CHAPTER VII.

Once more had the hay-making time come round, with a blue scorching

sky, cooled by occasional breezes. The marriage had been fixed for

Midsummer-Day, which fell that year on a Saturday.

The Fouans had enjoined upon Buteau to begin the invitations with La

Grande, who was the oldest of the family. Like a rich and dreaded

queen, she required to be treated with respect. Accordingly, one

evening, Buteau and Lise, rigged out in their Sunday clothes, went to

beg her to attend the wedding ceremony, and afterwards the dinner,

which was to take place at the bride's house.

When they arrived, La Grande was knitting in the kitchen by herself;

and, without checking the play of her needles, she gazed at them

fixedly, and let them explain their errand, and repeat the same phrases

twice over. At last, in her shrill voice:

"The wedding? Nay, nay, certainly not!" said she. "What should I

find to do at a wedding? Such things are only for those who amuse

themselves."

They had seen her parchment face light up at the thought of the

junketing that would cost her nothing, and they were convinced that she

would accept. But it was always customary to press her a great deal.

"Oh, but, aunt! Really it couldn't go off without you," they said.

"No, no! It's not for folk like me. How am I to find the time, and get

the clothes I should want. It's always an expense. People can get on

very well without going to weddings."

They had to repeat the invitation a dozen times before she eventually

said, sulkily:

"All right; since I can't get out of it, I'll go. But I wouldn't put

myself out for anybody but you."

Then, seeing that they did not leave, she battled with herself;

for, in such a case as the present one, a glass of wine was usually

offered. Making up her mind, she at last went down into the cellar,

although there was already an open bottle upstairs. However, the fact

was she kept for these occasions a remnant of wine which had turned,

and which she could not drink, it was so sour. She called it "the

gnat destroyer." Having filled two glasses, she fixed her nephew and

niece with so full an eye that they were obliged to drain them without

blenching, for fear of giving offence. They left her with their throats

burning.

The same evening, Buteau and Lise repaired to Roseblanche, where

Monsieur Charles lived, arriving there in the midst of a tragic

occurrence.

Monsieur Charles was in his garden, in a state of great agitation. No

doubt some violent emotion had come upon him just as he was trimming a

climbing rose-tree, for he had his pruning scissors in his hand, and

the ladder was still resting against the wall. Controlling himself,

however, he showed them into the drawing-room, where Elodie was

embroidering with her modest air.

"So you're marrying each other in a week's time. That's quite right, my

children," he said. "But we can't be of your party, for Madame Charles

is at Chartres, and won't be back for a fortnight."

So saying, he raised his heavy eyelids to glance at the young girl, and

then resumed:

"At busy times, during the large fairs, Madame Charles goes over there

to lend her daughter a helping hand. Business has its exigencies, you

know, and there are days when they are overwhelmed with work at the

shop. True, Estelle has taken over the management; but her mother is

of great use to her, the more so as our son-in-law Vaucogne certainly

doesn't do much. And besides, Madame Charles is glad to see the house

again. No wonder! We've left thirty years of our lives there, and that

counts for something!"

He was growing sentimental, and his eyes moistened as he vaguely gazed,

as it were, into that past of theirs. It was true. In her dainty,

snug retirement, full of flowers, birds, and sunshine, his wife was

often seized with home-sickness for the little house in the Rue aux

Juifs. Whenever she shut her eyes, a vision of old Chartres, sloping

down from the Place de la Cathédrale to the banks of the Eure, rose

up before her. She saw herself, on her arrival, threading the Rue de

la Pie, and the Rue Porte-Cendreuse; then, in the Rue des Ecuyers,

she took the shortest cut down the Tertre du Pied-Plat, where just

at the bottom--at the corner of the Rue aux Juifs and the Rue de la

Planche-aux-Carpes, Number 19 came into sight, with its white frontage

and its green shutters, which were always closed. The two streets which

it overlooked were wretched ones, and during thirty years she had

beheld their miserable hovels and squalid inhabitants, with the gutter

in the middle running with filthy water. But, then, how many weeks and

months she had spent at home there, in the darkened rooms, without even

crossing the threshold! She was still proud of the divans and mirrors

of the drawing-room, of the bedding and the mahogany of the sleeping

apartments, of all the chaste and comfortable luxury--their creation,

their handiwork, to which they owed their fortune. A melancholy

faintness came over her at the recollection of certain private corners,

the clinging perfume of the toilet-waters, the peculiar scent of

the whole house, which she had retained about her own person like

a lingering regret. Thus she looked forward to all the periods of

heavy work, and set out radiant and joyful, after receiving from her

grand-daughter two hearty kisses, which she promised to give mamma that

evening in the confectionery shop.

"How disappointing! How disappointing!" said Buteau, really vexed at

the idea of Monsieur and Madame Charles not coming to the wedding. "But

suppose our cousin wrote to aunt to come back?"

Elodie, who was in her fifteenth year, thin-haired, and so poor-blooded

that the fresh air of the country seemed to make her more anæmical

still, raised her puffy, chlorotic, virginal face:

"Oh, no!" she murmured, "grandmamma told me the sweetmeats would be

sure to keep her more than a fortnight. She is to bring me back a bag

of them, if I'm good."

This was a pious fraud. At each journey she was brought some

sweetmeats, which, she believed, had been manufactured at her parents'

place.

"Well!" proposed Lise at length, "come without her, uncle, and bring

the girl."

Monsieur Charles was not listening, however, having relapsed into an

agitated state. He was going to the window, seemingly on the look-out

for some one, and was swallowing a rising burst of anger. Unable to

contain himself any further, he dismissed the young girl with a word.

"Go away and play for a minute or two, my darling," he said.

Then, when she had left--being accustomed to be sent away while

grown-up people talked--he took his stand in the middle of the room and

folded his arms, while his full, yellow-tinted, respectable face--very

like that of a retired magistrate--quivered with indignation.

"Would you believe it? Such an abominable thing! I was trimming my

rose-tree, and I had got on to the highest rung of the ladder, and was

bending mechanically over the wall, when what do I see? Honorine, my

maid Honorine, with a man, at their dirty tricks! At the foot of my

wall, too, the swine, the swine!"

He was choking, and began to pace up and down, with noble maledictory

gestures.

"I'm waiting for her to pack her off, the disreputable hussy! We can't

keep one. They're always put into the family-way. Regularly, at the end

of six months, they become a perfect sight, and there's no having them

in a respectable family. And now this one, caught in the act! Ah! the

end of the world is come; there are no bounds to debauchery now-a-days!"

Buteau and Lise, who were astounded, joined, out of deference, in his

indignation.

"Certainly, it's not proper; not at all proper--oh, no!"

He set himself in front of them once more.

"And just fancy Elodie climbing up that ladder, and coming on a scene

like that! She, so innocent, who knows nothing at all, over whose very

thoughts we watch! On my honour, it makes one shiver! What a shock, if

Madame Charles were here!"

At that very moment, glancing out of the window, he perceived the

child, who had set her foot on the lowest rung of the ladder, out of

mere curiosity. He rushed forward and called out, in an agonised voice,

as if he had seen her on the brink of a precipice:

"Elodie! Elodie! Come down; go away for the love of Heaven!"

Then his legs gave way, and he sank into an arm-chair, continuing to

lament over the immorality of servants. Had he not come upon one in

the kitchen showing the child what the posteriors of fowls were like?

He had quite enough worry as it was to keep her clear of the grossness

of the peasantry, and the cynicism of animals; and he lost heart

altogether to find a constant hot-bed of immorality in his own house.

"There she is coming in," he said, sharply. "You shall see."

He rang the bell, and having by an effort recovered his calm dignity,

he received Honorine seated, and in solemn fashion.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "pack up your box and leave at once. You shall

be paid a week's wages in lieu of notice."

The servant, a skinny, insignificant chit of a thing, of humble and

shame-faced aspect, attempted to explain, stammering out excuses.

"It's no use. All I can do for you is not to hand you over to the

authorities for indecent behaviour."

Then she turned upon him.

"Oh, so it's because I omitted to pay the fee."

He rose from his seat, tall and upright, and dismissed her with a

majestic gesture, his finger pointing to the door. When she had gone he

relieved his feelings coarsely.

"The idea of a strumpet like that bringing dishonour on my house."

"Ah, sure, she's one; that she is!" repeated Lise and Buteau,

complaisantly.

The latter thereupon resumed:

"Then it's settled, isn't it, uncle? You'll come with the child?"

Monsieur Charles was still quivering. Feeling anxious, he had gone to

look at himself in the glass, and was returning satisfied.

"Where? Oh, to be sure, to your wedding. It's the right thing to do, my

children, to marry. Rely on me. I will be there; but I don't promise to

bring Elodie, because, you know, people are a little free at weddings.

I turned the baggage out pretty sharp, eh? I won't put up with women

annoying me. Good-bye, rely on my coming."

The Delhommes, whom Buteau and Lise next invited, also accepted,

after the usual refusal and insistence. Hyacinthe was the only one of

the family that remained to be invited. But, in sooth, he had become

unbearable, being on bad terms with everybody, and bringing all his

people into discredit by playing the lowest pranks. So it was decided

to put him on one side, though apprehensions were entertained that he

would revenge himself in some abominable manner.

Rognes was on the tip-toe of expectation. This marriage, so long

deferred, was quite an event. Hourdequin, the mayor, took the trouble

to officiate in person at the civil ceremony; but when asked to attend

the evening repast, he excused himself, as he was obliged to pass that

very night at Chartres on account of a law-suit. Still, he promised

that Madame Jacqueline should come, as they had the politeness to

invite her also. For a moment, moreover, they had thought of inviting

the Abbé Godard, by way of having some superior kind of person with

them; but, as soon as the wedding was even mentioned, the priest lost

his temper, because it was fixed for Midsummer-Day. He had to officiate

that day at high mass, established by foundation, at Bazoches-le-Doyen,

so how could he be expected to come to Rognes in the morning? However,

the women--Lise, Rose, and Fanny--became obstinate, and he finished by

giving way. He came at mid-day in such a passion that he flung their

mass at their heads, as it were, and left them smarting under a deep

sense of injury.

After discussion, it had been resolved that the wedding should

take place quietly among the family, on account of the bride's

position--with a child now nearly three years old. They had been,

however, to the Cloyes pastry-cook to order a pie and some dessert,

on which they determined to spare no expense, so as to show people

that they could make the money fly on proper occasions. As at the

marriage of the eldest daughter of the Bordiers--some rich farmers at

Mailleville--they were to have a regular wedding-cake, two ice creams,

four sweet dishes, and some little tarts. At home, some meat soup would

be provided, together with chitterlings, four stewed chickens, four

rabbits, also stewed, and some roast beef and veal. And all this for

fifteen or twenty people--they did not know the exact number. If there

were any food left after the repast, they would finish it up on the

morrow.

