While his brother was fastening up his trousers again, Buteau gave him

a friendly slap across the buttocks, and this victory, so pleasing to

the family pride, seemed to have put them on the best terms again with

each other. Old Fouan related, in the most sprightly fashion, a story

of his youthful days, of the time when the Cossacks were in La Beauce.

One of them had gone to sleep on the bank of the Aigre with his mouth

open, and Fouan recounted how he had so freely discharged himself

thereinto that he had buried the sleeping man's face up to the hair.

The market was now drawing to a close, and the company separated, all

very drunk.

Buteau took Fouan and Hyacinthe off with him in his cart, and Lise,

to whom her husband had whispered a word or two, made herself very

pleasant and agreeable. They all petted the father, and made a great

fuss with him; and there was no more quarrelling. The elder son, who

was now getting sober again, was deep in thought. He felt sure that the

reason why his younger brother was manifesting such unusual amiability

was that he, also, had discovered the secret payments made by the

collector. And then he sadly reflected that even if his scamp of a

brother had hitherto had the delicacy to refrain from plundering his

father's hoard, he certainly would never be weak enough to let it fall

into any one else's hands. He determined, however, that as the family

were now on good terms together once more, he would diplomatically, and

without showing any signs of vexation, make a full inquiry into this

important matter. When Rognes was reached, and the old man asked to be

set down, the two brothers sprang out of the gig, and rivalled each

other in their demonstrations of respect and affection.

"Lean on me, father."

"Give me your hand, father."

They then carefully assisted him out of the trap, and the old man

remained standing between them, full of uneasy consternation, for he

now felt sadly certain that they had discovered his secret.

"What has come over you all?" he asked. "Why you seem to have suddenly

grown very fond of me?"

Their amiability, indeed, quite frightened him. He would rather have

seen them comporting themselves as usual towards him--rough and harsh,

and wanting in respect. He foresaw a world of trouble in store for him,

now that they knew of his secret hoard; and he returned to the Château

in a very distressful state of mind.

It happened that Canon, who had not made his appearance for the

last two months, was now there, sitting on a stone and waiting for

Hyacinthe's return. As soon as he caught sight of him, he called out:

"There's that daughter of yours in Couillard's wood, and there's a man

with her."

The father almost exploded with rage and indignation, and the blood

rushed angrily to his face.

"The lewd hussy," he said, "to disgrace me in that way!"

He took down a big carter's whip which was hanging behind the door, and

then hurried off down the stony bank to the little wood. La Trouille's

geese, however, kept guard over her like faithful watch-dogs, when

she was up to her pranks. The gander immediately sniffed the father's

approach, and darted forward, followed by the whole flock. Raising

his wings and stretching out his neck, the male bird broke out into a

continuous, menacing hiss, while the rest of the flock, forming into

line of battle, also stretched out their necks, and opened their great

yellow beaks, ready to bite. The poacher cracked his whip at them, and

the sound of a hasty retreat then became audible behind the bushes. La

Trouille had heard the warning, and had made her escape.

When Hyacinthe restored the whip to its place, he seemed overcome by a

deep philosophical sadness. It might be that his daughter's persistent

lewdness filled him with pity for human passions, or it might merely

be the natural reaction after his triumphant hilariousness at Cloyes.

Shaking his rough scampish-looking head:

"Bah!" he cried to Canon, "it isn't worth that much!"

And then, raising his leg over the valley that was now buried in

shadow, he let off a violent and contemptuous detonation, as though he

wished to overwhelm the neighbourhood.

CHAPTER IV.

It was now early in October. The vintage was about to commence; a week

of merry joviality, during which such families as had fallen out were

in the habit of getting reconciled over pots of new wine. For a whole

week Rognes stunk of grapes, such a quantity of which was eaten that

the women were pulling up their petticoats and the men letting down

their trousers behind every hedge; while the lovers, with juice-stained

faces, kissed each other greedily amid the vines. The evil of all this

was that the men got drunk and the girls in the family-way.

On the morning after his return from Cloyes, Hyacinthe duly began to

hunt for his father's hoard; for in accordance with all probability the

old man did not carry his money and vouchers about with him; he must

hide them away in some secret corner. But although La Trouille assisted

her father in his search, they turned the house topsy-turvy without

any result, and this despite their cunning and practice in marauding.

It was not until the following week that the poacher, chancing to

remove from a shelf a cracked earthenware pan, which was no longer

used, discovered therein, beneath some lentils, a packet of papers very

carefully enclosed in a piece of gum-covered canvas which had been torn

out of an old hat. There was not a single coin, however. The cash must

be hidden somewhere else, and there must be a pretty pile of it, the

poacher reflected, for his father had spent nothing for the last five

years. There was the scrip there, however, representing three hundred

francs a year in five per cent. Rente. As Hyacinthe was counting the

bonds and examining them, a piece of stamped paper, covered with large

handwriting, fell from the packet, and the perusal of this document

quite stupefied the poacher. The murder was out now! He had discovered

where all the money had gone!

It was the most amazing story possible. A month after the old man had

divided his property among his children he had fallen ill; brooding

sadly over the fact that he had now absolutely nothing of his own, not

even so much as a handful of corn. He could not go on living in this

way, he moaned to himself; and it was then that he was guilty of a sad

piece of folly--folly as infatuated as that of those lustful old men

who spend their last coppers in secretly stealing back to some drab

who has gone into other keeping. Despite all his earlier shrewdness,

Fouan had allowed himself to be completely gulled by that cunning

old sharper, Saucisse. That earth-hunger, that furious desire for

possession which feverishly racks the bodies of all the old peasants

who have spent their lives on the soil, had so completely mastered

him, that he had entered into a written agreement with Saucisse to

pay him fifteen sous every day as long as he lived, on condition that

he, Saucisse, left him upon his death an acre and a quarter of land.

A pretty bargain this, considering that Fouan was seventy-six, and

that Saucisse was ten years younger. As some justification, however,

of Fouan's conduct, it should be said that Saucisse had been crafty

enough to take to his bed just before the bargain was struck; and he

had coughed so distressingly, seeming so near the point of death, that

Fouan, goaded on by his covetousness, and thinking himself the craftier

of the two, had eagerly pressed for the completion of the agreement.

The moral to be drawn was, that it was preferable to take on with a

wench rather than sign an agreement; for the payment of the daily

fifteen sous had now been going on for five years, and the more Fouan

paid, the more lustful he grew, and the more passionately he yearned

for the land. What! after cutting himself free from all the weary

bondage of the soil, when he had nothing more to do than to spend the

remainder of his days in peaceful tranquillity, watching others wearing

themselves out in tending the ungrateful earth, he had once more

returned to her, so that she might finish him off. No, really, wisdom

was seldom to be found among men, either young or old.

For a moment Hyacinthe felt inclined to appropriate both the scrip

and the agreement, but his courage failed him. Such a deed would have

necessitated flight. Then, full of angry disappointment, he placed

the papers under the lentils again, at the bottom of the pan. His

exasperation was so great that he could not hold his tongue. The next

day all Rognes knew of the agreement with old Saucisse, and the daily

payment of fifteen sous for an acre and a quarter of poor land that

was not certainly worth three thousand francs. In five years nearly

fourteen hundred francs had been paid, and if the old rascal lived for

another five years, he would be pretty certain to keep both the field

and its value. Old Fouan was plentifully chaffed about his bargain,

as was natural. Since he had divested himself of all his property, he

had been unceremoniously passed by on the roads, but now he was again

saluted and addressed deferentially since it was known that he had an

invested income, and might possibly come in for some landed estate.

His own family seemed especially revolutionised by the discovery.

Fanny, who had previously been on very cold terms with her father,

annoyed at his having gone to live with his disreputable elder son

instead of returning to her house, now brought him some linen--some

old shirts of her husband's. She was actuated less by motives of

self-interest than by an unconscious respect for the head of the

family, who once more acquired some importance, as he was in the

possession of property. Her father, however, was very hard and

unbending, and he could not refrain from alluding to that cutting

speech of hers as to his begging on his knees to be taken back again.

He had never forgotten it; and, on receiving Fanny, he exclaimed:

"So it is you, then, who are coming on your knees to get me back?"

The young woman took this rebuff very badly, and when she got home

again she wept with shame and anger. She was touchy to an extreme; a

look sometimes sufficed to wound her; and honest, hard-working, and

well-to-do though she was, she had fallen out with almost all the

country-side. After that, Delhomme undertook to pay the old man's

allowance, for Fanny swore that she would never speak a word to him

again.

As for Buteau, he quite astonished everybody one day by making his

appearance at the Château, coming, so he said, to pay a little visit

to his father. Hyacinthe sniggered, brought out the brandy bottle,

and they had a glass together. But his sneering surprise turned into

absolute amazement when he saw his brother produce two five-franc

pieces and lay them down on the table.

"We must settle accounts, father," said Buteau. "Here is the last

quarter's allowance."

Ah! the scamp! he had never paid his father a copper for years past,

and now to do this he must have designs upon him. He was no doubt

offering him this money in the hope of getting him to return to his

house. The truth is, that as Fouan reached out his hand to take up the

coins, Buteau pushed it aside and hastily picked up the money himself.

"What I mean is, that I want you to know I have the cash all ready. I

will take care of it, and you will know where to find it whenever you

want it."

Hyacinthe began to scent mischief and grow annoyed.

"I say," he began, "if you want to get father away from me----"

"What! you're not jealous, are you?" Buteau laughingly replied. "Don't

you think, now, that it would be more natural if father stayed a week

with me, and then a week with you, and so on? Eh? suppose you cut

yourself in two, dad! Well, here's your health in the meantime!"

Before taking his leave, he invited them to come and assist at the

vintaging the next day, and he promised that they should stuff their

bellies full of grapes. Indeed, he made himself so pleasant and

agreeable, that the other two confessed that although he was a great

rascal he was nevertheless an agreeable fellow; of course, providing

that one didn't let him take one in. Then they willingly accompanied

him part of his way home.

