As for the Abbé Radiguet, he was one of those simple-minded priests whom
the bishop, in his desire to be rid of him, buries in some out of the
way hole. He lived the life of an honest man, once more turned peasant,
hoeing his little garden redeemed from the rock, smoking his pipe and
watching his salads grow. His sole fault was a gluttony which he knew
not how to refine, reduced to adoring mackerel and to drinking, at
times, more cider than he could contain. In other respects, the father
of his parishioners, who came at long intervals to hear a mass to please
him.
But the curé and the _garde champêtre_ were obliged to take sides after
having succeeded for a long time in remaining neutral. Now, the Emperor
held for the Mahés, while the Abbé Radiguet supported the Floches.
Hence complications. As the Emperor, from morning to night, lived like
a bourgeois [citizen], and as he wearied of counting the boats which put
out from Grandport, he took it upon himself to act as village police.
Having become the partizan of the Mahés, through native instinct for the
preservation of society, he sided with Fouasse against Tupain; he tried
to catch the wife of Rouget in _flagrante delicto_ with Brisemotte, and
above all he closed his eyes when he saw Delphin slipping into Margot’s
courtyard. The worst of it was that these tactics brought about heated
quarrels between the Emperor and his natural superior, the mayor La
Queue. Respectful of discipline, the former heard the reproaches of the
latter, then recommenced to act as his head dictated; which disorganized
the public authority of Coqueville. One could not pass before the shed
ornamented with the name of the town hall without being deafened by the
noise of some dispute. On the other hand, the Abbé Radiguet rallied to
the triumphant Floches, who loaded him with superb mackerel, secretly
encouraged the resistance of Rouget’s wife and threatened Margot with
the flames of hell if she should ever allow Delphin to touch her with
his finger. It was, to sum up, complete anarchy; the army in revolt
against the civil power, religion making itself complaisant toward
the pleasures of the bourgeoisie; a whole people, a hundred and eighty
inhabitants, devouring each other in a hole, in face of the vast sea,
and of the infinite sky.
Alone, in the midst of topsy-turvy Coqueville, Delphin preserved the
laughter of a love-sick boy, who scorned the rest, provided Margot
was for him. He followed her zigzags as one follows hares. Very wise,
despite his simple look, he wanted the curé to marry them, so that his
bliss might last forever.
One evening, in a byway where he was watching for her, Margot at last
raised her hand. But she stopped, all red; for without waiting for
the slap, he had seized the hand that threatened him and kissed it
furiously. As she trembled, he said to her in a low voice: “I love you.
Won’t you have me?”
“Never!” she cried, in rebellion.
He shrugged his shoulders, then with an air, calm and tender, “Pray do
not say that--we shall be very comfortable together, we two. You will
see how nice it is.”