The sky, which had been a little dull in the morning, had cleared, and

the day was drawing to its close, amid cheerful warmth and glow. The

covers had been set in the middle of the spacious kitchen, right in

front of the fireplace and the oven, where meats were roasting, and

pots boiling over large fires. This made the room so hot that the two

windows and the door were left wide open, and the sweet, penetrating

scent of new-mown hay came in.

Since the day before, the Mouche girls had had the assistance of Rose

and Fanny. There was a sensation when the pastry-cook's cart made its

appearance at three o'clock, bringing all the women in the village to

their doors. The dessert was at once laid out on the table to see how

it looked. Just then La Grande arrived, before the time. She sat down,

clasped her stick between her knees, and never once took her hard eyes

off the food. She questioned whether it wasn't sinful to go to such

an expense. She herself, however, had eaten nothing all the morning, so

that she might be able to do full justice to the feast.

The men--Buteau, Jean who had been the former's "best-man," old Fouan,

Delhomme and his son Nénesse--all in frock-coats, black trousers,

and tall silk hats, that nothing would induce them to part with,

were playing at pitch and toss in the yard. Monsieur Charles came by

himself, having on the day before conducted Elodie to her boarding

school at Châteaudun; and, without joining in the game, he took an

interest in it and made some judicious suggestions.

At six o'clock, when all was ready, Jacqueline had to be waited for.

The women now let down their skirts, which they had pinned up, so that

the stove might not soil them. Lise was in blue, Françoise in pink;

hard-coloured, old-fashioned silks which Lambourdieu had sold to them

at double their value, passing them off as the latest Parisian novelty.

Old Madame Fouan had looked out the violet poplin which she had paraded

for forty years at all the country weddings, and Fanny, dressed in

green, wore all her jewels; her watch and chain, a brooch, rings in her

ears and on her fingers. Every minute one of the women would go out on

to the road and run as far as the church corner to see whether the lady

from the farm was not in sight. The sauces were burning, and the soup,

which had unfortunately been served, was getting cold in the plates. At

length there was a shout:

"There she is! There she is!"

The gig appeared, and Jacqueline leapt lightly out. She looked

charming, having had the good taste to set off her attractions by a

simple white cretonne dress with red spots. There were no jewels about

her bare skin, save some little brilliants in her ears: a present from

Hourdequin, which had set the neighbouring farms in a ferment. They

were surprised that she did not dismiss the farm-hand who had brought

her, when they had helped him to stable the vehicle. He was a kind of

giant, named Tron, with white skin, red hair, and a child-like look.

He came from Le Perche, and had been at La Borderie for a fortnight as

yard-helper.

"Tron remains, you know," said she gaily. "He'll see me home."

In La Beauce, people are not partial to the Percherons, whom they

accuse of being false and sly. Glances were exchanged. This, then, was

La Cognette's last fancy, this big brute! However, Buteau, who had been

very agreeable and jocular since the morning, replied:

"Certainly he can stop! It's enough that he comes with you."

Lise having given the word to begin, they sat down to table, with a

deal of bustle and noisy talk. There were three chairs short, so they

ran and fetched two stools, with their straw seats worn through, and

laid a plank across them. Spoons were already briskly rattling against

the plates. The soup was cold, and covered with congealed bubbles of

fat. They didn't mind that, however. Old Fouan made the remark that it

would get warm in their bellies, an idea which provoked tempestuous

laughter. From that moment the scene was one of gluttonous massacre:

the chickens, rabbits, meats appeared and vanished in succession,

amid a gruesome sound of munching. Although very temperate at their

own homes, they stuffed till they almost burst when visiting. La

Grande did not speak, in order to eat the more, and she kept at it

with never-resting jaws; it was indeed frightful to see how much her

lean, shrivelled, octogenarian stomach could engulf, without so much

as swelling. It had been settled that, for the look of the thing,

Françoise and Fanny should see to the guests, so that the bride might

not have to get up; but she could not keep still; she left her chair

every instant, tucking up her sleeves, and giving her best attention

to the pouring out of a sauce, or the dishing of a joint. In a short

time, however, the whole table took a share in the waiting, and some

one was always on his legs, cutting bread or trying to get hold of a

dish. Buteau, who had taken charge of the wine, no longer sufficed as

butler, though to save himself the trouble of corking and uncorking

bottles he had simply put a cask on tap. However he could not get any

time to eat, and at last Jean had to relieve him and replenish the

pitchers. Delhomme, seated at his ease, declared in his sagacious way

that there must be plenty of liquor if one didn't want to be stifled.

When the pie, which was as broad as a cart wheel, was served there

was a thrill, the force-meat balls making a deep impression. Monsieur

Charles carried his politeness so far as to swear upon his honour that

he had never seen a finer one at Chartres. At this point, old Fouan, in

high feather, sparkled once more.

"I say," he remarked, "if a fellow had any chaps on his buttocks, he

could cure them by sticking that on behind."

On hearing this the table went into fits, especially Jacqueline, who

laughed till she cried. She stuttered out some emendatory remarks,

which were lost amid her laughter.

The bridal pair faced each other, Buteau being between his mother and

La Grande, and Lise between old Fouan and Monsieur Charles. The other

guests were disposed according to their own fancy; Jacqueline beside

Tron, who watched her with his soft, stupid eyes: Jean near Françoise,

and only separated from her by little Jules, upon whom both of them

had engaged to keep an eye. However, on the appearance of the pie, the

child displayed such strong symptoms of indigestion that the bride

had to go and put him to bed. Then Jean and Françoise were brought

side by side. She was very lively, deeply flushed by the heat of the

large fire on the hearth, and over-excited, albeit tired to death. He

was attentive, and wished to get up and help her; but she broke away,

having moreover to hold her own against Buteau, who, being much given

to teasing when in a pleasant mood, had made a set at her from the

beginning of the feast. He pinched her whenever she went by, whereupon

she retorted with a furious slap; and then she would get up again on

some pretext or other, as if fascinated and anxious to be pinched again

and to slap him in return. She complained that her hips were black and

blue.

"Stop where you are, then!" repeated Jean.

"Oh, no!" cried she, "he mustn't think he's my master too, simply

because he's married Lise."

They had lighted six tallow candles as soon as it was dark, and the

meal had been in progress for three hours, when at length, towards ten

o'clock, an onslaught was made on the dessert. From that point, coffee

was drunk; not one or two cups, but large bowlfuls of it, without

stopping. The fun grew more pointed. Coffee gave one vigour, it was

said, and was excellent for the men who took too much sleep. Every

time a married guest swallowed a spoonful the others split their sides

laughing.

"You've very good cause to take some," said Fanny to Delhomme. She

was very merry, that evening, the feast having drawn her out of her

habitual reserve.

Her husband reddened, and to excuse himself roundly declared that it

was due to over-work; whereupon their son Nénesse laughed from ear to

ear, amid the burst of shouts and the thigh-slapping provoked by this

conjugal revelation. However, the lad had eaten so much that he seemed

to be bursting. Soon he vanished, and he was not seen again till the

party broke up, when he was found slumbering in company with the two

cows.

La Grande was the one who held out the longest. At midnight she was

hard at work on the tartlets, in mute despair at being unable to

finish them. The bowls of cream had been cleaned out, the crumbs of the

cake swept up; with the freedom of increasing tipsiness, with bodices

unhooked and trouser buttons undone, they split up into little knots,

and chatted round the table, which was greasy with sauce, and stained

with spilt wine. Songs had been started, but had come to nothing;

except that old Rose, with a maudlin expression of countenance, went

on humming some past century ribaldry, a reminiscence of her young

days, to which she kept time by nodding her head. They were also too

few to dance. Besides the men preferred to tipple brandy and smoke

their pipes, the ashes of which they shook out over the table-cloth.

In a corner, Fanny and Delhomme, with Jean and Tron before them,

were reckoning up, within a halfpenny, the pecuniary position and

expectations of the bride and bridegroom. This went on interminably.

Every square inch was appraised. They knew every fortune in Rognes,

even to the value of the linen possessed by each household. At the

other end of the table, Jacqueline had buttonholed Monsieur Charles,

whom she was contemplating with a winning smile, her pretty, wicked

eyes aflame with curiosity. She questioned him.

"So Chartres is a queer place, eh? There's a gay life to be led there?"

He answered her by praising the town circuit: a line of promenades

planted with old trees, which encompass Chartres with shade. In the

lower part especially, along the banks of the Eure, the boulevards were

very cool in summer. Then there was the cathedral. He expatiated on this

edifice, being a well-informed man with great respect for religion.

Yes, it was one of the finest buildings; but it had become too vast for

the present times of weak Christianity, and was almost always empty,

in the midst of its deserted square, which the devout alone crossed

on week-days. He had realised the desolation of the place one Sunday

when he had gone in casually while the vesper service was taking place.

You shivered with the cold inside, and you could hardly see on account

of the stained glass; so that all he could eventually descry were two

little girls' schools, lost in the space like a handful of ants, and

singing under the vaulted roof in shrill, fife-like voices. It was

truly heartrending that the churches should be thus abandoned for the

drinking-shops.

Jacqueline, who was astonished to hear him say all this, continued

to stare at him steadily, with the same smile. At last to attain her

object, she had to murmur:

"But tell me now, the Chartres women----"

He understood, and grew very grave, but he unbosomed himself, under

the expansive influence of the general intoxication. She, flushed and

tittering, rubbed up against him as if to penetrate that mystery of a

rush of men, night after night. But it was not what she imagined. He

told her about the hard work of it, for, in his cups, he was wont to

be melancholy and paternal. Then he grew more animated, when she told

him that she had amused herself one day by taking a look at the front

of the Châteaudun night-house, at the corner of the Rue Dairgnon and

the Rue Loiseau: a little dilapidated house it was, with its shutters

closed and rotting. Behind, in a neglected garden, there was a large

silvered globe of glass reflecting the house; while, in front of the

dormer-window of the topmost floor, turned into a pigeon-house, some

pigeons were flying and cooing in the sunshine. On that day, too, some

children were playing on the door-step, and she had heard the words

of command resounding over the wall of the adjacent cavalry barracks.

He, interrupting her, grew angry. Yes, yes! He knew the place: two

disgusting used-up women, and not even any mirrors downstairs. It was

these dens that brought disgrace on the profession.

"But what can you expect in a sub-prefecture?" he added at length,

calming down, with the philosophical tolerance of a superior person.