Just as they reached the bottom of the hill they met Monsieur

and Madame Charles, accompanied by Elodie, who were returning to

Roseblanche, after a walk along the bank of the Aigre. They were all

three of them in mourning for Madame Estelle, as the girl's mother was

called. She had died in July, from over-exertion; indeed, every time

that the grandmother had returned from Chartres she had always reported

that her poor daughter was killing herself, such a deal of trouble did

she take to maintain the reputation of the establishment in the Rue

aux Juifs, with which her worthless husband occupied himself less and

less. Keen, indeed, had been Monsieur Charles's emotion at the funeral,

to which he had not dared to take the young girl, who had only been

informed of her bereavement when her mother had already lain for three

days in the grave. Great also had been Monsieur Charles's heart-pangs

when, for the first time for many years, he had again gazed upon Number

19, that house at the corner of the Rue de la Planche-aux-Carpes, with

its yellow-washed front and closed green shutters; that house which

had been the work of his life, and which he now found hung with black

drapery, the little door standing open, and the passage barred by the

coffin, standing between four lighted tapers.

He was deeply touched by the manner in which the whole neighbourhood

shared in his grief. The ceremony passed off in the most satisfactory

manner. When the coffin was brought out of the passage into the

street, all the women of the neighbourhood crossed themselves, and the

funeral procession made its way to the church amidst signs of general

mourning. The five women of the house were there in dark dresses, and

comported themselves with an air of decorum, as was generally remarked

that evening in Chartres; and one of them even shed tears at the

grave-side. In that matter, indeed, Monsieur Charles had every reason

for satisfaction, but how he had suffered the next morning when he had

a chat with his son-in-law, Hector Vaucogne, and visited the house.

It had already lost all its brilliancy, and the many laxities which

he noticed, laxities which would never have been tolerated in his own

time, fully indicated the absence of masculine authority. He observed,

however, with pleasure that the decorous behaviour of the five women at

the funeral had created such a favourable impression in the town that

the establishment remained full all the week. Upon leaving Number 19,

full of uneasy thoughts, he gave Hector plainly to understand that, now

poor Estelle was no longer there to look after affairs, it was his duty

to reform and settle down seriously to the business of life, if he did

not wish his daughter's fortune to be lost.

Buteau, on seeing the Charles family, at once invited them to come to

the vintage, but they declined on account of their mourning. Their

faces were very sad, and they spoke and moved about in a weary,

heart-broken fashion; they could not be prevailed upon to promise

anything further than just to go and taste the new wine.

"It will be a little change for this poor darling," said Madame

Charles; "and she has so few amusements here, since we took her away

from school. She's seventeen, you know, now, and we couldn't keep her

there always."

Elodie listened with downcast eyes, blushing shyly. She had grown very

tall and slim, as pale as a lily vegetating in the shade.

"And what are you going to do with this tall young lady?" Buteau asked.

The girl's blushes deepened; and her grandmother replied:

"Ah! that I can scarcely tell you. We shall leave her perfectly free to

follow her own inclinations."

Meanwhile Fouan had taken Monsieur Charles aside.

"Is he looking after the business?" he asked with an air of interest.

Monsieur Charles shrugged his shoulders, and assumed an aggrieved air.

"Ah, that's just what is troubling us so much. I saw a person from

Chartres this morning. It's very sad! The house is done for! The

supervision is so wretched that fights go on in the passages, and

fellows actually walk away without paying."

Then he crossed his arms and drew a long breath to ease himself of

a new worry which had been stifling him, by reason of its enormity,

ever since the morning. "And would you believe it," he resumed, "the

reprobate goes to the café, now? Going to a café, indeed, when there is

one in his own house!"

"He must be daft, then!" fiercely exclaimed Hyacinthe, who had been

listening.

They now relapsed into silence, for Madame Charles and Elodie were

drawing near with Buteau. They were speaking of the dear departed, and

the young girl remarked how sad it made her that she had not been able

to kiss her poor mother.

"But it seems she died so suddenly," she added, with her innocent air,

"and they were so busy in the shop----"

"Yes, making confectionery for some christening parties," hastily

interrupted Madame Charles, with a side-long glance, full of meaning,

at the others.

Not one of them smiled. They all preserved a gravely sympathetic air.

The girl had bent her gaze upon a ring she was wearing, and she kissed

it, with her eyes full of tears.

"This is all I have that belonged to her," she said. "Grandmother took

it from her finger and brought it and put it on mine. She wore it for

twenty years, and I shall keep it all my life."

It was an old wedding-ring, of common make, that had once been

engine-turned, but it was now so worn that nearly all the turning had

disappeared. Its aspect seemed to tell that the hand on which it had

grown so thin had never recoiled from any task or duty, but had been

ever active and energetic, washing glasses and pots, making beds,

rubbing, cleaning, dusting, and leaving no corner untouched. This ring,

indeed, seemed to tell so much, and it had left particles of its gold

in so many scenes of the past, that the men gazed at it with earnest

eyes in silent emotion.

"When you have worn it away as much as your mother did," said Monsieur

Charles, choking with a sudden spasm of grief, "you will have really

deserved a rest. If it could speak, it could tell you that money is

earned by hard work and orderly habits."

Elodie burst into tears, and pressed the ring to her lips again.

"I want you, you know, to be married with this ring when we find you a

husband," said Madame Charles. The mention of marriage, however, was

too much for the sorrowing girl, and she was so overcome with confusion

that she threw herself wildly on her grandmother's breast, and hid her

face out of sight.

"Come, now, don't be so shy and nervous, my little pet," said Madame

Charles, smiling, and trying to calm the girl. "You must get accustomed

to the idea: there's nothing dreadful about it. You may be quite sure

that I wouldn't say anything improper before you. Your cousin Buteau

asked just now what we were going to do with you. Well, we shall

begin by marrying you. Come, now, dear, look up, and don't rub your

face against my shawl like that. It will make your skin quite red and

inflamed."

Then she added in a low tone, speaking to the others, with an air of

profound satisfaction:

"What an innocent darling she is! She is guilelessness itself!"

"Ah, if we hadn't this dear angel," said Monsieur Charles, "we should

be quite overcome with trouble--on account of the matter I mentioned to

you. By the way, with all this worry my roses and pinks have suffered

this year; and I can't tell what has gone wrong with my aviary, but all

my birds are ailing. I have only found a little consolation in fishing;

yesterday I caught a trout weighing three pounds. One ought to do one's

best to be happy when one is in the country, don't you think so?"

Then they parted, Monsieur and Madame Charles renewing their promise to

go and taste the new wine. Fouan, Buteau, and Hyacinthe walked on a few

yards in silence, and then the old man gave utterance to what they were

all three thinking.

"Well," he exclaimed, "the youngster who gets her with the house will

be a lucky fellow!"

Bécu, who with the office of rural constable combined that of public

drummer, had duly beaten his instrument by way of proclaiming the

commencement of the vintage; and on the Monday morning the whole

country-side was in a state of excitement, for every inhabitant had his

vines, and not a single family would on any account have missed going

to the slopes of the Aigre that day. The excitement of the village had,

however, been brought to a climax by the fact that the new priest--for

Rognes had at last allowed itself the luxury of a priest--had arrived

on the previous evening at night-fall. Owing to the darkness he

had only been indistinctly seen. The tongues of the villagers were

consequently wagging most energetically, and the more so as the

circumstances attending the priest's arrival were somewhat peculiar.

For some months after his quarrel with the inhabitants of Rognes,

the Abbé Godard had persistently refused to set foot in the village.

He only baptized, confessed, and married those who came to seek his

services at Bazoches-le-Doyen. If any one had died at Rognes, they

would doubtless have crumbled away waiting for him; though this

point was never clearly settled, for no one took it into his head

to die during this great quarrel. The priest had declared to his

lordship the bishop that he would rather be dismissed than carry the

blessed sacrament into such a region of abomination, where he was so

badly treated by an utterly reprobate population of adulterers and

drunkards, who, moreover, were sure of everlasting damnation, since

they worshipped only the devil! And his lordship, apparently, agreed

with the Abbé, for he allowed things to go on as they were till the

rebellious flock showed signs of contrition.

Rognes was, consequently, without a priest; there was no mass, no

anything, and the place was in a perfectly heathenish condition. At

first some of the villagers felt a little surprise; but, then, things

went on much as usual, in spite of all this. It neither rained more

nor blew more than it had done before, and the village was saving

a considerable sum of money, as it had no priest to pay. Then the

villagers began to ask themselves whether it would not be as well to do

without a priest altogether, as one did not really seem indispensable,

and experience already proved that the crops did not suffer, and that

they themselves did not die any faster owing to the absence of a

pastor. Many of them professed themselves of this opinion--not only the

wild scamps, like Lengaigne, but some steady, practical men of sound

common-sense like Delhomme. Many others, however, on the other hand,

were annoyed at not having a priest. It was not that they were more

religious than the others, or more inclined to believe in the Divinity,

but the fact of having no priest seemed to indicate that the village

was either too poor or too miserly to pay for one. The villagers of

Magnolles, only two hundred and eighty in number, ten fewer than the

inhabitants of Rognes, supported a priest, and threw the fact at their

neighbours' heads in such a provokingly scornful fashion that it led

to blows. Then, too, the women clung to their old customs, and there

was not one of them who would have consented to be married or buried

without the services of a priest. The men themselves had occasionally

gone to church, because every one went there. In short, there had

always been a priest, and there must be one now, though they reserved

to themselves perfect liberty of thought and action.

The municipal council was naturally called upon to deal with the

question. Hourdequin, the mayor, who although he did not observe

the practices of the faith still favoured religion as an instrument

of government, made a political mistake in not taking any part in

the contest, from a conciliatory desire not to show any bias in the

official position which he held. The village was poor, said one party,

so what was the use of burdening it with the expense--a considerable

one for its small resources--which would be incurred in repairing the

parsonage? Moreover, it was still hoped that the Abbé Godard would be

induced to return. At last it came about that Macqueron, the assessor,

who had formerly been a determined enemy of the cloth, placed himself

at the head of the band of malcontents, who felt humiliated at not

having a priest in the village. From that moment Macqueron must have

entertained a desire to overthrow the mayor in view of taking his

place. It was said, too, that he had become the agent of Monsieur

Rochefontaine, the manufacturer of Châteaudun, who was again going to

oppose Monsieur de Chédeville at the approaching elections. Hourdequin,

whose farm demanded his close attention at that moment, and who was

weary of his work, showed but little interest in the meetings of the

council, letting his assessor take whatever steps he pleased; and the

latter quickly won over the whole council to his views, and persuaded

the members to vote the necessary funds for the establishment of a

parish. Since Macqueron had contrived to get paid for that piece

of land which had been required for the new road, and which he had

formerly promised to give up gratuitously, he had been secretly called

a sharper by the councillors, but in his presence they manifested great

respect for him. Lengaigne alone protested against the vote, which,

so he declared, would hand the village over to the Jesuits. Bécu,

too, grumbled at it, for he had been turned out of the parsonage and

garden, and had been housed in a tumble-down old cottage. For a month

workmen had been employed renewing the plaster, putting in fresh panes

of glass, and replacing the broken slates; and thus it came about that

a priest had at last been able to install himself in the little house,

which had been newly white-washed for his reception.

