firmly sunk into the ground, prevents the onlookers from falling into
the reservoir.
The colour and the smell of the water betoken the arrival of the fish.
Every kind of show has its drawbacks: the larger and grander the
audience at the opera house, the more carbonic acid is there to draw
into the lungs; at the drawing of a pond, the nearer the supreme moment
approaches, the more marsh-gas is there to inhale.
When the sluice is first opened, the water that pours through is
beautifully clear, and slightly green in colour, like the water of a
brook; this is the upper layer, which, carried along by its weight, is
the first to appear. By degrees the water becomes less transparent, and
takes on a greyish hue; this is the second layer, emptying itself in
turn, and every now and then, more frequently as the water becomes
muddier, a ray of silver is seen to dart through it; it is some fish,
too small and weak to resist the current, which flashes past as if
acting as scout for its stronger brethren. Nobody troubles to pick it
up; it is allowed to lie gasping, and trying to find some little
stagnant puddle of water at the bottom of the pond, flapping,
floundering and capering like an acrobat going through his antics.
Then the black water comes pouring through; this is the last act, the
final catastrophe.
Each fish, according to its power of resistance, struggles against the
current which is bearing it along in this unusual manner. Instinctively
they feel there is danger, and each strives its hardest to swim in an
opposite direction; the pike struggles beside the carp which it was
yesterday pursuing so hard; the perch is reconciled to the tench, and as
they swim side by side, does not so much as think of taking a bite out
of the flesh he finds so palatable at other times. So the Arabs at times
find huddled together in the pits they dig to catch game, gazelles and
jackals, antelopes and hyenas, the jackals and hyenas having grown as
gentle and as timid as the gazelles and antelopes.
But the strength of the struggling and dying fish begins at last to
fail. The scouts that we noticed a few minutes ago become more numerous;
the size of the fish becomes more respectable, which is proved to them
by the attention they receive from the pickers-up. These pickers-up are
men, clad in plain linen trousers and cotton shirts; the trousers are
rolled up to above the knee, and the shirt sleeves turned up to the
shoulders. The fish are gathered up in baskets; those destined to be
sold alive, or kept for re-stocking the pond, are poured off into tanks;
those condemned to death are simply spread out on the grass, and will be
sold before the day is out. As the fish grow more and more abundant the
cries of delight from the spectators become louder and more frequent;
for these onlookers are not like the audiences in our theatres; they
have no idea of stifling their feelings, or showing good taste by
appearing indifferent. No, they come to amuse themselves, and every fine
tench, or fine carp, or fine pike, calls forth loud, undisguised and
delighted applause. As in a well-ordered review, the troops file past in
order, according to their weight, if we may use the expression, first
the light sharp-shooters, then the somewhat heavier dragoons, and
finally the ponderous cuirassiers and heavy artillery to bring up the
rear, so the fish sweep by according to their several species; the
smallest, that is the weakest, first, the heaviest, that is the
strongest, last.
At last the moment comes when the water ceases to flow; the passage is
literally obstructed by the remainder of the fish, the big-wigs of the
pond, and the pickers-up have veritable monsters to fight with. This is
the supreme moment. Now comes the climax of applause, the last
vociferous bravos. Then, the play being over, everyone goes to examine
the actors; the latter are mostly lying gasping to death on the grass of
the field, while a certain number are recovering themselves in the
water. You look about for the eels; where are the eels you ask? Then
three or four eels, about as big round as your thumb and half the length
of your arm, are pointed out to you; for the eels, thanks to their
peculiar organization, have momentarily at least, escaped the general
carnage. The eels have taken a header into the mud and disappeared; and
this is the reason why you may see men with guns walking up and down at
the edge of the pond, and hear a report from time to time. If you ask
the reason for this shooting, you will be told that it is to bring the
eels out of their hiding-places. But why do eels come out of the mud
when they hear the report of a gun? Why do they make for the water which
still runs in little rivulets at the bottom of the pond? Why, in short,
being safe at the bottom of the mud, like other good friends of our
acquaintance who have the good sense to remain there, do the eels not
stay there, instead of wriggling back into a stream of water, which
carries them along with it, and finally lands them in the reservoir,
that is in the common grave? The _Collège de France_ would find nothing
easier than to answer this question, under existing circumstances; so I
put this question to its learned members: Is not the idea of the gun a
pure superstition, and is not the following solution the right and
simple one? The mud in which the eel takes refuge is at first liquid,
but gradually becomes drier and drier, like a sponge when squeezed, and
so becomes more and more uninhabitable for it, and so, in the long run,
it is obliged to get back to its natural element--the water. The water
once reached, the eel is lost; but it is not till the fifth or sixth day
after the emptying of the pond, that the eels are caught.
It was to a fête of this kind that everyone at Villers-Cotterets, at
Crespy, at Mont-Gobert, and in the surrounding villages had been
invited. Thibault went like everybody else; he had now no need to work,
finding it simpler to allow the wolves to work for him. From a workman
he had risen to be a man at ease, it now only remained to make himself a
gentleman, and Thibault counted upon being able to do this. He was not a
man to allow himself to remain in the rear, and he therefore made good
use of his arms and legs so as to secure a place in the front row. In
the course of this manœuvre he happened to rumple the dress of a
tall, fine woman, next to whom he was trying to instal himself. The lady
was fond of her clothes, and no doubt, also, she was in the habit of
commanding, which naturally produces an attitude of disdain, for,
turning to see who had brushed past her, she let fall the uncompromising
word, “lout!” Notwithstanding the rudeness of the remark, the mouth that
uttered the words was so beautiful, the lady so pretty, and her
momentary anger in such ugly contrast to the charming expression of her
face, that Thibault, instead of retorting in similar, or even more
objectionable style, only drew back, stammering some sort of excuse.