It was now one in the morning, and it was suggested that they should go

to bed. When people had had a baby, there wasn't much use (was there?)

in making a fuss about getting under the blankets together. It was the

same with the old practical jokes--unpinning the bedstead, and popping

scratching hair, or toys that squeaked when they were squeezed, between

the sheets, and so on. All that, in this case, would have come the day

after the fair. The best thing to do was to drink a parting cup, and

then say good-night.

At that moment, however, Lise and Fanny shrieked. Through the open

window a liberal shower of cow's dung had just been thrown, and both

women's dresses were splashed from top to bottom, and ruined. What

swine had done that? They ran out and looked over the square, along the

road, and behind the hedge. Nobody. However, they all agreed that this

was Hyacinthe's revenge for not having been invited.

The Fouans and Delhomme set out, and Monsieur Charles too. La Grande

made a tour of the table, to see whether there was anything left; and

finally made up her mind to go, after observing to Jean that the

Buteaus would die in a ditch. Her firm, sharp step, and the measured

tap of her stick, were heard down the road in the distance; while the

others, all very tipsy, went staggering over the stones.

As Tron was putting the horse to the gig for Madame Jacqueline, she,

already with one foot on the step, turned round and asked:

"You're not going back with us, are you, Jean?"

The young fellow, who was preparing to get in, changed his mind, glad

enough to leave her to Tron, since she seemed to wish it. He watched

her cuddling up against the tall figure of her new gallant, and could

not help laughing when the vehicle was out of sight. He would walk

back, he thought. But first, pending the departure of the others, he

went and sat down for an instant on the stone bench in the yard, near

Françoise, who had installed herself there, being overcome with both

the heat and fatigue. The Buteaus were already in their room, and she

had promised to fasten everything up before going to bed herself.

"Ah! it's pleasant here," she sighed, after five long minutes of

silence.

Then quietude fell again, calm and majestic. The cool, delicious night

was spangled with stars. The scent of the hay was borne so strong from

the meadows of the Aigre that its balmy fragrance seemed like the

perfume of flowers.

"Ah, yes! it's pleasant," repeated Jean, at length. "It does the heart

good."

She made no reply, however, and he saw that she was asleep. She slid

down, resting upon his shoulder, and then he stopped there an hour

longer, meditating in a confused manner. Evil thoughts came to him, but

died away. She was too young. It seemed to him that, by waiting, she

alone would become older and get to be nearer his age.

"I say, Françoise, we'd better go to bed!" he exclaimed at last. "We

might catch something out here."

She started out of her sleep.

"Dear, yes! we shall be better abed. Till we meet again, Jean!"

"Till we meet again, Françoise!"

PART III.

CHAPTER I.

So at last Buteau had got his share, that land he had so ardently

coveted, and yet refused during more than two years and a half, in a

fury compounded of longing, rancour, and obstinacy. He himself did not

know why he had been so stubborn, yearning at heart to sign the deed,

fearing he might be tricked, and unable to console himself for not

having secured the whole inheritance, the nineteen acres now mutilated

and scattered. Since his acceptance, however, a great passion had been

satisfied, the brutal joy of possession; and that joy was doubled by

the thought that his sister and brother were now the swindled parties,

that his holding was worth more since the new road ran by his field. He

never met them without a sly chuckle, and winks that said:

"All the same, I've taken them in!"

And that was not all. He triumphed also by his long-deferred marriage,

by the five acres adjoining his own field which Lise had brought him.

The thought that the sisters' property must be divided did not occur to

him; or, if it did, he looked upon it as something so far distant that

he hoped in the interval to hit upon some scheme of evasion. Counting

Françoise's share, he had eight acres of plough land, eight of meadow,

and about five of vineyard, and he would stick to them. He would part

with his skin first. Above all, he would never let any one cut up the

piece of ground which bordered the road, and that now comprised nearly

six acres. Neither his sister nor his brother had a field like it. He

talked of it in inflated terms, bursting with pride. A year passed

by, and this first year of possession was bliss to Buteau. Never when

he had hired himself out to others had he ploughed so deeply into the

bowels of the earth. It was his; he wanted to penetrate and fructify

its inmost parts. At night he used to come in exhausted, with his

plough-share gleaming like silver. In March he harrowed his wheat;

in April his oats; taking minute care, and throwing himself heart

and soul into the task. When all the work in the fields was done, he

returned to them just the same; lover-like, to gaze at them. He walked

round, stooping and picking up handfuls of soil with his old gesture;

delighting to crush the rich clods, and let them filter through his

fingers; and feeling supremely happy if he found them neither too dry

nor too damp, with a fine smell suggestive of growing bread.

Thus La Beauce spread her verdure before him, from November to July,

from the moment when the green tips first emerged to that when the

lofty stalks turned yellow. Wishing to have the country under his

eye without leaving the house, he unbarred the kitchen window--the

rear one, that looked out on the plain--and there he used to station

himself and survey ten leagues of country: an immense broad bare

expanse, stretching under the vaulted skies. Not a single tree; nothing

but the telegraph posts of the Châteaudun and Orleans road, running

on unswervingly till they were lost to sight. At first there was a

greenish, scarcely perceptible shade, peeping just above the soil of

the large squares of brown earth. Then this soft green strengthened

into velvet stretches, almost uniform in tint. Then, as the stems grew

taller and thicker, each plant developed its own tinge of colour. He

distinguished from afar the yellowish green of the wheat, the bluish

green of the oats, the greyish green of the barley; infinite expanses

of ground spread out in all directions, amid glowing patches of

crimson trifolium. It was the time when La Beauce is fair and young,

thus clothed about with spring, and smooth and cool to the eye in her

monotony. The stalks grew taller; and there was then one deep, rolling,

boundless sea of cereals. At morn, in the fine weather, a pink mist

used to rise. As the sun climbed in the limpid atmosphere a breeze

would blow in large regular puffs, furrowing the fields with a swell

that started on the horizon, and rolled along till it died away in the

opposite direction. As the plants swayed, their colour became paler;

a moiré-like effect--waterings of the shade of old gold--rippled over

the wheat; the oats took a bluish hue; while the barley quivered with

violet lights. Undulation continually succeeded undulation; a ceaseless

ebb would set in under the winds from the offing. When evening fell,

the fronts of distant buildings, brightly lit, showed like white sails;

steeples looked like masts, uprising behind folds in the surface of

the plain. It grew cold; the gloom enhanced the damp and the murmuring

character of the ocean-like prospect; a distant plantation became

indistinct, and looked like the dim coast-line of some continent.

In the bad weather, also, Buteau gazed out over La Beauce, thus spread

out at his feet, just as the fisher gazes from his cliff over the

raging sea, when the tempest is robbing him of his livelihood. He saw

a violent storm; a dark cloud shedding a livid, leaden light, and red

flashes glowing over the grass-tips amid claps of thunder. He saw a

waterspout come from more than six leagues away; at first a thin, tawny

cloud twisted like a rope, then a howling mass galloping on like a

monster; then, as it passed away, the crops could be seen torn up, and

everything trampled upon, broken, and razed along a track two miles

wide. His own fields had escaped, and he pitied the disasters of others

with inward chuckles of delight. As the wheat grew, his enjoyment

increased. A grey islet formed by a village had disappeared on the

horizon behind the rising level of verdure. There only remained the

roofs of La Borderie which, in their turn, were submerged. A mill, with

its sails, remained alone like a waif. On all sides there was corn--an

encroaching, overflowing sea of corn, covering the earth with its

immensity of verdure.

"God a' mercy!" said he, every evening, as he sat down to table; "if

the summer's not too dry, we shall never be at a loss for bread."

The Buteaus had established themselves in their new home. The married

pair had taken the large room downstairs, and Françoise, above them,

put up with a little room, formerly occupied by old Mouche, which had

been scoured and furnished with a fold-up bedstead, an old chest of

drawers, a table and two chairs. She still busied herself with her

cows, and led much the same life as of old. However, although all

was outwardly calm, there was a dormant source of disagreement: that

question of dividing the property between the two sisters, which had

remained in abeyance. On the day after the marriage of the elder girl,

old Fouan, as guardian of the younger one, had pressed for the division

of the property, so as to avoid all unpleasantness in the future. But

Buteau had protested. What was the good? Françoise was too young; she

didn't want her land. Wasn't everything just as before? She lived with

her sister still, she was boarded and clothed. In short, she certainly

could have no cause of complaint. At all these reasons the old man

shook his head. No one knew what might happen, the best thing to do was

to settle everything in due form; and the girl herself was anxious to

know what her share would consist of, though that point being settled

she was ready to leave it in charge of her brother-in-law. The latter,

however, had his own way, by means of his genial, obstinate, humbugging

bluffness. Nothing further was said, and he proclaimed everywhere what

a happy, charming, domestic mode of life theirs was.

"There's nothing like having a good understanding with one another!"

said he.

In point of fact there had not been any quarrel between the two

sisters, nor any domestic disagreement during the first ten months;

but then matters gradually became unpleasant. It started with displays

of bad temper. There were fits of sulking, and at last loud words were

exchanged; and, beneath it all, the fermenting question of "mine" and

"thine" was at its ravaging work, gradually destroying affection.

Certainly Lise and Françoise no longer loved one another as tenderly as

of old. No one now met them with their arms round each other's waists,

walking out in the gloaming wrapped in the same shawl. A separation had

come between them; a coolness was growing up. Since there had been a

man in the house, it seemed to Françoise that her sister had been taken

from her. She who once had shared everything with Lise, had no share

in this man; and he had thus become a something foreign, an obstacle

shutting her out from the heart in which she had lived alone. All this,

moreover, had a material side. She used to leave without kissing her

elder sister when Buteau did so, feeling as shocked as if some one

had drunk out of her glass. In matters of ownership, she kept to her

childish notions with passionate earnestness. "This is mine, that is

yours;" and, as her sister belonged thenceforward to another, she let

her go. But she wanted what was her own, one-half of the land and of

the house.

This wrath of hers was also caused by another matter which she herself

could not have explained. There had, so far, been nothing to disturb

her in the house, where love scenes had been unknown, a chill having

fallen upon the place when old Mouche became a widower. But now it was

inhabited by a brutal man with the instincts of his sex, who had always

been in the habit of running after the girls in the fields, and whose

unrestrained dalliance with her sister, which she was obliged to be

cognisant of, made her feel alike disgusted and exasperated. During the

daytime she preferred to go out, and let them indulge in their dirty

tricks unrestrained. In the evening, if they began laughing on getting

up from table, she called to them to wait till she had finished

washing up the dishes. And then she rushed madly to her room, slamming

the doors and muttering insults: "The beasts! The beasts!" between

her clenched teeth. In spite of all, she still fancied that she could

hear what was going on below her, downstairs. With her head buried in

the pillow, and with the sheets drawn up to her eyes, she grew hot and

feverish; her hearing and her sight were haunted by hallucinations, and

her revolting puberty made her suffer.