At early dawn the carts began to start for the vineyards, each of them

carrying four or five large casks called _gueulebées_, and having

one end knocked out. The girls and women sat in the carts among the

baskets, while the men accompanied them on foot, whipping the horses

forward. There was a perfect procession, and conversations were carried

on from cart to cart amidst a general uproar of laughter and shouting.

Lengaigne's cart followed immediately behind the Macquerons', and,

thanks to this, Flore and Cœlina, who had not spoken to each other for

six months past, made friends again. Flore was accompanied by Bécu's

wife, and Cœlina by her daughter Berthe. Their conversation immediately

turned upon the subject of the new priest, and, amid the tramp of the

horses, a flow of words rose up into the sharp air of the early morning.

"I caught a glimpse of him as he was getting his luggage down."

"Indeed! and what sort of a man is he?"

"Well, it was so dark I could scarcely see, but he seemed very tall and

thin, and not strong; with a face as though he kept Lent perpetually.

He seemed about thirty, with a very gentle expression."

"I hear that he comes from Auvergne, from the mountains where the folks

are buried in snow for two-thirds of the year."

"How awful! Well, it will be a pleasant change for him to come here."

"Yes, indeed! You know, I suppose, that he is called Madeleine?"

"No. Madeline?"

"Madeline, Madeleine. Well, at all events, it isn't a man's name."

"I daresay he'll come and see us in the vineyards. Macqueron promised

that he would bring him."

"Ah! Well, we must watch for him."

The carts drew up at the foot of the hill-side, along the road that

skirted the Aigre. Presently in every little vineyard the women were

busily at work amid the lines of stakes, bending down and cutting off

the grapes with which they filled their baskets. The men had enough to

do in emptying the women's baskets into their own, which they carried

on their backs and emptied into the open casks. When all the casks of

a cart were full, the vehicle was driven off; its load was discharged

into the vat, and then the casks were brought back to be filled again.

There was such a heavy dew that morning that the dresses of the women

were speedily soaked through. Fortunately, however, the weather was

very fine, and the sun soon dried them again. There had been no rain

for three weeks, and the grapes, about which the greatest fears had

been entertained, had suddenly ripened and sweetened. Thus they were

all in high spirits that fine morning, grinning and bawling, and

indulging in most indelicate jokes which made the girls wriggle.

"How conceited that Cœlina used to be about her Berthe's delicate

complexion!" said Flore to Madame Bécu, standing up and looking at

Madame Macqueron in the adjoining vineyard; "why, the girl's face is

now getting dreadfully yellow and shrunken."

"Yes," replied Madame Bécu, "that comes of not marrying the girl! They

were wrong not to give her to the wheelwright's son. And they tell me,

indeed, that she has done herself harm by bad habits."

Then bending double she went on cutting off the bunches.

"All that, however," she presently continued, "does not prevent the

schoolmaster from being constantly about the place."

"Oh, that Lequeu," cried Flore; "he would grope with his nose in the

mud if he thought he could pick up a copper or two! See, there he is

coming to help them, the stupid fool!"

Then they relapsed into silence. Victor, who had returned from his

regiment barely a fortnight before, was taking their baskets and

emptying them into the one which Delphin carried on his back. That

cunning snake, Lengaigne, had hired Delphin for the vintage, pretending

that his own presence was necessary at the shop. The youngster, who had

never left Rognes, gaped with amazement at sight of Victor, who had

assumed a swaggering, rollicking manner; being, moreover, wonderfully

altered in appearance, with his moustache and his little tuft of beard,

his bumptious ways, and his forage-cap, which he still made a point of

wearing. However, he was sorely mistaken if he thought that he was an

object of envy to his companion; all his stories of barrack-life, and

his exaggerated lying tales of merry-making, and girls, and drinking

bouts, were quite thrown away. The young peasant shook his head in

dazed stupefaction, and without feeling in the least attracted. To

leave his nook would be paying too high a price for all those fine

pleasures, he thought. He had already twice refused to go and make his

fortune in a restaurant at Chartres with Nénesse.

"But when are you going to be a soldier, you whipper-snapper?" Victor

asked.

"What? I a soldier! No, no! I shall draw a lucky number!"

The contemptuous Victor could not get any other answer from him. What

a coward, he thought, was this big hulking fellow with the build of a

Cossack! As he talked he went on emptying the women's baskets into the

one which Delphin carried, and the young peasant did not so much as

bend under the load. Then Victor pointed to Berthe, and joked about her

in such a way that Delphin burst out into a fit of laughter, the basket

on his back being almost capsized. As he went down the hill and emptied

the grapes into one of the casks, he could still be heard almost

choking with merriment.

In the Macquerons' vineyard, Berthe still continued to play the fine

lady, using little scissors, instead of a bill-hook, to cut off the

bunches, showing herself also nervously afraid of thorns and wasps, and

expressing great alarm because her thin shoes, quite saturated with

dew, did not dry again. Although she detested Lequeu, she tolerated his

attentions, feeling flattered by the courtship of the only educated

man present. Presently he took out his handkerchief to wipe the girl's

shoes; but just then an unexpected apparition attracted their attention.

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Berthe, "did you ever see such a dress? I

heard that she had arrived yesterday evening, at the same time as the

priest."

It was Suzanne, the Lengaignes' daughter, who had unexpectedly

ventured to visit her native village, after leading a wild life in

Paris for three years. She had reached home the previous evening, and

had lingered late in bed, letting her mother and brother set out for

the vineyard, and resolving to join them there later on, and appear

in the midst of the peasants in such a showy toilet as would quite

overwhelm them with admiration. And she certainly did create an immense

sensation; for she had donned a blue silk dress of so bright a hue

that the blue of the sky looked quite pale and faded. As she stood in

full relief amid the dark green of the vines, bathed in a flood of

sunshine, she looked a real swell--something wonderful. She immediately

began to talk and laugh loudly, nibbling at the grapes, which she held

up in the air and then dropped into her mouth. She joked with Delphin

and her brother Victor, who seemed very proud of her, and she excited

the wondering admiration of her mother and Madame Bécu, who, leaving

off their work, gazed at her with damp, straining eyes. The vintagers

in the more distant vineyards joined in the general admiration; work

was stopped, and every eye was turned upon the girl, who had grown and

improved out of all recognition. People had once thought her plain,

but now she looked really appetising, no doubt on account of the way

in which she brought her little fair locks of hair over her phiz. The

result of this inquisitive examination was a great feeling of deference

for this plump girl attired in such costly raiment, and with such a

smiling face, betokening prosperity.

Cœlina, turning quite yellow with bile, and biting her lips, burst out

angrily before her daughter Berthe and Lequeu.

"My gracious, what a swell! Flore tells every one she meets that her

daughter has servants and a carriage in Paris. And I daresay it's true,

too, for she must be making a deal of money to be able to deck her body

out in that way!"

"Oh, those ne'er-do-wells!" said Lequeu, who wanted to make himself

agreeable. "Every one knows how they get their money!"

"What does it matter how they get it," retorted Cœlina bitterly, "so

long as they do get it?"

Just at this moment Suzanne, who had caught sight of Berthe, and had

recognised in her one of her old companions among the Handmaidens of

the Virgin, came up to her.

"Good morning. How are you?" she said very politely.

She scanned her with a scrutinising glance, and noticed her faded

complexion. Then, rejoicing in the soft richness of her own milky

flesh, she suddenly exclaimed, breaking out into a laugh:

"Everything's going on all right, I hope?"

"Quite so, thank you," replied Berthe, annoyed, and feeling quite

crushed.

The Lengaignes were the heroes of the day, and the Macquerons felt

that their noses were put out of joint. Cœlina angrily compared the

sallow scrawniness of her daughter, whose face was already wrinkled,

with the sleek and rosy beauty of the other girl. Was it just that

that hussy, who gave herself up to men from morning till night, should

look so fresh and bright, when a virtuous maiden grew as faded and wan

in her lonely bed as if she had had three confinements? No, indeed,

virtue went unrewarded, and it wasn't worth while for a girl to remain

living an honest life with her parents! All the vintage parties greeted

Suzanne enthusiastically. She kissed the children who had grown taller,

and she stirred the old folks' hearts by reminding them of the past.

What does it matter what one may be, as long as one has succeeded

and is independent of other people's patronage? And Suzanne, said the

peasants, showed that she had a good heart by not despising her family,

and by coming back to see her old friends now that she had grown rich.

At the first stroke of noon they all sat down to eat their bread and

cheese. On a line with the tops of the stakes you saw rows of women's

heads covered with blue kerchiefs. None of them had any appetite,

however, for they had been stuffing themselves with grapes ever since

daybreak. Their throats were sticky with the sugary juice; their

bellies, as round and swollen as barrels, rumbled with the purgative

effects of what they had swallowed. Already at every minute some girl

or other was obliged to retire behind a hedge. The others naturally

laughed, and the men got up and guffawed jocosely as the girls went

past them. It was a scene of general merriment, quite free from all

constraint.

They were just finishing their bread and cheese when Macqueron came

in sight on the road at the foot of the hill-side, accompanied by the

Abbé Madeline. Then Suzanne was abruptly forgotten, and all eyes were

turned upon the priest. To tell the truth, he did not create a very

favourable impression. He was as lank as a pike-staff, and gloomy and

ascetic-looking. However, he bowed in front of each vineyard, and said

a pleasant word or two to every one, so that the peasants ended by

finding him very polite and gentle. He evidently hadn't got any will

of his own; they meant to make him do as they pleased. It would be

easier to deal with him than with that cross-grained, cantankerous Abbé

Godard! As he passed on, they joked and grew merry again behind his

back. Soon he reached the top of the hill, and then, a prey to vague

fear and gloomy melancholy, he stood motionless, gazing upon the vast

grey plain of La Beauce. The big bright eyes of this mountain-born

priest filled with tears as he thought of the narrow hill-bound

landscapes of the gorges of Auvergne.

