The fat Justice of the Peace, with one eye closed and the other
half-open, is listening with evident displeasure to the plaintiffs. Once
in a while he gives a sort of grunt that foretells his opinion, and in a
thin voice resembling that of a child, he interrupts them to ask
questions. He has just rendered judgment in the case of Monsieur Joly
against Monsieur Petitpas, the contestants having come to court on account
of the boundary line of a field which had been accidentally displaced
by Monsieur Petitpas's farmhand, while the latter was plowing.
Now he calls the case of Hippolyte Lacour, vestryman and ironmonger,
against Madame Céleste Cesarine Luneau, widow of Anthime Isidore Luneau.
Hippolyte Lacour is forty-five years old; he is tall and gaunt, with a
clean-shaven face like a priest, long hair, and he speaks in a slow,
singsong voice.
Madame Luneau appears to be about forty years of age. She is built like
a prize-fighter, and her narrow and clinging dress is stretched tightly
over her portly form. Her enormous hips hold up her overflowing bosom in
front, while in the back they support the great rolls of flesh that cover
her shoulders. Her face, with strongly-cut features, rests on a short, fat
neck, and her strong voice is pitched at a key that makes the windows and
the eardrums of her auditors vibrate. She is about to become a mother and
her huge form protrudes like a mountain.
The witnesses for the defense are waiting to be called.
The judge begins: Hippolyte Lacour, state your complaint.
The plaintiff speaks: Your Honour, it will be nine months on
Saint-Michael's day since the defendant came to me one evening, after I
had rung the Angelus, and began an explanation relating to her
barrenness.
The Justice of the Peace: Kindly be more explicit.
Hippolyte: Very well, your Honour. Well, she wanted to have a child
and desired my participation. I didn't raise any objection, and she
promised to give me one hundred francs. The thing was all cut and dried,
and now she refuses to acknowledge my claim, which I renew before your
Honour.
The Justice: I don't understand in the least. You say that she wanted
a child! What kind of child? Did she wish to adopt one?
Hippolyte: No, your Honour, she wanted a new one.
The Justice: What do you mean by a new one?
Hippolyte: I mean a newborn child, one that we were to beget as if we
were man and wife.
The Justice: You astonish me. To what end did she make this abnormal
proposition?
Hippolyte: Your Honour, at first I could not make out her reasons, and
was taken a little aback. But as I don't do anything without thoroughly
investigating beforehand, I called on her to explain matters to me, which
she did. You see, her husband, Anthime Isidore, whom you knew as well as
you know me, had died the week before, and his money reverted to his
family. This greatly displeased her on account of the loss it meant, so
she went to a lawyer who told her all about what might happen if a child
should be born to her after ten months. I mean by this that if she gave
birth to a child inside of the ten months following the death of Anthime
Isidore, her offspring would be considered legitimate and would entitle
her to the inheritance. She made up her mind at once to run the risk, and
came to me after church, as I have already had the honour of telling you,
seeing that I am the father of eight living children, the oldest of whom
is a grocer in Caen, department of Calvados, and legitimately married to
Victoire-Elisabeth Rabou--
The Justice: These details are superfluous. Go back to the subject.
Hippolyte: I am getting there, your Honour. So she said to me: "If you
succeed, I'll give you one hundred francs as soon as I get the doctor's
report." Well, your Honour, I made ready to give entire satisfaction, and
after eight weeks or so I learned with pleasure that I had succeeded. But
when I asked her for the hundred francs she refused to pay me. I renewed
my demands several times, never getting so much as a pin. She even called
me a liar and a weakling, a libel which can be destroyed by glancing at
her.
The Justice: Defendant, what have you to say?
Madame Luneau: Your Honour, I say that this man is a liar.
The Justice: How can you prove this assertion?
Madame Luneau (red in the face, choking and stammering): How can I
prove it? What proofs have I? I haven't a single real proof that the child
isn't his. But, your Honour, it isn't his, I swear it on the head of my
dead husband.
The Justice: Well, whose is it, then?
Madame Luneau (stammering with rage): How do I know? How do--do I know?
Everybody's I suppose. Here are my witnesses, your Honour, they're all
here, the six of them. Now make them testify, make them testify. They'll
tell--
The Justice: Collect yourself, Madame Luneau, collect yourself and
reply calmly to my questions. What reasons have you to doubt that this man
is the father of the child you are carrying?
Madame Luneau: What reasons? I have a hundred to one, a hundred? No,
two hundred, five hundred, ten thousand, a million and more reasons to
believe he isn't. After the proposal I made to him, with the promise of
one hundred francs, didn't I learn that he wasn't the father of his own
children, your Honour, not the father of one of 'em?
Hippolyte (calmly): That's a lie.
Madame Luneau (exasperated): A lie! A lie, is it? I think his wife has
been around with everybody around here. Call my witnesses, your Honour,
and make them testify?
Hippolyte (calmly): It's a lie.
Madame Luneau: It's a lie, is it? How about the red-haired ones, then?
I suppose they're yours, too?
The Justice: Kindly refrain from personal attacks, or I shall be
obliged to call you to order.
Madame Luneau: Well, your Honour, I had my doubts about him, and said
I to myself, two precautions are better than one, so I explained my
position to Césaire Lepic, the witness who is present. Says he to me,
"At your disposal, Madame Luneau," and he lent me his assistance in case
Hippolyte should turn out to be unreliable. But as soon as the other
witnesses heard that I wanted to make sure against any disappointment, I
could have had more than a hundred, your Honour, if I had wanted them.
That tall one over there, Lucas Chandelier, swore at the time that I
oughn't to give Hippolyte Lacour a cent, for he hadn't done more than the
rest of them who had obliged me for nothing.
Hippolyte: What did you promise for? I expected the money, your Honour.
No mistake with me,--a promise given, a promise kept.
Madame Luneau (beside herself): One hundred francs! One hundred francs!
One hundred francs for that, you liar! The others there didn't ask a red
cent! Look at 'em, all six of 'em! Make them testify, your Honour, they'll
tell you. (To Hippolyte.) Look at 'em, you liar! they're as good as you.
They're only six, but I could have had one, two, three, five hundred of
'em for nothing, too, you robber!