The worst of it was that Buteau, seeing so much of her attention given

to these matters, used to chaff her about them by way of a joke.

Goodness gracious! what next? What would she say when she had to go

through the same thing herself? Lise, too, used to laugh, seeing

nothing whatever wrong about it; and then Buteau would explain his

ideas on the subject. The pleasure cost nothing, and it was perfectly

lawful to indulge in it. But no children; no, no! No more of them!

There was always too much of that sort of thing before marriage;

people were so stupid. Thus little Jules had made his appearance, for

instance; a confounded nuisance, which had to be put up with all the

same. But when folks were married, they sobered down. He'd rather be

a capon than have any more children. A likely thing! Bringing another

mouth into a house where there wasn't too much to eat as it was! And

so he kept constantly on the alert with regard to his wife, who was so

plump, the hussy! that she'd get in the family-way in a trice if he'd

only let her. He'd be glad to reap as much corn as the full womb of

the earth could be made to yield; but no babies! They had done with

children for ever!

Amidst these constant details, this copulation that rustled audibly

near her, as it were, Françoise's agitation kept increasing.

Folks asserted that her temper was changing; and she did yield to

inexplicable moods which abruptly changed: first merry, then sad, and

then surly and spiteful. In the morning she watched Buteau with a black

look, whenever he unceremoniously crossed the kitchen, half undressed.

Quarrels, too, broke out between herself and her sister about the most

trivial matters--a cup that she had just broken, for instance. Wasn't

the cup hers as well, half of it at all events? Couldn't she break half

of everything, if she liked? On these questions of ownership their

disputes always became most bitter, entailing grudges that lasted days

and days.

The worst of it was that Buteau himself became subject to odious fits

of temper. The land was suffering from a terrible drought, not a drop

of rain having fallen for six weeks; and he would come in with his

fists clenched, made ill by the sight of the spoilt crops--the stunted

barley, the shrivelled oats, and the wheat, which was already scorched

up before coming into ear. He actually suffered as if he had been part

of the crops themselves; his stomach shrank, his limbs were racked with

cramps, he dwindled and pined away with anxiety and anger. In this

state he, one morning, came to loggerheads with Françoise for the first

time. It was hot, and after washing at the well, he had left part of

his shirt hanging out behind. As he was sitting down to eat his soup,

Françoise, on coming forward to help him, observed it. Then she burst

out, reddening all over:

"Tuck your shirt in, do! It's disgusting!"

He was in a bad humour already, and now flew into a passion.

"God's truth! Haven't you done picking me to pieces yet? Don't look, if

it offends you. One would think you had some lewd fancy in your head

from the way you jaw about it!"

She reddened still more, and began to stammer; while Lise injudiciously

added:

"He's right. You end by plaguing one. Go elsewhere if one can't be at

home in one's own house."

"Quite so; I will go elsewhere," said Françoise savagely, banging the

door after her as she went out.

But on the following day Buteau was once more pleasant, conciliatory,

and jocular. During the night the sky had clouded over, and for twelve

hours a fine, warm, penetrating rain had fallen; one of those summer

rains that freshen up the country. He had opened the window, which

looked on to the plain, and since daybreak he had stood at it with his

hands in his pockets, radiant, and watching the stream pour down, while

he repeated:

"Now we're gentlefolks, since the blessed God is doing our work for us.

Ah! thunder and blazes! The days spent like this, idling about, are a

lot better than those when one wears oneself out for no return."

The rain still came streaming down slowly, softly, and endlessly. He

could hear thirsting, riverless, and springless La Beauce drinking this

water. 'Twas one vast murmur, a universal gurgling, full of comfort.

Everything absorbed the moisture, everything bloomed anew under the

shower. The wheat was regaining its youthful healthfulness; it was

sturdy and upright now, bearing on high the ears which would swell

mightily and burst with meal. Buteau, like the soil, like the wheat,

drank in at every pore, feeling cheerful, refreshed, and restored to

health, ever returning to his post at the window, and shouting:

"Go on, go on! It's like five-franc pieces falling."

Suddenly he heard some one open the door, and on turning round he was

surprised to recognise old Fouan.

"Why, father! You've been frog hunting, then?"

The old man, after a struggle with a large blue umbrella, came in,

leaving his wooden shoes on the threshold.

"Something like a watering!" said he, simply. "We wanted it."

During the year that had elapsed since the partition had been finally

concluded, signed, and registered, he had had but one occupation: that

of visiting his old fields. He was always to be met prowling round

them with a deal of interest, grave or gay, according to the state of

the crops; yelling at his children if things went wrong, and declaring

that it was their fault if matters were at a standstill. This rain had

enlivened him also.

"And so," resumed Buteau, "you've looked in to see us as you were

passing by."

Françoise, hitherto silent, now came forward and said distinctly:

"No: it was I who begged uncle to come."

Lise, who was standing by the table shelling peas, left off and waited

motionless, a harsh expression suddenly coming over her face. Buteau,

who had at first clenched his fists, resumed his genial air, having

determined not to lose his temper.

"Yes," explained the old man, slowly, "the child spoke to me yesterday.

You see now how right I was when I wanted to have matters settled at

the outset. To each his own. There's nothing in that for any one to get

angry about; on the contrary, it prevents quarrels. It's now high time

to make an end of it. She has a right, hasn't she? to know exactly how

she stands. Otherwise I should be to blame. So we'll fix a day, and go

together to Monsieur Baillehache's."

Lise could hold out no longer.

"Why don't she send for the gendarmes? Good Heavens! one would suppose

she was being robbed. What if I were to go about and tell everybody

what a filthy beast she is, and that there's no knowing where to take

hold of her?"

Françoise was about to reply in the same strain, when Buteau, who had

playfully caught her up from behind, cried out:

"A pack of nonsense! People may badger each other, but they love each

other all the same, eh? A nice thing it would be if sisters fell out!"

The girl had shaken herself free, and the quarrel was about to

continue, when Buteau raised a joyous shout on seeing the door again

open:

"Jean! Sopping wet! Why, he's a regular poodle!"

Jean, who had run over from the farm, as he often did, had merely

thrown a sack over his shoulders for protection; and he was wet

through--dripping, steaming, and laughing good-humouredly through it

all. While he was shaking himself, Buteau, returning to his window,

grew more and more expansive at the sight of the steady, endless

downpour.

"Oh, how it's coming down! What a blessing! My! it's quite a game to

see it come down like that!"

Then, turning back, he said to Jean:

"You come pat. These two were tearing each other's eyes out. Françoise

wants the property divided, so that she may leave us."

"What? That child!" cried Jean, amazed.

His desire had become a violent hidden passion, and the only

satisfaction he had was to see her in this house, where he was received

as a friend. He would have proposed for her half a score of times

already, if he had not so keenly felt the disparity in their ages. It

was in vain that he had waited; the fifteen years' difference had not

been spanned. In the country, a great difference of age is reckoned

such an obstacle, that nobody--not she herself, nor her sister, nor

even her brother-in-law--seemed to imagine he could ever fix his

thoughts on her. And this was why Buteau received him so cordially,

without any fear of the consequences.

"You may well say child!" said he, paternally shrugging his shoulders.

But Françoise, standing rigidly erect, with her eyes on the ground,

proved obstinate.

"I want my share."

"It would be the wisest thing," murmured old Fouan.

Then Jean gently took hold of her wrists, and drew her towards him.

Holding her thus, his hands quivering at the contact of her flesh, he

addressed her in his kind voice, which faltered as he besought her

to remain. Where could she go? Into service with some strangers at

Cloyes or Châteaudun? Was she not better off in the house where she had

grown up, amid people who loved her? She listened to him, and she also

softened; for although she scarcely thought of him as a lover, she was

wont to obey him readily, chiefly out of regard for him and a little

from fear, thinking him a very serious person.

"I want my share," she repeated, beginning to give way, "but I don't

say that I shall go away."

"Why, stupid!" interposed Buteau, "what on earth would you do with your

share if you stay? Everything is as much yours as it is your sister's

or mine. What do you want the half for? Pooh! it's enough to send one

into fits! Harkee, the day you marry the property shall be divided."

Jean's eyes, which were fixed on her, fell, as if his heart had failed

him.

"You hear? On your wedding day."

She felt oppressed, and made no reply.

"And now, my little Françoise, go and kiss your sister. That'll be much

better."

Lise, the buxom matron, was still good-hearted in her gay, noisy

way, and she wept when Françoise fell on her neck, Buteau, delighted

at having postponed the evil day, cried out that, God's mercy! they

would have a drink. He fetched five glasses, uncorked one bottle, and

went back to fetch another. Old Fouan's bronzed face had flushed as

he explained that he was in favour of order and duty. They all drank,

women and men alike, to the health of every one present.

"Wine's a good thing," said Buteau, slapping down his glass, "but, say

what you like, that falling water's a deal better. Just look at it!

There it goes, and there it goes again. Isn't it glorious?"

Crowding to the windows, with radiant faces, and in a sort of religious

ecstacy, they all watched the warm, slow, endless rain stream down, as

though beneath this beneficent water they had seen the tall green corn

visibly growing.

CHAPTER II.

One day that summer old Rose, who had suffered from swooning fits,

and whose legs were failing her, sent for her grand-niece, Palmyre,

to clean the house. Fouan had gone out to prowl round the fields,

as usual; and while the wretched creature, drenched with water, was

scrubbing with all her might, the other woman followed her about, step

by step, both of them going over the same eternal old gossip.

They began with Palmyre's misfortunes, for her brother Hilarion had

taken to beating her. The soft-witted cripple had grown malicious; and,

as he did not know how strong he was with his fists, which were capable

of pulverising stones, she was in terror of her life whenever he seized

hold of her. Still she wouldn't have any interference; and when anybody

came she sent them away, managing to appease the young fellow by dint

of the infinite fondness which she entertained for him. The other week

there had been a scandal, which all Rognes was still talking about:

such a fight that the neighbours had run in, and had found him behaving

abominably.

"Tell me, my child," asked Rose, to elicit some confidential

revelation, "what was the brute doing?"

Palmyre, ceasing to scrub, and squatting in her dripping rags, flew

into a passion without giving an answer.

"Is it any business of those folks I should like to know? What do they

want to come spying in our house for? We don't rob any one."

"Well, well!" resumed the old woman, "all the same, if you do as people

say, it's a very dreadful thing."

For an instant the poor creature remained silent; and an expression

of suffering came over her features as her eyes vacantly stared afar.

Then, bending down once more, she mumbled, with the to-and-fro movement

of her skinny arms breaking in upon her words:

"I don't know about it being so very dreadful. The priest sent for me,

to say that we both of us should go to hell. Not that poor darling,

anyhow. 'A natural, your reverence,' says I to him 'a mere child with

no more sense than a babe three days old, and who'd have died if I

hadn't fed him--and perhaps it'd have been better for him if he had?'