Buteau's vines were close to him. Lise and Françoise were gathering the

grapes, while Hyacinthe, who had not failed to bring his father with

him, had already got tipsy with the grape juice which he had swallowed

while pretending to empty the small baskets into the large ones. The

grapes were fermenting inside him, puffing him out with such a volume

of gas that it sought escape from every aperture. The presence of the

priest, too, seemed to excite him.

"You dirty brute!" Buteau cried to him, "can't you at least wait till

his reverence has gone away?"

Hyacinthe, however, would not submit to the reprimand; assuming the air

of a man who could be as refined as he chose, he replied:

"I'm not doing it on his account; I'm doing it to please myself."

Old Fouan had sat down on the ground, tired, but rejoicing in the

lovely weather and the fine vintage. He was grinning maliciously at the

thought that La Grande, whose vines were on the adjoining plot, had

come to wish him good-day. She, like the others, had begun to treat

him with respect, now that she had learnt that he still had some money

of his own. However, she had turned away from him abruptly, having

caught sight of her grandson, Hilarion, greedily taking advantage of

her absence to stuff himself with grapes. She promptly administered a

hiding to him with her stick. The gluttonous pig! he ate more than he

put in the basket!

"Ah, that aunt. What a lot of people will be pleased when she's under

ground," exclaimed Buteau, as he came and sat down for a moment by his

father's side by way of paying court to him. "It's a crying shame that

she should abuse the poor innocent in that way, for if he's as strong

as a donkey, he's also quite as stupid."

Then he began to fall foul of the Delhommes, whose vines were down

below, skirting the road. They had the finest vineyard in the

neighbourhood, some seven acres all in one plot, and it took a good

half-score hands to get in the crop. The carefully tended vines

produced larger bunches than any of the neighbours' vineyards, a fact

of which they were so proud that they affected to keep their own party

quite distinct from the others, even disdaining to smile at the sudden

colics which sent the girls in the adjoining plots scuttling behind

the hedges. They were too much afraid of their legs, Buteau hinted,

to care to climb up the hill to greet their old father, and so they

pretended not to be aware of his presence there. Then he began to abuse

Delhomme as a clumsy, cross-grained ass, who put on all sorts of airs,

pretending to be industrious and just; and Fanny, too, was a shrew,

losing her temper over the merest trifles, and demanding worship as

though she were a saint. She remained quite unconscious of all the

wrong she did to others!

"The truth is, father," Buteau continued, "that I've always been fond

of you, whereas my brother and sister--Ah! I've always regretted that

we parted for a mere nothing."

He then began to throw the blame of what had taken place upon

Françoise, whose head, he said, had been turned by Jean. However, she

had become steady now, he continued. If she showed any nonsense, he

would cool her blood by ducking her in the horse-pond.

"Come, now, father, let bye-gones be forgotten. Why shouldn't you come

back to us? Will you?"

Old Fouan remained discreetly silent. He had been expecting the offer

which his younger son now made; but he was unwilling to give a definite

reply either one way or the other, not feeling at all certain as to his

best course.

Buteau assured himself that his brother was at the other end of the

vineyard, and then resumed:

"It's hardly fit for you to stay with that scamp Hyacinthe. You'll

probably be found there murdered one of these days. Now, if you'll come

back to me, I'll board and lodge you, and pay you the allowance as

well."

The old man raised his eyes in amazement; and as he still remained

silent, his son determined to overwhelm him with his lavish offers.

"And I will take care that you have all your little luxuries, your

coffee, and your glass, and your four sous' worth of tobacco;

everything you wish for, in fact."

It was too tempting, and the old man began to feel alarmed. Certainly,

things were getting bad at Hyacinthe's, but what if there should be a

repetition of the old goings-on when he got back to the Buteaus' again?

"Well, we must see," was all he said; and then he got up, anxious to

bring the conversation to a close.

The vintaging lasted until night-fall; the carts incessantly carrying

off the grape-laden casks, and bringing them back empty. Under the wide

expanse of rosy sky, among the vines gilded by the setting sun, the

flitting of the baskets, large and small, became brisker, each worker

being excited by the intoxicating effects of all these grapes that were

carried to and fro. Berthe now had a misfortune. She was seized with

such a sharp and sudden attack of colic that she was not able to run

off, and her mother and Lequeu were obliged to form a rampart round

her with their bodies, while she relieved herself amongst the stakes.

The vintagers in the adjoining plot observed what was happening, and

Victor and Delphin wanted to take her some paper. But Flore and Madame

Bécu restrained them, saying that there were limits which only ill-bred

persons would out-step.

At last they all set off home again. The Delhommes led the way; La

Grande forced Hilarion to help the horse in pulling the cart along; and

the Lengaignes and the Macquerons fraternised together in a maudlin,

tipsy tenderness which made them forget their rivalry. What attracted

most attention on the return home was the mutual politeness of the Abbé

Madeline and Suzanne. The priest, seeing how well the girl was dressed,

took her for a lady, and they walked along side by side, the Abbé

showing her every attention, while she put on her sweetest manners, and

inquired at what time mass was celebrated on Sunday. Behind them came

Hyacinthe, who, in his hatred of priests, recommenced his disgusting

tricks, determined in his tipsy obstinacy to have a spree. At every

five yards he lifted up his leg and let fly. That hussy Suzanne bit her

lips to keep from laughing, while the priest pretended not to hear;

and gravely exchanging pious remarks they walked on behind the file of

vintage carts, escorted by this disgusting music.

At last, as they were nearing Rognes, Buteau and Fouan, who felt quite

ashamed of Hyacinthe, made an attempt to silence him. But he still

persisted in continuing his tricks, and protested that his reverence

was quite under a mistake if he felt in any way hurt.

"Don't I tell you that I mean no offence to any one, and that I am

simply doing it for my own amusement?" he repeated.

The following week the Buteaus invited their friends to come and taste

the new wine. Monsieur and Madame Charles, Fouan, Hyacinthe, and some

four or five others were to meet at seven o'clock and partake of some

leg of mutton, nuts, and cheese--a real repast, in fact. During the

day Buteau had barrelled his wine. There were six casks of it, full to

the bung. Some of his neighbours, however, were not so far advanced in

their operations. One of them, who was still vintaging, had been hard

at work all the morning treading his grapes in a state of complete

nudity; another, armed with a bar, was watching the fermentation, and

beating down the stalks and skins that rose to the surface of the

bubbling must; a third, who had a press, squeezed the grape skins in

it, and then threw them into his yard in a reeking heap. Scenes like

these were going on in every house; and from the burning vats, the

streaming presses, the overflowing casks, indeed from all Rognes there

arose the fumes of the wine, which were so strong as to suffice to make

every one intoxicated.

Just before leaving the Château that day, Fouan was seized with a

vague presentiment, which induced him to remove his papers from their

hiding-place beneath the lentils in the pan. He thought it as well to

conceal them about his person, for he fancied he had detected Hyacinthe

and La Trouille looking up into the air with a meaning expression. They

all three set out, and arrived at the Buteaus' house at the same time

as Monsieur and Madame Charles.

The full moon was so large and bright that it gave almost as much light

as the sun; and as Fouan entered the yard, where one could have seen

well enough to pick up a pin, he observed that Gédéon, the donkey, was

in the outhouse, with his head inside a bucket. Fouan was not much

surprised to see him at liberty, for he was a very cunning fellow,

and frequently raised the latch with his mouth. The bucket, however,

excited the old man's curiosity, and, going up to it, he recognised it

as one of the buckets used in the cellar, which had contained some wine

from the press, left after Buteau had finished filling the casks. That

cursed Gédéon was emptying it.

"Look sharp here, Buteau!" called the old man. "Here's this donkey of

yours up to fine tricks!"

Buteau appeared at the kitchen door.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Gédéon's swilled all the wine up!"

Amid this shouting, the donkey quietly finished sucking up the liquor.

He had probably been at work for the last quarter of an hour, for the

bucket held some four or five gallons. Every drop of the wine had been

drunk, and Gédéon's belly was as round as a bottle, and seemed on the

point of bursting. When at last he raised his head, his tipsy nose was

dripping with wine, and there was a red line across it, just under his

eyes, showing how far he had dipped his phiz into the liquor.

"Oh, the brute!" roared Buteau, rushing up; "it's just like his tricks.

There never was a creature so full of vice."

Generally, when Gédéon heard himself reproached for his vices, he

assumed an air of contemptuous indifference, and leisurely spread out

his broad ears; but to-day he seemed completely intoxicated, and lost

to all sense of respect, for he positively sniggered as he wagged his

head about, thus shamelessly expressing the enjoyment he had derived

from his debauchery. He stumbled when his master gave him a violent

shove, and would have fallen if Fouan had not propped him up with his

shoulder.

"The damned pig is dead drunk!" cried Buteau.

"'Drunk as an ass!' This is the moment to apply the proverb," remarked

Hyacinthe, who grinned merrily as he gazed at the animal with

sympathetic admiration. "A bucketful at a draught! What a magnificent

swallow!"

Buteau, however, saw nothing to laugh about; neither did Lise nor

Françoise, who had now hurried up, attracted by the noise. To begin

with, there was the loss of the wine; and more than that, there was the

confusion into which the disgraceful conduct of the donkey threw them

in presence of Monsieur and Madame Charles. These latter were already

biting their lips on account of Elodie. To make matters worse, chance

would have it that Suzanne and Berthe, who had been taking a stroll

together, had met the Abbé Madeline just by the door, and the three of

them had stopped there, and were looking on waiting for the finish. A

pretty business this, under the eyes of all these fine folks!

"Shove him along, father!" whispered Buteau. "We must get him back into

the stable as quickly as possible!"

Fouan shoved, but Gédéon, finding himself very happy and comfortable

where he was, declined to stir. He showed no malice, only a

good-humoured tipsy perversity. There was a merry jocular glance in

his eye, and his dripping mouth seemed twisted into a smile. He made

himself as heavy as he could, and reeled about on his outstretched

legs, pulling himself together again after every shove, as though he

looked upon the whole business as some merry game. Buteau, however,

intervened, and shoved the donkey in his turn, whereupon Gédéon turned

a summersault, with his four feet in the air; rolling about on his back

and braying so loudly that he seemed not to care a curse for all the

people looking at him.

"Ah, you foul, good-for-nothing brute!" roared Buteau, assailing the

animal with a shower of kicks. "I'll teach you to put yourself into

this condition!"

Hyacinthe, full of indulgence for the intoxicated donkey, now

interposed.

"Come, come," he exclaimed, "since the brute is drunk, it's no use

lecturing him, for he can't understand you. You had much better help

him back to his stable."