There is no need to remind the reader that of all aristocracies, beauty
is still the chief. If the woman had been old and ugly, she might have
been a Marquise, but Thibault would certainly have called her by some
opprobrious title. It is possible also that Thibault’s ideas were
somewhat distracted by the strange appearance of the man who served as
knight to this lady, He was a stout man of about sixty years of age,
dressed entirely in black, and of a perfectly dazzling exactness of
toilet; but therewith, so extremely short, that his head scarcely
reached the lady’s elbow, and as she would have been unable to take his
arm, without positive torture to herself, she was content to lean
majestically upon his shoulder. Seeing them thus together, one might
have taken her for an ancient Cybele leaning on one of those grotesque
little modern figures of Chinese idols. And what a fascinating idol it
was with those short legs, that bulgy stomach, those little fat podgy
arms, those white hands under the lace ruffles, that plump, rubicund
head and face, that well-combed, well-powdered, well-curled head of
hair, and that tiny pigtail, which with every movement of its wearer’s,
went bobbing up and down with its neat bow of ribbon against the coat
collar. It reminded one of those black beetles of which the legs seem so
little in harmony with the body, that the insects seem rather to roll
than to walk. And with it all, the face was so jovial, the little eyes
level with the forehead, were so full of kindness, that one felt
involuntarily drawn towards him; one could be sure that the pleasant
little man was too intent on giving himself a good time, by every means
in his power, to think of quarrelling with that vague and indefinite
person known as one’s neighbour. Wherefore, on hearing his companion
speak so cavalierly to Thibault, the good fat little man appeared to be
in despair.
“Gently, Madame Magloire! gently, Madame Bailiff!” he said, contriving
in these few words to let his neighbours know what and who he was;
“gently! those were ugly words to use to the poor fellow, who is more
sorry than you are for the accident.”
“And may I ask, Monsieur Magloire,” replied the lady, “if I am not at
liberty to thank him for so nicely crumpling my beautiful blue damask
dress, which is now entirely spoilt, not taking into consideration that
he also trod on my little toe?”
“I beg you, Madame, to pardon my clumsiness,” replied Thibault; “when
you turned your face towards me, its wonderful beauty dazzled me like a
ray of May sunshine, so that I could not see where I was treading.”
It was not a badly turned compliment for a man who for three months past
had been in the daily society of a pack of wolves; nevertheless it did
not produce any great effect upon the lady, who only responded with a
haughty little pouting of the mouth. The truth was, that in spite of
Thibault being so decently dressed, she had, with the curious insight
which women of all ranks possess in these matters, detected at once to
what class he belonged.
Her stout little companion however, was more indulgent, for he clapped
loudly with his podgy hands, which the pose adopted by his wife left him
free to use as he liked.
“Ah! bravo, bravo!” he said, “you have hit the mark, Monsieur; you are a
clever young fellow, and seem to have studied the style to address women
in. My love, I hope you appreciated the compliment as I did, and to
prove to this gentlemen that we are good Christians and bear no ill-will
towards him, he will, I hope, if he is living in this neighbourhood and
it would not be too far out of his way, accompany us home, and we will
drink a bottle of old wine together, if Perrine will get one out for us
from the back of the wood shed.”
“Ah! there I know you, Master Népomucène; any excuse serves you to be
clinking glasses with somebody, and when no genuine occasion offers, you
are very clever at ferreting out one, it does not matter where. But you
know, Monsieur Magloire, that the doctor has expressly forbidden you to
drink between meals.”
“True, Madame Bailiff, true,” replied her husband, “but he did not
forbid me to show politeness to an agreeable young fellow such as
Monsieur appears to me to be. Be lenient, I pray, Suzanne; give up this
surly manner, which suits you so ill. Why, Madame, those who do not know
you, would think, to hear you, that we had nearly got to quarrelling
over a gown. However, to prove the contrary to Monsieur, I promise that
if you can get him to go back with us, I will, the very minute we get
home, give you the money to buy that figured silk dress, which you have
been wishing for so long.”
The effect of this promise was like magic. Madame Magloire was instantly
mollified, and as the fishing was now drawing to a close, she accepted
with less ungraciousness the arm which Thibault, somewhat awkwardly we
must confess, now offered her.
As to Thibault himself, struck with the beauty of the lady, and
gathering from words which had fallen from her and her husband, that she
was the wife of a magistrate, he parted the crowd before him with an air
of command, holding his head high the while, and making his way with as
much determination as if he were starting on the conquest of the Golden
Fleece.
And in truth, Thibault, the bridegroom elect of Agnelette, the lover who
had been so ignominiously expelled her house by the mistress of the
mill, was thinking not only of all the pleasure he could enjoy, but of
the proud position he would hold as the beloved of a bailiff’s wife, and
of all the advantages to be drawn from the good fortune which had so
unexpectedly befallen him, and which he had so long desired.
As on her side also, Madame Magloire was not only very much preoccupied
with her own thoughts, but also paid very little attention to him,
looking to right and left, first in front of her and then behind, as if
in search of some one, the conversation would have lagged terribly as
they walked along if their excellent little companion had not been at
the expense of the best part of it, as he jogged along now beside
Thibault and now beside Suzanne, waddling like a duck jogging home after
a big feed.
And so with Thibault engaged in his calculations, and the Bailiff’s wife
with her dreams, the Bailiff trotting beside them talking and wiping his
forehead with a fine cambric pocket-handkerchief, they arrived at the
village of Erneville, which is situated about a mile and a half from the
Poudron ponds. It was here, in this charming village, which lies
half-way between Haramont and Bonneuil, within a stone’s throw or two of
the Castle of Vez, the dwelling of my lord the Baron, that Monsieur
Magloire sat as magistrate.