It's my affair alone, isn't it? The day he strangles me, in one of the

fits of rage such as have lately come over him, I shall see fast enough

whether the blessed God'll forgive me."

Seeing that she would not obtain any fresh particulars, Rose, who had

long known the truth, sagely concluded: "Sure enough, things must be

one way or the other. But put it as you like, it's not a life you're

leading, my girl."

Then she lamented that everybody had their misfortunes. The miseries,

now, that she and her husband had gone through, since they'd been kind

enough to strip themselves for their children's benefit! Once started

on this topic she never stopped. It was an eternal subject of complaint

with her.

"Deary me! One can get used to disrespect. When one's children are

swine, they're swine, and that's all about it. But if they'd only pay

their allowance--"

Then she explained, for the twentieth time, that Delhomme alone brought

his fifty francs every quarter, and punctual, too, to the tick! Buteau

was always in arrears, and haggled over coppers. Thus, although the

money was ten days overdue, she was still awaiting payment. He had

promised to pay up that very night. As for Hyacinthe, that was a

simpler matter. He didn't pay anything; they never saw the colour of

his money. And he'd actually had the cheek to send La Trouille that

morning to borrow five francs, to enable her to make some broth for him

as he was very ill. Oh, yes! they all knew what _he_ suffered from--a

spark in his inside! And so the wench had been sent to the right-about

in no time, with orders to tell her father that if he didn't bring his

fifty francs that night, like his brother Buteau, he should have the

lawyer after him.

"Just to frighten him, you know, for the poor boy's not bad at heart,

after all," added Rose, whose partiality for the elder son had already

softened her.

At night-fall, Fouan having come in to his dinner, she began again at

table while he bent silently over his food. Could it be possible that,

out of their six hundred francs, they should only get two hundred from

Delhomme, scarcely a hundred from Buteau, and nothing at all from the

other? That made just half the allowance. And the scamps had signed at

the notary's; it was set down in black and white, and was under the

charge of the law! But a vast deal their children cared about the law!

To every complaint Palmyre, who was scouring the tiled floor of the

kitchen in the dark, made the same answer, which sounded like a refrain

of misery.

"Sure enough, we've all of us got our troubles; they bring us to the

grave!"

Rose was at length deciding to light the candle when La Grande came

in with her knitting. During the summer there was no evening meeting;

but, to avoid using even a candle-end, she was wont to spend an hour

at her brother's before groping her way to bed in the darkness. She

established herself forthwith; and Palmyre, who had still the pots and

pans to scour, breathed not a word more, over-awed by the sight of her

grandmother.

"If you want any hot water, my girl," said Rose, "undo a faggot."

Then she contained herself for a moment, and forced herself to talk of

other matters. In La Grande's presence the Fouans avoided complaining,

knowing how pleased she was whenever she heard them regret having

parted with their property. But passion was too much for Rose, and

finally she spoke again:

"And you may as well put on the whole faggot at once, if they call that

a faggot, indeed! Merely some dead twigs and hedge-clippings! Fanny

must certainly scrape the floor of her wood-house to send us rotten

stuff like that!"

Fouan, who had remained at table, with his glass full, then broke the

silence in which he had seemingly wished to enwrap himself.

"God a' mercy!" he shouted. "Haven't we had enough of your faggots?

They're muck, and we know it! But what's to be said, pray, of the

beastly dregs that Delhomme gives me for wine?"

He raised his glass to the candle and glanced at it.

"Eh? What the devil has he put into it? It's worse even than the

rinsings of casks. And he's the honest one! The two others would let

us die o' thirst, before they'd go and fetch us even a bottle of water

from the river."

At length he made up his mind to drink his wine at a gulp. But he spat

violently afterwards.

"Ugh! the poison! P'raps it's to kill me right off."

After that Fouan and Rose gave way to their rancour, and, casting all

restraint aside, relieved their aching hearts. There was a perfect

litany of recriminations, each in turn exposing his or her wrongs.

Take, for instance, the ten quarts of milk per week. To begin with,

they only got six; and then what milk it was! Although it didn't pass

through the priest's hands it must be real Christian milk, judging by

the way it was baptised! The same with the eggs. They must have been

specially ordered of the fowls, for such little ones could never have

been found in all the Cloyes markets. They were regular curiosities,

and so grudgingly given, that they had time enough to go bad on the

way. As for the cheeses! Cheeses indeed! Rose was doubled up with colic

every time she ate any. She ran to fetch one, insisting on Palmyre's

tasting it. Well, wasn't it horrible? Didn't this demand redress? They

must put flour into it, and perhaps plaster as well. Then Fouan struck

in, lamenting that he was cut down to a sou's worth of tobacco per day;

and Rose immediately regretted her black coffee which she had had to

give up. Finally, both together, they taxed their children with the

death of their decrepit old dog, which they had drowned the day before,

because he cost them too much to keep.

"I gave them everything," cried the old fellow; "and the scamps don't

care a damn about me. It'll kill us for certain--it makes us so wild to

be left in such wretchedness!"

At length they became silent, and La Grande, who had not unclosed

her lips, looked from one to the other with her round, evil,

bird-of-prey-like eyes.

"Serve you right!" said she.

Just at that moment, however, Buteau came in. Palmyre, having finished

her work, took advantage of the opening of the door to slip out and

make her escape, with the fifteen sous which Rose had just put into her

hand. Buteau stood motionless in the middle of the room, maintaining

the prudent silence of the peasant, who will never be the first to

speak. A couple of minutes elapsed, and then the father was forced to

open the discussion.

"So you've made up your mind. That's fortunate. We've had plenty of

time to wait for you during these last ten days."

The son swayed carelessly from side to side, and eventually said: "One

can't do more than one can. Every one knows how his bread bakes."

"Possibly. But if things were to go on at that rate, you'd be eating

your bread while we starved. You signed, and you ought to pay up on the

right day."

Seeing his father's ill-humour, Buteau began to laugh.

"If I'm too late, you know, I can go back. It's not so nice to have to

pay as it is. Some don't pay at all."

This allusion to Hyacinthe disquieted Rose, who, not daring to

interfere, confined herself to twitching her husband's jacket. He had

made a gesture of anger, but checked himself.

"Good. Hand over your fifty francs. I've drawn out the receipt."

Buteau leisurely fumbled in his clothes. He had glanced in a vexed

way at La Grande, and seemed put out by her presence. She dropped

her knitting, and glared at him in expectation of seeing the money

produced. The parents, too, had drawn near, and never took their eyes

off the young fellow's hand. Under the stare of those three pairs of

eyes, he reluctantly drew out his first five-franc piece.

"One," said he, laying it down on the table. Others followed, more and

more slowly. He went on counting them aloud, in faltering tones. After

producing the fifth he stopped, and had to make an exhaustive search to

find another; then he shouted loudly and emphatically:

"And six!"

The Fouans still waited, but nothing more came.

"What, six?" the father said at last. "There ought to be ten. Are you

making fun of us? Last quarter, forty francs; and only thirty this

time."

Buteau immediately assumed a whining tone. Nothing prospered. Wheat had

fallen still lower, the oats were wretched. There was even a swelling

on his horse's stomach, and he had had to send twice for Monsieur

Patoir. In short, he was ruined, and he didn't know how to make both

ends meet.

"That's no concern of mine," repeated the old man furiously. "Hand over

the fifty francs, or I'll summons you!"

He grew cooler, however, as it occurred to him to accept the six coins

on account; and he spoke of making out a fresh receipt.

"Then you will give me the twenty francs next week? I'll put that on

the paper."

Buteau, however, had immediately snatched up the money lying on the

table.

"No, no! None of that! We must be quits. Leave the receipt as it is,

or I'm off. Likely thing! It wouldn't be worth while my pinching and

screwing if I were still to be in your debt."

Then there was a terrible scene. Both father and son held out

stubbornly, untiringly repeating the same phrases; the one exasperated

at not having pocketed the money in the first instance, the other

clutching it firmly, and determined not to give it up again without

having the receipt in full. Once more the mother had to twitch her

husband's jacket, and once more he gave way.

"There, you confounded thief; there's the paper! You ought to have it

smacked on your jaw! Hand over the money."

The transfer was made from fist to fist, and Buteau, having played

the comedy out, began to laugh. He went off, pleasant and contented,

wishing the company a very good evening. Fouan, who looked exhausted,

had sat down at the table; and La Grande, before resuming her knitting,

shrugged her shoulders and shouted in his face:

"You stupid fool!"

Silence ensued. Then the door re-opened, and Hyacinthe came in. Having

been informed by La Trouille that his brother was to pay that night,

he had watched him on the road, and had waited for him to leave before

presenting himself in his turn. His mild expression was simply due to

the maudlin effects of dissipation over-night. From the doorway, his

glance fell straight on the six five-franc pieces which Fouan had been

imprudent enough to leave on the table.

"Ah, it's Hyacinthe," exclaimed Rose, pleased to see him.

"Yes, it's me. Hope I see you all well!"

He came forward, with his eyes riveted on the white coins, which

glistened like so many moons in the candle light. His father, who had

turned his head, observed his look, and perceived the money with a

start of disquietude. He clapped a plate over the coins to hide them,

but it was too late.

"Infernal fool I was!" thought he, irritated at his own carelessness.

"La Grande is right."

Then, aloud, and coarsely: "You do well to come and pay us, for as true

as that candle's shining, I'd have sent the lawyer to you to-morrow."

"Yes, La Trouille told me so," groaned Hyacinthe very humbly: "and so

I put myself about to come, because you surely can't wish my death, do

you? Pay, good Lord! what's one to pay with, when one hasn't even bread

enough to live on? We've sold everything--oh! I'm not kidding; come and

see for yourself if you think I'm kidding. There are now no sheets on

the beds, no more furniture, no nothing! And on the top of that, I'm

ill."

A guffaw of incredulity interrupted him. He went on without heeding:

"Perhaps it doesn't show much, but, all the same, there's something

wrong in my inside. I cough, I feel that I'm going. If I could only get

some broth! But when one can't even get broth, one kicks the bucket,

eh? That's true enough. To be sure I'd pay you if I had the money. Tell

me where there is any, and I will give you some, and boil a bit of beef

to begin with. It's now a fortnight since I tasted meat, indeed it is!

on my honour."

Rose began to be affected, while Fouan got more angry.

"You've turned everything into drink, you good-for-nothing vagabond. So

much the worse for you! You've pledged all that fine land that had been

in the family for years and years! Yes, you've been on the spree for

months, you and your daughter; and if it's finished now, well, go and

die."