Monsieur and Madame Charles had drawn on one side, quite shocked by the

shameless conduct of the donkey; while Elodie, blushing as deeply as

though she had been forced to look upon some indecent spectacle, turned

her head away. The group at the door, the priest, Suzanne, and Berthe

assumed an attitude of silent protestation. Several neighbours now came

up and began to sneer noisily. Lise and Françoise almost wept from

shame.

Buteau, however, screwing down his rage, endeavoured with the help of

Fouan and Hyacinthe, to get Gédéon on his legs again. This was no easy

matter, for the tipsy brute, with the bucketful of wine in his belly,

seemed to weigh as much as five hundred thousand devils. As soon as

they had raised him on one side he fell down again on the other; and at

last the three men got quite exhausted by trying to shove him up, and

supporting him with their knees and elbows. Finally they had managed to

get him on to his feet again, and even succeeded in forcing him a few

steps forward, when he suddenly stumbled and fell over backwards. The

whole yard had to be crossed to reach the stable. What was to be done?

"Ten thousand devils take him!" cried the three men, as they examined

him from every point of view, quite at a loss as to how they should

next proceed.

It then occurred to Hyacinthe to prop the animal up against the side

of the shed, and then push him along, keeping him propped up against

the wall of the house, till the stable was reached. This plan succeeded

very well at first, although the animal got sadly scratched and grazed

by the rough wall plaster. The misfortune was that presently this

scratching and grazing became more than the brute could bear, and,

suddenly wrenching himself free from the hands that were holding him to

the wall, he reared up and pranced about.

Old Fouan was almost knocked down.

"Stop him! stop him!" yelled the two brothers.

Then in the dazzling brightness of the moonlight Gédéon was to be seen

galloping about the yard in frantic zig-zags, with his two huge ears

swaying wildly. The men had shaken his belly too violently, and the

poor brute now felt very ill. A tremendous preliminary retch brought

him to a standstill, and he almost toppled over. Then he tried to set

off again, but his legs stiffened and he stood rooted to the ground. He

stretched out his neck, and his flanks were shaken by violent spasms.

Finally, reeling about like a drunken man striving to relieve himself,

and reaching his head forward at every effort, he vomited a perfect

river of red fluid, a furious torrent that flowed on as far as the pond.

A ringing chorus of laughter resounded from the door, where some

peasants were clustering together; while the Abbé Madeline, who had

a weak stomach, turned very pale between Suzanne and Berthe, who led

him away with indignant protestations. The offended demeanour of

Monsieur and Madame Charles plainly proclaimed that the exhibition

of a donkey in such a condition as this was a breach of all decorum,

and even of the simple politeness due to passers-by. Elodie, in

weeping consternation, threw her arms round her grandmother's neck,

asking if the animal were going to die. It was in vain that Monsieur

Charles cried out: "Stop! stop!" in the old imperious tone of a master

accustomed to be obeyed, the wretched brute went on bringing up this

ruddy stream till the whole yard was full of it. Then he slipped down

and began to wallow about in the mess, with his legs widely separated,

and in such an indecent posture that no tipsy man, lying across a

footway, could ever have presented a more disgusting sight to passing

spectators. It really seemed as though the brute were purposely doing

all he could to disgrace his master. The spectacle was really too

dreadful, and Lise and Françoise, covering their eyes with their hands,

fled for refuge into the house.

"There! there! we've had enough of this! Carry him away!"

Indeed, nothing else could be done, for Gédéon, who had become as limp

as a wet rag, and very drowsy, was fast falling asleep. Buteau went

off to get a stretcher, and six men helped him to lift the ass on to

it. Then they carried the animal away; his legs hanging down, his head

dangling about, and already snoring so noisily that it seemed as though

he were braying, and still jeering contemptuously at everybody.

This adventure naturally threw a cloud over the commencement of the

feast; but the party quickly recovered their spirits, and they ended by

partaking so freely of the new wine that, towards eleven o'clock, they

were all in much the same condition as the donkey. Every moment or so

one of them found it necessary to retire into the yard.

Old Fouan was very merry; and he reflected that it might really be

advisable for him to come and reside again with his younger son, for

the wine promised to be excellent that year. He was obliged to leave

the room in his turn, and was thinking the matter over, outside in the

dark night, when he was startled to hear Buteau and Lise, who had come

out immediately after him, quarrelling as they squatted down, side by

side, against the wall. The husband was reproaching his wife for not

showing herself sufficiently affectionate towards his father. The fool

she was, said he, why she ought to wheedle and coax the old chap so as

to get him back into the house again; and then they could lay their

hands on his hoard. The old man, suddenly sobered and quite cold, felt

at his pockets to make sure that he had not been robbed of his bonds;

and when, after the parting embraces all round he again reached the

Château, he had firmly resolved not to change his quarters.

That very night, however, he beheld a sight which froze his blood. He

saw La Trouille in her chemise steal into his room, which was lighted

up by the bright moon, and prowl about, carefully searching his blouse

and his trousers, and even looking under his chamber-vase. It was

evident that Hyacinthe, having missed the papers which had been removed

from their hiding-place under the lentils, had sent his daughter to try

and find them.

After that Fouan felt unable to remain any longer in bed; his brain

was too excited. So he got up and opened the window. The night was now

dark, and an odour of wine streamed up from Rognes, mingled with the

stench of all the filth beside the walls, over which folks had stridden

for a week past. What should he do? Where should he go? As for his

bonds, he would never again let them leave his own possession. He would

sew them to his skin. Then, as the wind swept the strong odour into his

face, he thought of Gédéon. A donkey had a splendid constitution and no

mistake, he said to himself; it could get ten times as drunk as a man

without coming to any great harm. But what was he to do himself? Robbed

in his younger son's house, robbed in his elder son's house; there

really seemed no choice. The best thing seemed to be to remain at the

Château, and keep his eyes open, and wait. Every bone in his old body

was shaking.

CHAPTER V.

The months glided along; winter passed away, and then the spring. At

Rognes matters went on in the same old way; whole years were necessary

for the accomplishment of any really perceptible change in that weary,

dull life of work and toil, which began afresh with every returning

day. In July, amid the burning heat of the blazing sun, the approaching

elections threw the village into a state of excitement. This time they

were invested with a peculiar interest, and the canvassing visits of

the candidates were eagerly discussed and anxiously awaited.

On the morning of the Sunday for which the arrival of Monsieur

Rochefontaine, the contractor of Châteaudun, had been promised, there

was a terrible scene at the Buteaus' between Lise and Françoise,

showing that hostility can go on smouldering invisibly beneath an

outward appearance of calmness till it breaks out with unquenchable

violence. The last slender bond of union between the sisters, which

had always been strained almost to breaking, though constantly

knotted again, had at last become so slight, worn away by perpetual

quarrelling, that this time it snapped atwain, beyond all hope of

repair. And the immediate cause of this final rupture was the merest

trifle in the world.

As Françoise was bringing her cows home that morning she stopped to

have a moment's chat with Jean, whom she met in front of the church. It

must be confessed that she did so purposely, stopping just in front of

the Buteaus' house, with the express intention of irritating them.

"When you want to see your men," Lise cried angrily to her as she

returned into the house, "be good enough to choose some other place

than just under our windows!"

Buteau was standing by mending a bill-hook and listening.

"My men!" retorted Françoise. "I see too many men here. And there's one

fellow, let me tell you, whom I could see if I wanted, not under the

window, but in this very house, the swine that he is!"

This allusion to Buteau made Lise wild with anger. For a long time past

she had been consumed with an absorbing desire to turn her sister out

of doors, so that the house might become peaceful; and this even at the

risk of a law-suit, and having to surrender half the land. It was her

persistence in this respect that led her husband to beat her, for he

was quite opposed to her scheme, hoping to trick the girl out of her

land somehow, and also to succeed in getting possession of her person.

The wife was exasperated at no longer being mistress in her own house,

and showed a peculiar kind of jealousy. While she was quite ready to

let her husband forcibly possess himself of the girl for the sake of

making an end of the matter, yet, at the same time, it enraged her to

see him lusting so hotly after this chit, whom she hated for her youth,

her firm-fleshed bosom, and the roundness of her arms, that showed so

plumply whenever her sleeves were rolled up. She would have liked to

stand by and see her husband foul and wreck all these alluring charms,

and she would gladly have helped him. Indeed, the mere fact of sharing

her husband with her sister would not have caused her any trouble.

Her anguish of mind arose from their rivalry, which was growing even

more bitter and rancorous, and the consciousness that her sister was

prettier than herself, and thus capable of stimulating her husband's

hot desires.

"You drab!" she screamed, "it is you who lead him on! If you weren't

always leering at him he wouldn't be for ever running after you. You

nasty slut!"

Françoise turned quite pale. This slander was more than she could bear.

And quietly, but with deliberate animosity, she replied:

"We've had quite enough of this. It is time there was an end of it.

Wait another fortnight, and I'll no longer annoy you with my presence.

Yes, in another fortnight I shall be twenty-one, and then I'll take

myself off."

"Ah, you're longing to be of age, are you, so that you can worry us,

eh? Well, you hussy, there's no fortnight about the matter; off you go

this very moment."

"Very well, I'm quite agreeable. Macqueron wants a girl, and I'm sure

he'll take me. Good day."

Thereupon Françoise went off without another word. Buteau then threw

down the bill-hook which he had been sharpening, and rushed forward in

the hope of restoring peace between the two women by the administration

of a couple of whacking cuffs. But he was too late, and he could only

vent his angry exasperation by dealing a blow at his wife, from whose

nose the blood began to stream. The devil take all the women! What he

had feared and struggled against so long had come to pass. The girl had

taken flight, and now there was a heap of dirty troubles in store for

him. He saw in his mind's eye both the girl and the land scampering

away from him.

"I'll go to Macqueron's this afternoon," he roared. "She'll have to

come back, even if I have to kick her here all the way."

Macqueron's house was in a state of great excitement that Sunday,

for one of the candidates, Monsieur Rochefontaine, the proprietor of

the building works at Châteaudun, was expected there. Since the last

election Monsieur de Chédeville had fallen into disfavour on account,

some people said, of his ostentatious friendship with certain members

of the Orleanist party; while others asserted that it was owing to his

having offended the Tuileries by a scandalous intrigue with the wife of

one of the ushers of the Chamber of Deputies, who was quite infatuated

about him, despite his age. However this might be, the patronage of

the prefect had certainly been withdrawn from the retiring deputy and

conferred upon Monsieur Rochefontaine, the former candidate of the

Opposition, whose establishment had just been visited by one of the

ministers. Monsieur Rochefontaine had also written a pamphlet on Free

Trade, which had been very favourably noticed by the Emperor. As for

Monsieur de Chédeville, annoyed at being discarded in this way, he

persisted in his candidature, being particularly desirous of retaining

his position as deputy, since it enabled him to dabble in financial

jobbery. The rental of La Chamade was no longer sufficient for his

needs, the place being mortgaged, and in a half-ruined condition. Thus,

by a singular chance, the situation of affairs had been reversed--the

landowner had become the independent candidate, while the contractor

enjoyed the patronage of the Government.

Although Hourdequin was mayor of Rognes he still remained faithful to

Monsieur de Chédeville, and had made up his mind not only to ignore any

instructions he might receive from official sources, but even to work

openly for his candidate's cause, should that be necessary. At first he

felt that it was not a manly or honourable thing to veer round like a

weather-cock at the slightest breath from the prefect's lips; and then,

as this was a struggle between a Protectionist and a Free-trader, he

became convinced that, in the present crisis of agricultural affairs,

his interests would be better forwarded by the former. The annoyance

which Jacqueline caused him, added to the cares and anxieties of his

farm, had prevented him for some time past from devoting himself

to the duties of his mayoralty. Being always engaged in watching

the lascivious wench who, with the luck that so often attaches to

wrongdoing, managed to satisfy with impunity her lustful hankering

after Iron's brawny manhood, the mayor left his assessor, Macqueron,

to attend to current affairs. Consequently, when he again returned to

preside over the council, instigated thereto by the personal interest

he took in the election, he was astonished to find it rebellious, in

fact stiffly hostile.

This was the outcome of Macqueron's underhand intriguing, which,

prosecuted with all a copper-skin's craft and wiliness, was at last

approaching an issue. Ambition had come to this enriched peasant, who

had relapsed into a state of complete idleness, and who dragged himself

about dirty and slovenly amid all his gentlemanly leisure, which really

bored him to death. And this ambition now formed the one pleasure of

his existence. Why should not he himself be mayor? Since that idea had

first dawned upon his mind, he had striven to undermine Hourdequin's

position, working upon the ingrained, deep-rooted, though perhaps

unconscious hatred that all the natives of Rognes in former times had

entertained for their lords, and that they now felt for the son of the

townsman who to-day possessed the land. Of course he had got it for

nothing! It had been nothing more nor less than a robbery at the time

of the Revolution. Poor peasants never had such luck. It was only your

scamps and scoundrels who managed to fill their pockets in this way.

And there were pretty goings-on, too, at La Borderie with the master's

infatuation for that hussy La Cognette, in spite of her amours with all

the farm-hands.

Talk of this kind was now freely indulged in in the neighbourhood,

arousing indignation even among those who would not have hesitated to

sell their own daughters to prostitution, or even to commit incest with

them themselves, if they had seen their way to profit by so doing. The

members of the municipal council said at last that a townsman ought to

exercise his thievish and wanton propensities amongst his fellows, and

that a peasant-community ought to have a peasant-mayor.

It was in a matter concerning the election that Hourdequin, to his

great surprise, first became aware of the council's hostility towards

himself. When he began to speak of Monsieur de Chédeville, all the

councillors sat as expressionless as so many wooden images. Macqueron,

seeing that the mayor meant to keep faithful to the old deputy, had

realised that this would be the best question on which he could fight

the battle, and it seemed to him to afford an excellent chance of

overthrowing his opponent. Overflowing with zeal, he had set himself

on the prefect's side in favour of Monsieur Rochefontaine; loudly

asserting that he was doing his duty as became a loyal assessor, and

that all honest folks were bound to support the Government. This

profession of faith was quite sufficient, and he was under no necessity

of indoctrinating the members of the council, for in their fear of

the broom they were always on the side of the broom-stick, resolved

upon supporting the established powers, so that things might remain

unaltered and the price of corn be kept high. These were the views of

Delhomme, who had such a reputation for justice and integrity, and

he won Clou and others over to his side. It was their duty, he said,

to support the Emperor's nominee, for the Emperor knew what he was

about and studied the country's interests. The fact that Lengaigne,

exasperated to find Macqueron invested with such importance, was

Hourdequin's only supporter, ended by fully compromising the mayor.

Calumnies soon began to be bandied about, and the farmer was accused

of being a "Red," and of holding the same views as the blackguards

who wanted a republic, in the hope of exterminating the peasantry. So

persistently, indeed, were these reports circulated, that the Abbé

Madeline took alarm, and, believing that he owed his cure to the

assessor, listened to his talk and worked for Monsieur Rochefontaine,

although the bishop himself still supported Monsieur de Chédeville.

A final blow now destroyed every remaining vestige of the mayor's

influence. It was reported that, when the famous direct road between

Rognes and Châteaudun was opened, Hourdequin had put half of the

subvention voted for the highway into his own pocket. How he had been

able to do such a thing no one could explain; but this only made the

matter more mysterious and abominable. When Macqueron was questioned on

the subject, he assumed an air of confusion and reserve, like a man who

is compelled to keep silent out of a regard for certain proprieties.

The truth was that he himself had set the story afloat, in the hope

of making his own action in the matter--the gratuitous offer of his

land, followed by its sale for three times its value--appear in a

more favourable light. The whole village was upset, and the municipal

council became divided into two parties, one comprising the assessor

and all the councillors excepting Lengaigne, while the other was

composed of Lengaigne with the mayor, who at this juncture grasped the

gravity of the situation for the first time.

A fortnight previously Macqueron had expressly journeyed to Châteaudun

for the purpose of prostrating himself before Monsieur Rochefontaine.

He had besought him to stay at no other house but his own, if he should

condescend to visit Rognes. And this was the reason why the innkeeper,

that particular Sunday morning, incessantly went out on to the road

on the look-out for the arrival of the candidate. He had forewarned

Delhomme, and Clou, and a few other members of the municipal council,

and they were emptying a bottle of wine to get the time over. Old

Fouan and Bécu were also of the party, playing cards, as well as the

schoolmaster, Lequeu, who pretended that he never took anything to

drink, and who was deep in the perusal of a newspaper he had brought

with him. The assessor was annoyed, however, by the presence of a

couple of other customers, Hyacinthe and his friend Canon, the vagabond

working-man, who were sitting there opposite to each other gossipping

over a bottle of brandy. Macqueron kept casting furtive glances at

them, seeking for some excuse to turn them out, but in vain, for the

scamps, contrary to their usual wont, were not shouting. They simply

seemed to be deriding every one else. Three o'clock struck, and

Monsieur Rochefontaine, who had promised to come at about two, had not

yet arrived.

"Cœlina!" suddenly cried Macqueron to his wife, "did you bring up the

Bordeaux, as I told you just now?"

Cœlina, who was looking after the customers, expressed by a gesture

her sorrow for her forgetfulness, whereupon her husband himself rushed

off to the cellar. In the next room, where the haberdashery business

was carried on, and the door of which was always kept open, Berthe was

playing the fine lady, and showing some pink ribbons to three peasant

girls; while Françoise, who had already settled down to her new duties,

was dusting the drawers with a feather broom, despite the fact that it

was Sunday. The assessor, glad of any opportunity that ministered to

his craving for authority, had at once taken the girl into his house,

flattered by the fact of her seeking his protection. His wife happened

to be in want of an assistant, and he undertook to board and lodge

Françoise until he could bring about a reconciliation between her and

the Buteaus. The girl swore that she would kill herself if she were

taken back to their house by force.

A landau, drawn by two superb Percheron horses, now suddenly halted

before the door, and Monsieur Rochefontaine, who was its only occupant,

alighted, surprised and hurt that there was no one to receive him. He

was hesitating about entering the tavern when Macqueron came up from

the cellar, holding a bottle in each hand. The sight of the candidate

overwhelmed him with confusion and despair. He was at a loss how to get

rid of his bottles, and he stammered out:

"Oh, sir, how very unfortunate! I have been waiting for you for two

hours without stirring, and then directly I go down into the cellar for

a moment you arrive! And it was altogether on your account that I went,

too! Will you have a glass of wine, Mr. Deputy?"

Monsieur Rochefontaine, who was as yet only a candidate, and who ought

to have been touched by the poor devil's evident trouble, now seemed

only the more put out. He was a tall fellow, barely twenty-eight

years of age, with closely-cropped hair and squarely-cut beard, and

carefully, though not elegantly dressed. His manner was cold and

abrupt; he spoke in a curt, imperious style, and everything about

him told of one who was accustomed to command, and of the state of

obedience in which he kept the twelve hundred workmen employed in his

works. He seemed determined to drive these peasants along as with a

whip.

Cœlina and Berthe had darted forward, the latter's bright eyes

glistening boldly beneath their reddened lids.

"Please do us the honour of coming in, sir," she said.

The candidate, however, surveying her with a quick glance, had at once

estimated her at her worth. Still he entered the house, but refused to

sit down, remaining standing.

"Here are some of our friends of the council," said Macqueron, who was

beginning to recover his equanimity. "They are delighted to make your

acquaintance, I'm sure. Are you not, gentlemen?"

Delhomme, Clou, and the others had risen from their seats,

thunderstruck by Monsieur Rochefontaine's stiff demeanour. Their

feeling of deference became one of the deepest respect, that awe and

cringing humility which every manifestation of superior power and

authority awoke in them. In the profoundest silence they listened to

what the deputy had decided to tell them; the theories which he held in

common with the Emperor, and more especially his ideas about national

progress, to which he owed the Government's favour, in preference

to the former deputy, whose opinions were condemned. Then he began

to promise them new roads, railways, and canals; yes, a canal which

would traverse La Beauce, and at last slake the thirst which had

been parching it up for centuries. The peasants listened to him in

stupefaction. What was he talking about? Water through their fields! He

went on for some time longer, and then concluded by threatening those

who voted wrongly with the severity of the Government and bad seasons.

His listeners looked at one another. Here, indeed, was a man who could

make them tremble, and whom it would be well to have for a friend.

"Of course, of course!" Macqueron kept repeating after each of the

candidate's sentences, though, at the same time, he felt a little

uneasy at his stern manner.