Hyacinthe hesitated no longer, but sobbed.

"It isn't fatherly to say that. Only unnatural people cast off their

children. It's because I'm good-hearted that I shall come to grief. If

you hadn't any money one could make allowances! But when a father has

the cash, does he refuse alms to a son? I shall go and beg at other

people's houses; and a nice thing that'll be--a very nice thing indeed!"

At every phrase, jerked out amid his tears, he made the old man

tremble by casting side-long glances at the plate. Then, pretending

to suffocate, he screamed in a deafening way as if he were having his

throat cut.

Rose, who was quite upset and vanquished by his sobs, clasped her hands

in supplication to Fouan.

"Come, husband."

But he, struggling with himself, and still refusing, cut her short.

"No, no, he's only making fools of us. Will you hold your tongue, you

brute? Is there any sense in howling like that? The neighbours will

come in. You're making us ill."

This only made the sot increase his clamour, as he bellowed out:

"I haven't told you. But the lawyer is coming to-morrow to put in an

execution for a bill I gave Lambourdieu. I'm a swine; I disgrace you; I

must put an end to it. Pig that I am, and I deserve to be soused in the

Aigre for good. If I only had thirty francs!"

Fouan, tried beyond endurance, and overcome by the scene, started at

the mention of thirty francs. He removed the plate. What good was it,

when the scamp saw the money and counted it through the china?

"You want the whole. In God's name, is that reasonable? Look here!

You're driving us distracted. Take half, and go; and don't let us see

you again."

Hyacinthe, suddenly cured, apparently took counsel with himself. Then

he declared:

"No, fifteen francs is too little; it would be of no use. Call it

twenty, and I'll leave you."

Then, when he'd got the four five-franc pieces, he made them all laugh

by relating what a trick he had played Bécu, with some imitation bottom

lines so placed in the reserved part of the Aigre that the rural

constable had tumbled into the water while trying to get them out. At

last he went away, after getting himself offered a glass of the bad

wine sent by Delhomme, whom he called a dirty scoundrel to dare send

such stuff to a father.

"He's a pleasant fellow, anyhow!" said Rose, when the door had shut

behind him.

La Grande had risen, and was folding up her knitting, prior to leaving.

She stared at her sister-in-law and then at her brother; and finally

in her turn she went out after screaming, in a fit of passion long

suppressed:

"Not a copper, you infernal fools! Never ask me for a copper, never!"

Outside, she met Buteau, who was returning from Macqueron's, having

been astonished to see Hyacinthe come in there, looking very lively,

and rattling a pocketful of crowns. He had at once smelt a rat.

"Oh, yes! The rascal's making off with your money. Ah, what a night of

it he'll make! and what an ass he'll think you are!"

Buteau, beside himself, knocked with both fists at the Fouans' door. If

they hadn't let him in he would have broken it down. The old folks were

already going to bed. The mother had taken off her cap and her dress,

and was in her petticoat, with her grey hair falling over her temples.

When they decided to open the door, he burst in upon them, shouting in

a stifled voice:

"My money! My money!"

They recoiled in fear and bewilderment, not understanding him as yet.

"Do you suppose I half-kill myself for that scoundrel, my brother? So

he's to do nothing, and I'm to provide for him! Oh, no! Oh, no!"

Fouan tried to deny it, but Buteau coarsely interrupted him.

"What's that? Oh, you're going to lie, now! I tell you he's got my

money. I smelt it; I heard it rattling in the blackguard's pocket! My

money, that I sweated for, and that he's going to spend in tipple! If

it's not so, show it me! Show me the coins, if you have them still. I

know them; I can tell them. Show me the coins!"

He stubbornly repeated this phrase a score of times, as if applying

the spur to his anger. He got to thumping the table with his fist,

demanding the coins on the spot, at once, swearing that he did not want

to take them back, but simply to see them. Then, as the old folks shook

and stammered, he burst out furiously:

"He's got them; that's clear! Hell and thunder, if I ever bring you

another copper! One might bleed one's-self for you; but I'd sooner cut

off my arms than keep that sodden cur!"

At last, however, the father also got into a passion.

"Now then, haven't you about finished," said he. "Is it any business of

yours what we do? The money's my own, and I can do what I like with it."

"What's that you say?" retorted Buteau, going up to him, pale and with

clenched fists. "So you expect me to give up everything. Well, then,

I tell you it's simply filthy--yes, filthy--to get money out of your

children, when you have certainly enough to live on. Oh! it's no use

your denying it! You've got a hoard in there, I know!"

The startled old man was struggling wildly, his voice and arms both

failing him, with nought of his old authority left to turn his son out.

"No, no; there's not a copper. Will you go off?"

"Suppose I look! Suppose I look!" repeated Buteau, already opening some

drawers and tapping the walls.

Rose, terrified, and dreading an encounter between father and son, hung

on the latter's shoulder, and faltered:

"You unfortunate fellow, do you want to kill us?"

Turning sharply upon her, he seized her by the wrists, and shouted in

her face, regardless of her poor, grey, worn, and weary head:

"It's all your fault! It was you that gave the money to Hyacinthe. You

never liked me, you old hag!"

With these words he gave her so rough a push that, uttering a faint

cry, she fell swooning in a heap against the wall. He looked at her for

an instant as she reclined there, huddled up like a bundle of rags, and

then madly rushed out, slamming the door and swearing.

The next day Rose could not leave her bed. Doctor Finet was called

in, and returned three times, without being able to afford her any

relief. At his third visit, finding her in extremity, he took Fouan

aside, and asked as a favour to be allowed to write out the burial

certificate, and leave it. This plan, which he generally adopted for

distant hamlets, would save him a journey. Nevertheless, Rose survived

for thirty-six hours longer. The doctor, when questioned, had replied

that she was dying of old age and over-work: that the end was bound to

come when the body was worn out. But in Rognes, where the story was

known, all the folks said that she had died of "curdled blood," meaning

apoplexy. There were a great many people at the funeral, and Buteau and

the rest of the family behaved with great decorum.

When the grave had been filled up, old Fouan went back alone to the

house where the two of them had lived and suffered for fifty years. He

ate a bit of bread and cheese standing. Then he prowled through the

empty buildings and garden, not knowing what occupation would enable

him to get rid of his grief. He had nothing more to do now, so he went

up to his old fields on the plateau to see if the wheat were growing.

CHAPTER III.

For a whole year Fouan lived in this fashion, silent and alone, in

the empty house. He was ever to be found there on his legs, roaming

hither and thither with trembling hands and doing nothing. He would

stay for hours in front of the mouldy troughs in the cow-house; and

then he would turn and station himself at the door of the empty barn,

as if riveted there in profound reverie. The garden still gave him some

occupation; but he was growing weaker, and stooped more and more, as

though the soil were recalling him little by little to herself. Twice

had he been picked up lying face downwards among his young salads.

Since those twenty francs had been given to Hyacinthe, Delhomme alone

paid his share of the allowance. Buteau stubbornly refused a single

copper, declaring he would rather go into a court of law than see his

money pass into the pockets of his disreputable brother. The latter

did, indeed, from time to time, wring some alms from his father, whom

his tearful heroics prostrated.

Then it was that Delhomme, seeing the old man's growing distress, his

enfeeblement and forlornness, conceived the notion of taking him into

his own home. Why should not Fouan sell the house and live at his

daughter's? He would want for nothing there; and they would no longer

have to pay him the two hundred francs' allowance. The next day Buteau,

having heard of this offer, hastened to make a similar one, with an

elaborate display of filial affection. Money to fling away--no, no,

indeed! But if it were merely a question of caring for his father,

why the latter could come and eat and sleep and enjoy himself. At

bottom, no doubt, Buteau's idea must have been that his sister was only

trying to get hold of the old man with the intention of grabbing the

suppositious hoard. Yet even he was beginning to doubt the existence

of that money, which he had hunted after in vain. And he was in two

minds--offering his father a shelter out of pride, expecting that the

old man would refuse, and yet exasperated at the notion that he might

accept Delhomme's hospitality. Fouan, on his side, displayed great

repugnance, almost dread, as regards both proposals. No, no! Better dry

bread in his own house than roast meat at other people's; it was less

bitter. He had lived there and there he would die.

So things went on till mid-July--Saint Henri's day, which was the

patronal feast-day of Rognes. A travelling ball-room, under canvas,

was usually set up in the meadows of the Aigre; and on the road, in

front of the municipal offices, there were three stalls, one kept by a

cheap-jack, who sold everything down to ribbons; a shooting-gallery,

and a game of turn-about, at which sticks of barley-sugar could be won.

That day Monsieur Baillehache, who was breakfasting at La Borderie,

profited by the occasion to go and have a chat with Delhomme, who

begged him to accompany him to Fouan's, and persuade the old man to

listen to reason. Since Rose's death the notary also had advised Fouan

to take up his abode with his daughter and sell the house, which was

now uselessly large. It was worth some three thousand francs; and he,

the notary, even offered to take care of the money and to pay Fouan the

interest on it in little sums, according to his humble wants.

They found the old fellow in his customary bewilderment, trudging about

at random in a state of stupor, in front of a heap of wood, which he

wanted to saw up without having the strength to do so. That morning

his poor hands shook even more than usual, for on the night before he

had undergone a terrible onslaught from Hyacinthe, who, to get hold of

twenty francs, in view of the morrow's festivity, had brought all his

resources into play, bellowing maddeningly, crawling on the ground,

and threatening to kill himself with a knife which he had purposely

concealed up his sleeve. At this the old man had given the twenty

francs, as he at once confessed, with an air of anguish, to the notary.

"Tell me, would you do otherwise? I'm dead beat, dead beat!"

So Monsieur Baillehache took advantage of the circumstance.

"I've not come to talk about all that," said he. "You can't keep on

like this. You won't even have your own skin left you. At your age it

isn't prudent to live alone; and if you don't want to be eaten alive,

you must listen to your daughter. Sell this place and go and live with

her!"

"Ah! so that's your advice, too?" muttered Fouan.

He glanced askance at Delhomme, who affected to hold himself aloof.

However, remarking the old man's look of distrust, he spoke out.

"You know, father," he began, "that I say nothing, because you perhaps

imagine that I have some selfish object in inviting you. Good gracious,

no! You'll give us extra work at home, but then it annoys me to see you

so uncomfortably situated when you might be living at ease."

"Well, well," replied the old fellow, "we must think it over. As soon

as I make up my mind, I'll be sure and let you know."

Neither his son-in-law nor the notary could get anything more out of

him. He complained of being bustled. His authority, which had gradually

died out, just lingered in this obstinacy of old age--this obstinacy

which made him regardless even of his own comfort and well-being. In

addition to his vague dread at the idea of no longer having a house of

his own--a dread which was by no means unnatural, seeing how much he

already suffered from having no land left him--he said "no," because

they all wanted to make him say "yes." The brutes had something to gain

by it, then? Well, he would say "yes" when he chose to do so, and not

before.