Bécu, however, wagged his chin energetically in approval of this

military kind of speech; and old Fouan, with his eyes wide open, seemed

to be declaring that here, indeed, was a man! Lequeu, who usually

preserved such an impassible demeanour, had grown very red, though it

was impossible to guess whether he felt pleased or angered. It was only

different with those two scamps, Hyacinthe and his friend Canon, whose

faces plainly expressed contempt, and who felt so vastly superior to

their neighbours that they sniggered and shrugged their shoulders.

As soon as Monsieur Rochefontaine had finished speaking, he turned

towards the door. The assessor was overwhelmed with despair.

"What, sir, won't you do us the honour of taking a glass of wine?" he

cried.

"No, thank you; I am already very late. They are expecting me at

Magnolles, at Bazoches, and at a score of other places. Good day!"

Then he was gone. Berthe made no attempt to accompany him to the door.

In fact, on returning into the haberdashery shop, she exclaimed to

Françoise:

"What an impolite fellow. If I were a man I'd vote for the other one!"

Monsieur Rochefontaine had just got into his landau again, when the

cracking of a whip caused him to look round. It was Hourdequin coming

up in his modest gig, driven by Jean. The farmer had only heard by

chance of the candidate's visit to Rognes, one of his waggoners having

met the landau on the road; and he had immediately hastened off to meet

the foe face to face, feeling all the more uneasy as for the last week

he had been vainly trying to persuade Monsieur de Chédeville to put in

an appearance. The old beau was doubtless tied-fast to some woman's

apron-strings, probably those of the pretty wife of the usher of the

Chamber.

"Ah, so it's you?" the farmer cried cheerily to Monsieur Rochefontaine.

"I didn't know that you had already commenced your campaign."

The two vehicles were drawn up alongside of each other. Neither of

the two men got down, but, after bending forward and shaking hands,

they settled themselves in their seats, and in this position conversed

together for a few minutes. They were acquainted with each other,

having occasionally met at breakfast at the house of the mayor of

Châteaudun.

"You are opposing me, then?" suddenly asked Monsieur Rochefontaine, in

his curt way.

Hourdequin, who, from his position as mayor, did not care to display

his opposition to the Government candidate too openly, lost countenance

for a moment, seeing that Monsieur Rochefontaine was so well informed.

However, he was by no means deficient in sturdy courage, and he replied

in a light and pleasant tone, so as to give a friendly appearance to

his explanation:

"Oh, I don't oppose any one. I look after myself; and the man who will

protect me is the man for me. Here's corn fallen to forty-six francs

the quarter, just what it costs me to produce it. One may just as well

starve without giving one's-self the trouble to work!"

The other at once burst out excitedly:

"Oh, I understand; it's Protection you want, isn't it? A tax, a

prohibitive duty on foreign wheat, so that French corn may go up

to double its present price. Then you'd have France in a state of

starvation, the four pound loaf at a franc, and all the poor folks

dying from hunger! How dare you, a man of progress, advocate such a

monstrous state of affairs?"

"A man of progress, a man of progress," repeated Hourdequin in his

cheery, pleasant fashion. "Yes, certainly, I'm a man of progress, but I

have to pay so dearly for progress that I soon shan't be able to afford

myself the luxury any longer. Machinery, chemical manures, and all the

other new contrivances are all very fine things in their way, I've no

doubt, and it's very easy to argue in their favour, but there's just

this fault about them, that, in spite of all the logic in the world,

they are bringing us to ruin."

"Because you are too impatient, and because you expect science to give

you immediate and complete results, and because you grow so discouraged

by the necessary preliminary experiments that you even doubt what

has been formally proved, and finally fall back into a condition of

denying everything."

"Possibly that may be so. I may have only been making experiments.

Well, suppose the Government decorates me for what I have already done,

and lets some other folks continue the course!"

Hourdequin burst out into a hearty laugh at his own jocoseness, which

he seemed to think quite conclusive.

"You wish the working-man to die of hunger, then?" Monsieur

Rochefontaine sharply continued.

"Excuse me, I wish the peasant to be able to live."

"But I, who employ twelve hundred hands, can't raise their wages

without becoming bankrupt. If corn rose to ninety francs, my workmen

would die off like so many flies."

"Well, do you suppose that I don't employ men? With corn at forty-six

francs we have to go with empty stomachs, and poor fellows are lying

starving at the bottom of every ditch all over the country-side." Then

he added, laughingly:

"Well, every one argues from his own point of view. If I sell you bread

at a low price, it is the soil of France that goes into bankruptcy; and

if I sell you it at a high price, I can understand very well that the

cost of workmanship will go up, and the price of manufactured goods

increase, such as my clothes, tools, and the hundred other things that

I require. Ah, it's a pretty mess, and we shall end some day by ruining

each other all round!"

The two men, the farmer and the manufacturer, the Protectionist

and the Free-trader, looked in each other's faces, the one with a

sly good-humoured smile, the other with an unflinchingly hostile

expression. They furnished a complete example of the modern war of

economics, each taking his stand on the struggle for existence.

"The peasant will certainly be compelled to supply the workman with

food," said Monsieur Rochefontaine at last.

"To be able to do that," retorted Hourdequin, "he himself must first

have something to eat."

Then he sprang down from his gig, and Monsieur Rochefontaine flung

the name of some village to his coachman. Macqueron, annoyed that

his friends of the council, standing at the door, had heard this

conversation, now again proposed that they should all have a glass

together, but the candidate once more refused, and without shaking

hands with any one, threw himself back in his landau, while the two

tall Percheron horses started off at a rattling trot.

Lengaigne, standing at his door on the other side of the road, where he

had been setting a razor, had witnessed the whole scene. He now broke

into a peal of jeering laughter, and, after a filthy expression, cried

out to his neighbour:

"So you had all your trouble for nothing?"

Hourdequin, however, had gone into the tavern, and had accepted a

glass of wine; and as soon as Jean had secured the horse to one of the

shutters, he followed his master. Françoise quietly beckoned to him to

come into the haberdashery shop, and then told him of her departure,

and of all that had led to it. The young man was so affected by the

girl's story, and so afraid of doing something before the company that

might compromise her, that he at once returned into the tavern and sat

down on a form, after simply saying that they must see each other again

to come to some understanding.

"Well, confound it all," cried Hourdequin, putting down his glass, "you

must have pretty stiff digestions if you vote for that youngster!"

His conversation with Monsieur Rochefontaine had decided him to oppose

him openly at all risks. He spared him no longer, but compared him

with Monsieur de Chédeville, that worthy gentleman who showed no fine

airs amongst the peasantry, but was glad to be able to render them

any service he could. He was a genuine and true-hearted old-fashioned

French nobleman, indeed; while that tall piece of stand-offishness,

that mushroom millionaire, looked down at them contemptuously from the

height of his grandeur, and even refused to drink a glass of the wine

of the district, fearing, no doubt, that it might poison him. It surely

wasn't possible that they meant to support him; nobody changed a good

sound horse for a blind one.

"What fault have you got to find with Monsieur de Chédeville?" he

continued. "For years past he has been your deputy, and has always

looked after your interests. And now you desert him for a man whom you

looked upon as a scoundrel at the last elections, when the Government

opposed him. Confound it all, what are you thinking about?"

Macqueron, who did not want to engage in a direct contest with the

mayor, pretended to be busy helping his wife. All the peasants had

listened to Hourdequin in stolid silence, without their faces giving

the slightest clue as to their secret thoughts. It was Delhomme who

answered at last:

"We didn't know him then."

"Ah, but you know him now, this fine fellow! You heard him say that he

wanted to see corn cheap, and that he would vote for the importation

of foreign corn to bring down the price of our own. I have already

explained to you that that means complete ruin for us. After that, you

surely can't be such fools as to believe in the fine promises he makes

you. When he has once got your votes, you'll soon find him turning

round and laughing at you."

A vague smile played over Delhomme's tanned face, and all the latent

cunning of his narrow intelligence showed itself in the few sentences

which he now slowly spoke.

"He said what he said, and we believe what we believe. He or

another--does it much matter? We've only one wish, and that is that the

Government should be strong enough so that people may do their business

quietly; and the best way of ensuring that is surely to send the

Government the deputy it asks for, isn't it? It's enough for us that

this gentleman from Châteaudun is the Emperor's friend."

On hearing this last remark Hourdequin felt bewildered. Why, Monsieur

de Chédeville himself had been the Emperor's friend at the last

election! Oh! the miserable race of serfs that ever belonged to the

master who chastised and fed it! To-day, as ever, these fellows were

still full of the hereditary humility and egotism, seeing nothing and

caring for nothing beyond their meal that day.

"Well," he shouted, "I swear to you by all that's sacred that on the

day this Rochefontaine is elected I will send in my resignation.

Do they take me for a mere puppet, to say black to-day and white

to-morrow? Why, if those blackguards of republicans were at the

Tuileries, you'd be on their side, you would indeed!"

Macqueron's eyes glistened brightly. The mayor had just decreed his

own fall, for the undertaking which he had given would, in his present

state of unpopularity, suffice to make all the country-side vote

against Monsieur de Chédeville.

Just at that moment Hyacinthe, who was sitting unnoticed in his corner

with his friend Canon, burst into such a loud titter that all eyes were

turned upon him. Leaning his elbows on the table, resting his chin

in his hands, and grinning contemptuously as he gazed round at the

assembled peasants, he cried out:

"A pack of poltroons! a pack of poltroons!"

Just at that moment Buteau came in. In crossing the threshold, his

quick eye caught sight of Françoise in the haberdashery shop, and of

Jean, sitting against the wall, listening and waiting for his master.

Good! the girl and her lover were there, and now they'd see something!

"Ah, here comes my brother, the greatest poltroon of the lot!"

exclaimed Hyacinthe.

Threatening expressions were now heard, and the peasants were about to

turn their slanderer out of the tavern, when Leroi, otherwise Canon,

raised his hoarse voice, which had ranted at all the Socialistic

meetings in Paris.

"Hold your jaw, my fine fellow, they're not such fools as they look.

Listen to me, now, you other chaps, you peasants. What would you

say if a notice should be stuck up on the door of the municipal

office, printed in big letters, and containing this announcement:

'Revolutionary Commune of Paris. First: All taxes are abolished.

Second: Military service is abolished.' Well, what would you say to

that, you earth-grubbers?"