On the evening before, Hyacinthe having been weak enough in his

rapture to show La Trouille his four five-franc pieces, had gone to

sleep clutching them in his hand, for on the last occasion the minx

had stolen one from under his bolster, taking advantage of the fact

that he had come home drunk to assert that he must have lost it out

of doors. On awaking he had a fright, the coins having escaped from

his grasp during his sleep; but he found them again, quite warm, under

his buttocks, and was then thrilled with a mighty joy. His mouth was

already watering at the thought of how he would spend the cash at

Lengaigne's. It was the village fête, and no one with any decency would

go back home at night-time with any change left in his pocket. During

the morning La Trouille vainly coaxed her father to give her one of the

five-franc pieces, just a little one, she said; but he repulsed her,

and was not even grateful for the stolen eggs with which she made him

an omelette. No, no! It didn't suffice that she was fond of her father;

money was made for men. Then in a fit of wrath she put on her blue

poplin dress--a present dating from the period of plenty--saying that

she, too, was going to enjoy herself. She hadn't got twenty yards from

the door when she turned round and called out:

"Father, father, look!"

Her hand was raised, and she displayed between the tips of her slender

fingers a five-franc piece which shone like a sun.

Hyacinthe fancied that he had been robbed, and, growing pale, he

fumbled in his pockets. But the twenty francs were there all right. The

hussy must have sold some of her geese, and the dodge striking him as

funny, he chuckled paternally and let her go.

He was only strict on one point: morality; and it was on that account

that, half-an-hour later, he fell into a violent passion. He also was

going out, and was on the point of fastening the door, when a peasant,

in holiday garb, passing along on the road below, hailed him.

"Hyacinthe, ahoy! Hyacinthe!"

"What is it?"

"I have just seen your daughter."

"What of it?"

"Well, there's a fellow with her."

"Whereabouts are they?"

"In the ditch over there, at the corner of Guillaume's field."

On hearing this Hyacinthe raised both hands furiously to heaven.

"All right; thanks," said he to the peasant. "I'll fetch my whip. The

dirty drab! Bringing dishonour on me like this, indeed!"

Having returned into his house, he took down from behind the door, on

the left, a long horse-whip which he only used on these occasions; then

with the whip under his arm he set out, creeping past the bushes as if

after some game, so as to come upon the guilty couple unawares.

When, however, he turned round the bend of the road, Nénesse, who was

keeping watch on a heap of stones, caught sight of him. It was Delphin

who was with La Trouille. The two were taking turns, the one acting as

outpost while the other amused himself.

"Look out!" cried Nénesse; "here's Hyacinthe."

He had seen the whip, and he started off across country like a hare.

La Trouille and Delphin were in the grassy ditch. What a nuisance! So

here was her father coming! Still she had her wits sufficiently about

her to hand Delphin her five-franc piece.

"Look here," said she, "hide this somewhere. You can give it me back

again. Quick, cut away, hang you!"

Hyacinthe came up like a hurricane, shaking the ground as he ran, and

brandishing his whip, which smacked with a sound like that of crackling

flames.

"Oh, you foul drab, you!" he shouted; "I'll rouse you!"

He was so infuriated, on recognising the rural constable's son, that

he missed the lad, as the latter scuttled off on all fours through the

brambles. La Trouille, hampered by her petticoats, could neither escape

nor plead innocence. A lash of the whip soon set her upright, and

brought her out of the ditch. Then the sport began.

"Take that, you dirty troll! See if that won't quiet you!"

La Trouille, without saying a word, accustomed to these races, leapt

away like a goat. Her father's usual tactics were to bring her back

home like that, and then lock her up. So she tried to make her escape

towards the plain, hoping to tire him out; and on this occasion she all

but succeeded, thanks to a chance encounter. For the last moment or so,

Monsieur Charles and Elodie, whom he was taking to the fête, had been

standing there stock-still, in the middle of the road. They had seen

everything; the young girl staring wide with innocent stupefaction,

the father red with shame and bursting with indignation. The worst was

that as that shameless hussy La Trouille recognised him she tried to

obtain his protection. He repulsed her, but the whip was within range,

and, to avoid it, she took to dodging round her uncle and cousin;

while her father swore more loudly than ever, coarsely reproaching her

with her misbehaviour. Meantime he also dodged round Monsieur Charles,

and launched forth a volley of lashes, with all his might. Monsieur

Charles, dumbfounded and aghast at being thus encircled, could only

bury Elodie's face in his waistcoat, so that she might not see or hear

anything. To such an extent did he lose his wits, that he himself

became very coarse.

"Now, then, you dirty troll, will you leave me alone? Whoever cursed me

with such a family in this strumpets' country?"

As soon as La Trouille was dislodged she felt that she was lost. One

lash of the whip, which curled round her up to her arm-pits, made her

spin like a top; another knocked her down, and dragged out a wisp of

her hair. After that, brought back into the right road, her only idea

was to get home as sharply as possible. She leapt over the hedges,

cleared the ditches, and cut across the vineyards, without fear of

impalement on the stakes. However, her little legs could no longer

hold out; the lashes still rained down upon her round shoulders, upon

her loins, indeed over all her precocious flesh. Not that she cared a

straw; she had got to think it rather amusing to be tickled so hard.

With a nervous laugh she finally leapt into the house, and took refuge

in a corner, where the big whip could no longer reach her.

"Hand over your five francs," said the father, "by way of penalty."

She swore that she had lost them while running home, whereupon he

sniggered incredulously, and rummaged her all over. Finding nothing, he

flew into a passion again.

"What! So you've given them to your gallant! You blessed fool! You

amuse them, and then you pay them!"

After that he went off in a towering rage, locking her in, and calling

out that she should stay there all by herself till the next day, as he

didn't mean to return.

La Trouille, when once he had gone off, made an inspection of her body,

which was just striped with two or three weals. Then she put her hair

straight, and tidied her dress. Finally, she calmly undid the lock--a

trick at which she had grown extremely skilful--and bolted off, without

even taking the trouble to refasten the door. Nicely robbed the robbers

would find themselves, if any came! She knew where to find Nénesse and

Delphin again: in a copse beside the Aigre. They were, indeed, waiting

for her there; and now it was her cousin Nénesse's turn. He had three

francs with him, the other threepence. She had got her money back,

and she decided good-naturedly that they would spend the whole lot

together. They returned to the fair, and she set them a-shooting for

macaroons, after buying herself a big bow of red satin, which she stuck

in her hair.

Meanwhile, on arriving at Lengaigne's, Hyacinthe fell in with Bécu,

who had his official badge fastened on to a new blouse. The scamp

apostrophised the constable vehemently.

"Look here, you! You've a pretty way of going your rounds! D'you know

where I found your swine of a boy?"

"Where?"

"Why, with my daughter! I'll write to the prefect and have you

cashiered, you swine's father--swine, yourself!"

This made Bécu fire up.

"Daughter, indeed! Why, she's always flourishing her legs in the

air--and so now she's led Delphin astray? Hell and thunder! I'll send

the gendarmes after her!"

"Just try it on, you thief!"

Then the two snarled in each other's faces, till, all at once, the

strain was relaxed, and their fury dropped.

"We must have an explanation; let's go in and liquor," said Hyacinthe.

"I haven't a copper," replied Bécu.

Then the other merrily produced his first five-franc piece, tossed it

in the air, and stuck it in his eye.

"Well, shall we spend it, you gay dog? Come along, my buck! It's my

turn now; you've paid often enough."

They went into Lengaigne's, chuckling for joy, and slapping each other

affectionately on the back. Lengaigne had had an idea that year. As the

owner of the strolling ball-room refused to come and pitch his tent

in the village, disgusted at not having cleared his expenses the year

before, the innkeeper had daringly made a ball-room of his barn, which

adjoined his tavern, with its front door communicating with the road.

He had even made another doorway in the party-wall, so that ball-room

and tavern communicated. This idea had brought him the custom of the

whole village, and his rival, Macqueron, was furious at having his

house empty.

"Two quarts at once; one for each of us!" yelled Hyacinthe.

As Flore, bewildered and radiant at sight of the throng of people, was

attending to his order, he noticed that his arrival had interrupted

Lengaigne, who had been reading a letter aloud, standing amid a group

of peasants. On being questioned, the taverner replied, with a deal of

dignity that, it was a letter sent by his son Victor from the regiment.

"Ah, indeed, the rascal!" said Bécu, becoming interested. "And what

does he say? You must begin it again for us."

So Lengaigne read it over again.

"My Dear Parents,--This is to tell you that we have been here at Lille

in Flanders for a month, less seven days. The country's not bad except

for the dearness of the wine, for which we have to pay as much as

eightpence a quart."

In all the four closely-written pages there was hardly anything

else. The same detail recurred with infinite monotony, spun out into

lengthened phrases. However, they all expressed surprise each time that

the price of the wine was mentioned. So there were parts like that! How

horrid! In the last lines of the letter came an attempt at spongeing: a

request for twelve francs to replace a lost pair of shoes.

"Ah, the rascal!" repeated the rural constable. "Something like a

fellow that, good God."

After the first two quarts, Hyacinthe asked for two more: bottled

wine, at a franc apiece, paying as he was served so as to create

astonishment, and rapping his money on the table, in a way that

revolutionised the tavern. When the first five-franc piece had been

expended in drink, he pulled out a second one, screwed it into his

eye, as before, and cried out that there was plenty more where that

one had come from. So the afternoon slipped by, amid a bustle of

drinkers passing in and out, and increasing tipsiness. Dull and sedate

though they were on work-days, they were now all yelling, thumping,

and spitting vehemently. It occurred to one tall thin fellow to get

shaved, and Lengaigne sat him down forthwith in the midst of them, and

scraped his skin so roughly, that the razor was heard going over the

leathery integument as if at work on a scalded pig. A second took the

first one's place; 'twas fine sport. And how the tongues wagged! There

was Macqueron, now, who didn't dare show himself outside. Wasn't it

this fool of an assessor's own fault if the usual ball hadn't come?

Arrangements might have been made. But, sure enough, he preferred

voting roads, and getting three times as much money for his land as it

was worth. This allusion provoked a tempest of laughter. Fat Flore,

whose triumph the day was to be, kept neglecting her customers to run

to the door, bursting into insolent mirth, whenever she saw Cœlina's

jaundiced visage behind the opposite window-panes.

"Cigars! Madame Lengaigne," thundered Hyacinthe at last. "Expensive

ones, mind! Penny each!"

As night was falling, and the petroleum lamps were being lit, Madame

Bécu came in to look for her husband. But he had started on a monstrous

game at cards.

"Are you coming?" she said; "it's past eight. You must have some

dinner."

He stared at her with tipsy majesty.

"Go to blazes!" he replied.

Then Hyacinthe displayed intense delight. "Madame Bécu," said he, "I

invite you. Eh? Yes, we'll just peck a bit, between the three of us.

D'ye hear there, mistress? Give us your best: some ham, some rabbit,

and dessert. And don't be anxious. Just look here. Attention!"

He then pretended to fumble himself all over. Then he suddenly produced

his third coin, and held it up.

"Cuckoo! Aha, there it is!"

Everybody was doubled up with laughter, and one fat man all but

suffocated. That rascal Hyacinthe was thundering funny! And some of

them, by way of a joke, felt him from head to foot, as if he had had

crowns all over him.

"I say, La Bécu," he repeated a dozen times over while he was eating,

"if Bécu don't mind, we'll sleep together? What do you say?"

She was very dirty, not having known, she said, that she should stop

at the fête; and she laughed, did this dark pole-cat of a woman, wiry

and rusty like an old needle; while Hyacinthe, without further delay,

grabbed hold of her legs under the table. Meantime the husband, blind

drunk, dribbled and chuckled, shouting out that two men would be none

too many for the hussy.

It was ten o'clock when the ball began. Through the communicating

doorway the four lamps, fastened by iron wires to the beams, could be

seen blazing. Clou, the farrier, was there with his trombone, as well

as the nephew of a Bazoches-le-Doyen rope-maker, who played the violin.

The admission was free, but you paid two sous for each dance you joined

in. The beaten soil underfoot had just been watered, on account of the

dust. Whenever the instruments left off playing, the sharp, regular

detonations of the neighbouring shooting-gallery could be heard. The

road, usually so gloomy, was all ablaze with the reflectors of the two

other booths; the trinket stall glittered with gildings, while the

turn-about was bedecked with mirrors and hung with red curtains like a

chapel.

"Hallo! Why, there's my little daughter!" cried Hyacinthe, with

swimming eyes.

So it was. La Trouille was just coming into the ball, attended by

Delphin and Nénesse; and the father did not seem at all surprised

to see her there, although he had locked her in. She not merely had

the red bunch of ribbons flaunting in her hair, for round her neck

there was now a heavy imitation coral necklace, formed of beads of

sealing-wax, which showed blood-red against her dark skin. All three of

them, moreover, tired of rambling about in front of the booths, were

dull and sticky with sweetmeats, of which they had eaten more than they

could digest. Delphin, who was only happy when out and about in all the

hidden nooks of the country-side, wore a blouse, and his shaggy round

savage-like head was bare. Nénesse, on the other hand, already yearning

after the refinements of town life, was clad in a suit of dittos bought

at Lambourdieu's, one of those scant outfits turned out wholesale

by cheap Paris clothiers; and he wore a round felt hat, to mark his

contempt of the village, which he looked down upon.

"Petty!" called Hyacinthe. "Little daughter, come and taste this.

First-rate, ain't it?"

He let her drink out of his glass, while Madame Bécu asked Delphin

sternly:

"What have you done with your cap?"

"Lost it."

"Lost it? Come here, and and I'll cuff you!" But Bécu interposed,

chuckling complacently at the recollection of his son's precocious

gallantries.

"Let him be! He's getting a big boy now. And so, you scum of the earth,

you've been amusing yourselves together? Ah! the lickerish dog."

"Go and play," concluded Hyacinthe paternally. "And mind you're to be

good."

"They're as drunk as pigs," said Nénesse, with an air of disgust, as he

went back to the ball-room.

La Trouille laughed.

"I should just think so! I quite expected it. That's why they're so

amiable."

The dancing was getting lively. The explosive blasts of Clou's

trombone, which smothered the faint music of the little fiddle,

were all that could be heard. The ground, watered over copiously,

was turning to mud under the thick-soled boots of the dancers; and

presently, from all the shaken petticoats, from the jackets and bodices

that grew moist under the arm-pits with broad stains of sweat, there

uprose a strong goat-like smell, accentuated by the smoky acridity

of the lamps. Between two quadrilles, a sensation was created by the

arrival of Berthe, Macqueron's daughter, arrayed in a foulard dress,

exactly like those that the tax-collector's young ladies had worn at

Cloyes, on Saint Lubin's day. Could her parents have given her leave

to come? Or had she slipped out behind their backs? It was observable

that she danced all the time with the son of a wheelwright, whom her

father had forbidden her to speak to, on account of a family quarrel.

Jests were bandied about. Apparently she was no longer content with her

pernicious solitary habits.

Hyacinthe, tipsy as he was, had, for the last moment or so, noticed

that beast Lequeu, stationed beside the communicating doorway, and

watching Berthe as she curvetted about in her gallant's arms. He could

not restrain himself.

"I say, Monsieur Lequeu," he exclaimed, "you're not leading your

sweetheart out?"

"What sweetheart?" asked the schoolmaster, green with bile.

"Why, the pretty dark-ringed eyes, over there!"

Lequeu, furious at having been detected, turned his back, and stood

motionless, in one of those haughty spells of silence in which he

enwrapped himself, out of prudence and disdain. Lengaigne having

come forward, Hyacinthe buttonholed him. "Aha! he had given that

paper-stainer over there one for his nob! Rich girls for him, indeed!

Not that Berthe was such a catch, for she had a peculiar physical

defect." Being now thoroughly aflame, he swore to the truth of his

assertion. It was current talk from Cloyes to Châteaudun. Stupefied

by this information, the others craned over to look at Berthe, making

slight grimaces of repugnance whenever her white skirts came flying

round that way, in the course of the dance.

"You old rogue," resumed Hyacinthe, beginning to address Lengaigne

familiarly, "your girl's all right."

"Rather!" replied the taverner, complacently.

Suzanne was now in Paris, in the swell set, people said. Lengaigne,

acting discreetly, used to hint at a good situation she had there.

Meanwhile peasants still kept coming in, and a farmer having asked

after Victor, the letter was produced again. "My dear Parents,--This is

to tell you that we have been here, at Lille in Flanders ..." They all

listened anew; even people who had already heard the letter read five

or six times over, gathered round again. Not really eightpence a quart?

Yes, really; eightpence!

"A beastly country!" repeated Bécu. At that moment Jean made his

appearance; at once going to glance into the ball-room, as if he were

looking for some one. Then he returned looking disappointed and uneasy.

For the last two months he had not dared to pay such frequent visits

to Buteau, for he felt that the latter was cool, not to say hostile.

Doubtless he, Jean, had ill-concealed his feelings for Françoise, the

growing affection which now fevered him, and his comrade had noticed

it. It must have displeased him, interfering with his plans.

"Good evening," said Jean, drawing near a table where Fouan and

Delhomme were drinking a bottle of beer.

"Will you join us, Corporal?" said Delhomme, politely.

Jean accepted; and after clinking glasses:

"Funny thing Buteau hasn't turned up," he said.

"Here he is, pat!" said Fouan.

And, indeed, Buteau now came in, but all by himself, and Jean's face

grew still darker. The other strolled round the tavern, shaking hands;

then, on reaching his father and brother-in-law's table, he stood

there, refusing to sit down or to take anything.

"Lise and Françoise don't dance, then?" Jean finally asked, in a

faltering voice.

Buteau looked at him hard out of his little grey eyes.

"Françoise has gone to bed," he replied; "it's the best place for young

folks."

An incident near them now attracted their attention, and cut the

conversation short. It was Hyacinthe at loggerheads with Flore, whom

he had asked for a quart of rum to make some punch, and who refused to

bring it.

"No! No more! You're drunk enough."

"Hallo! what's that she's saying? Do you fancy that I sha'n't pay? Why,

I'll buy up your whole shanty, if you like. I've merely to blow my

nose. Here! Look at this!"

He had concealed his fourth five-franc piece in his hand; and now

pinching his nose with his fingers, he blew it loudly, and apparently

drew out the coin, which he then paraded round like a monstrance.

"That's what I blow from my nose, when I've got a cold!"

A round of applause shook the walls, and Flore, quite vanquished,

brought the quart of rum and some sugar. Next a salad-bowl was wanted,

and then the scamp took possession of the whole room, stirring the

punch, with his elbows squarely set, while his red face was lighted up

by the glow of the flames, which increased the heat of the atmosphere,

already densely befogged by the lamps and pipes. Buteau, exasperated at

sight of the money, suddenly broke out:

"You thundering swine, aren't you ashamed of tippling away like that

with the money you rob our father of?"

The other adopted a low-comedy tone.

"Oh, it's you, young 'un! I suppose it's your empty stomach that makes

you talk such rot!"

"I tell you, you're a dirty beast, and you'll finish at the galleys. To

begin with, it was you that killed our mother with grief."

The sot rattled his spoon and stirred up a tempest of flame in the

salad-bowl, while he split his sides with laughter.

"Right you are; go on. Sure enough it was me--supposing it wasn't you!"

"And I tell you further that spendthrifts of your kidney don't deserve

that the corn should grow. Only to think that our property--yes, all

that land that the old folks took so much trouble to leave us--has been

pledged by you, and handed over to others. You dirty blackguard, what

have you done with the land?"

At this Hyacinthe was roused. His punch went out, and he settled

himself, leaning back in his chair, seeing that all the drinkers were

silently listening, to judge between him and his brother.

"The land!" he yelled: "why, what the deuce does the land care for you?

You're its slave, it robs you of your enjoyments, your strength, your

life! You idiot! And it doesn't so much as make you rich! While I, who

fold my arms and despise it, confining myself to giving it a kick or

two, why, I, you see, am independent and can wet my whistle! Oh, you

confounded simpleton!"

The peasants laughed again, while Buteau, surprised by the roughness of

the attack, could only mutter:

"A good-for-nothing lazy lout; who does no work and boasts of it."

"Land, indeed! A lot of humbug!" resumed Hyacinthe, now thoroughly

aroused. "Well, you _must_ be an ancient, if you still believe in

humbug like that! Does it exist, this land? It's mine, it's yours,

it's nobody's. Wasn't it once the old 'uns? And hadn't he to cut it up

to give it to us? And won't you cut it up for your young 'uns? Very

well, then! It comes and goes, increases and diminishes--diminishes

especially; for there you are, a fine gentleman with your seven or

eight acres, when father had over twenty. I got disgusted with my

share. It was too little, so I blued the lot. And, besides, I like

sound investments, and, look'ee! young 'un, land's shaky! I would

not put a copper into it. It's bad business, and there's an ugly

catastrophe at hand that'll wipe you all out. Bankruptcy! A set of

blockheads!"