Canon's words produced such an extraordinary effect that Delhomme,

Fouan, Clou, and even Bécu himself sat gaping blankly, with widely

staring eyes. Lequeu let his paper fall; Hourdequin, who was leaving

the room, came back again; and Buteau, forgetting all about Françoise,

sat down on a corner of the table. They all gazed at the ragged fellow,

the vagabond tramp who was the terror of the districts he passed

through, and who lived upon extorted alms and what he could steal. Only

the previous week he had been expelled from La Borderie, where he had

appeared in the gloaming like a spectre. It was owing to this that he

was now staying with Hyacinthe, pending a fresh disappearance.

"Ah, I see that such an announcement would be welcome," Canon continued

gaily.

"Indeed it would!" confessed Buteau. "It was only yesterday that I took

a lot of money to the collector again. There's no end to those taxes!

The authorities seem to want the very skin off one's body!"

"And what a blessing it would be," exclaimed Delhomme, "if one were not

forced to see one's sons marched off! It's costing me a pretty penny, I

can tell you, to get my Nénesse exempted."

"And then, if you don't pay," added Fouan, "they take your lads from

you and have them shot!"

Canon nodded his head, and grinned in triumph.

"Well, you see that after all those earth-grubbers are not quite such

fools as you thought!" he said to Hyacinthe.

Then, turning to the others, he continued:

"They are always telling us that you are Conservatives, and that you

wouldn't allow any change. But it's conservative of your own interests

that you are, isn't it? You'll let us work, and you'll help in anything

to your own advantage. You'd be prepared to do a good deal, wouldn't

you, for the sake of keeping your money and your children? Of course

you would, or you'd be a set of arrant blockheads."

No one was drinking now, and an uneasy expression began to appear on

the peasants' heavy faces. Canon continued his address, revelling

beforehand in the effect which he was going to produce.

"And that's why I'm at ease. I've known all about your feelings since

you've driven me away from your doors with stones. As that stout

gentleman here said, you will all rally to our side, to us, the Reds

and the Communists, when we are installed at the Tuileries."

"No, no! indeed no!" cried Buteau, Delhomme, and the others, all at

once.

Hourdequin, who had been listening attentively, shrugged his shoulders.

"You're wasting your breath, my good fellow," he said.

Canon, however, still smiled with the confident expression of a

believer, and leaning back against the wall, he rubbed first one

shoulder and then the other with an air of quiet satisfaction. Then he

began to tell them all about the coming revolution, vague mysterious

hints of which had been wafted from farm to farm, alarming both masters

and servants. Their comrades in Paris, he said, would commence by

forcibly assuming the reins of government. There would not be much

difficulty about that, and it would not be necessary to shoot as many

people as might, perhaps, be expected; all the big bazaar would topple

down at the least touch; it was so thoroughly rotten. Then, as soon

as they had gained supreme power, they would abolish all payment of

rent and confiscate all large fortunes, so that that all the money, as

well as all the machinery and plant, would come into possession of the

nation. Then they would reorganise society upon an entirely new basis,

making it one vast financial, industrial, and commercial house of

business, in which each would have his fair share of work and comfort.

In the country districts matters would be still simpler. They would

commence by turning out the landowners and taking possession of the

soil!

"You'd better try it on!" interrupted Hourdequin. "You'll find yourself

received with pitchforks! The poorest little landowner in the country

wouldn't let you carry off a handful of his soil!"

"Have I said a word about touching poor folks?" replied Canon, blandly.

"No, we are not such fools as to quarrel with the small owners. No,

no, we shall not touch the land of the poor fellows who are making a

starvation livelihood out of a few acres. It's only the plump gentlemen

like yourself, with their four and five hundred acres, who grow rich by

the sweat of their labourers, whose possessions we shall confiscate.

Ah, confound it, I don't fancy you'll find any of your neighbours

coming to your defence with their pitchforks. They'd be only too glad

to see you stripped."

Macqueron broke out into a loud laugh, as though he looked upon the

whole matter as a joke, and the others followed his example. The farmer

turned somewhat pale, feeling that the old hereditary hatred still

abode in the peasants' breasts. The scoundrel was right. Every one of

all these peasants, even the honestest of them, would help to plunder

him of La Borderie.

"But in my case now," asked Buteau, gravely; "I own about a score of

acres, shall I be allowed to keep them?"

"By all means, my friend; but later on when you see the results

attained in the national farms around you you will certainly come of

your own accord, without the least solicitation, and add your own land

to them. We shall do everything on a large scale, with the command

of great capital, and all the resources of art and science at our

disposal. But that's a matter I don't know so much about. You ought to

hear some of the people up in Paris relate how it is that agriculture

is hopeless if carried on upon any other basis than this. Yes, you'll

come and offer your land of your own accord."

Buteau's face now wore an expression of profound incredulity. He no

longer understood Canon, still he felt reassured at being told that

he would not be forced to give up anything. As for Hourdequin, his

curiosity was excited upon hearing Canon hazily hold forth on the

subject of this great scheme of national farming, and he once more lent

an attentive ear. The others awaited the finish as if they had been at

the theatre. Lequeu, whose pallid face kept flushing crimson, had twice

opened his mouth as though he were going to interpose a remark, but

each time, like a prudent man, he had withheld it.

"And what is my share to be?" suddenly exclaimed Hyacinthe. "Every one

must have his share! Liberty, equality, and fraternity!"

Canon at once lost his temper, and raised his hand as though he were

going to strike his friend.

"Hold your row with your liberty, and equality, and fraternity!

Does any one need to be free? No, freedom's a farce. You want the

gentlefolks to put us into their pockets again, eh? No, no, people

must be forced into being happy, whether they will or no! And as for

equality and fraternity, would you ever consent to being the equal and

the brother of a bailiff? No, no; it was by believing nonsense of that

kind that the Republicans of '48 made fools of themselves!"

Hyacinthe, quite at a loss, simply declared that he was in favour of

the great Revolution.

"Hold your tongue; you rile me!" cried Canon. "That's your tune, eh?

A nice pack of lies always being drummed into our ears! Can that

ridiculous farce be compared for a single moment with what we mean to

do? You'll see it all when the people are the masters; and it won't

be very long coming, all's cracking, and I'll promise you that this

century of ours will finish up in a very much prettier fashion than the

last one did. There'll be such a sweeping clean-out as has never yet

been witnessed!"

All the company shuddered, and even that sot Hyacinthe drew back,

alarmed and disgusted at hearing that they were not all to be brothers.

Jean, who had hitherto been interested in what was going on, also

made a gesture of repulsion. Canon, however, had sprung to his feet,

with his eyes glistening, while his face seemed bathed in a prophetic

ecstasy.

"And it must come," he cried; "it's fated. It can no more help

happening than a stone thrown up in the air can help falling down. And

we shall have no more twaddling priests, and stories of another world,

and right and justice, things which no one has ever seen any more

than they've seen God. No, the only thing we shall concern ourselves

about is being perfectly happy. Ah! my fine fellow, we shall arrange

matters so that every one shall have the greatest amount of enjoyment

with the least possible amount of work. We shall make machinery work

for us, and four hours' daily superintendence of it will be the most

that will be required. It may be that in time we shall have absolutely

nothing to do, and be able to fold our arms in complete idleness. And

everywhere there'll be a glut of pleasure; and all our desires will be

pampered and satisfied. Yes, there will be meat, and wine, and women

galore, and we shall be able to take treble the quantity of pleasure

that we can take now, for we shall be stronger and healthier. There

will be no more poverty, no more invalids, no more old folks, thanks

to our improved organisation, our easier life, our perfect hospitals,

and comfortable free homes. It will be an absolute Paradise! All the

science in the world will be called into use for our pleasure! And life

will then be real enjoyment!"

Buteau, fairly carried away, brought his fist down upon the table with

a bang as he shouted:

"No more taxes! no more conscription! no more worries of any sort!

nothing but pleasure! Yes, I'm quite willing to sign that programme."

"Certainly," observed Delhomme, sagaciously. "A man would be his own

enemy not to sign it."

Fouan also expressed his approval, as did Macqueron, Clou, and the

others. Bécu, who, with his authoritative principles, was quite

stupefied and overcome, stepped up to Hourdequin, and asked him in

a whisper if he ought not to take this blackguard who attacked the

Emperor to the lock-up. The farmer, however, calmed him by shrugging

his shoulders. Happiness! Ah, yes, they now dreamed of winning it

through science, as they had previously dreamed of winning it through

right and justice! Perhaps the new theory might be the more logical,

but anyway it was not likely to bear the expected fruit yet awhile! The

farmer then again prepared to leave, and called to Jean, who was still

absorbed in the discussion, but just at that moment Lequeu suddenly

yielded to his eager longing to join in the debate. He had for some

time past been choking with suppressed rage.

"Take care," he burst out in his shrill voice, "take care that you are

not all killed before this fine state of affairs comes off; killed by

hunger, or by the bullets of the gendarmes, if starvation should make

you refractory----"

The others looked at him without understanding him.

"Nothing can be more certain," he continued, "if corn continues to

be imported from America, in a hundred years from now there won't be

a single peasant left in all France. Do you think that our land can

contend with yonder one? Long before we have had time to put these new

plans in practice, the foreigners will have inundated us with grain.

I have read a book which tells all about it. You fellows are all

doomed----"

In his angry excitement, he suddenly became aware that all the scared

faces were turned towards him; and he did not even finish the sentence

he was uttering, but making an angry gesture, pretended to bury himself

in his newspaper again.

"The American corn will certainly do for you all," exclaimed Canon,

"unless the people take possession of the large holdings."

"And I," said Hourdequin in conclusion, "I tell you again that this

American corn must not be allowed to enter the country. And now go and

vote for Monsieur Rochefontaine if you are tired of having me for your

mayor, and want to see corn at forty-three francs."

He then mounted into his gig, followed by Jean, who exchanged a meaning

glance with Françoise. As the young man whipped the horse on, he said

to his master:

"It doesn't do to think too much about all those affairs, they would

drive one crazy."

Hourdequin signified his approval by nodding his head.

In the tavern, Macqueron was now talking in a low but animated tone

with Delhomme, while Canon, who had once more assumed an air of

supercilious scorn for everybody, finished the brandy, and ridiculed

the snubbed Hyacinthe, dubbing him "Miss Ninety-three." Buteau, waking

up from a reverie, now suddenly noticed that Jean had gone away, and

he was surprised to see Françoise still standing at the door of the

room, where she and Berthe had come to listen to what was going on. He

felt annoyed with himself for having wasted his time over politics,

when he had serious business on hand. Those wretched politics seemed

able to make a man forget everything else. He now entered into a long

conversation with Cœlina, who ultimately prevented him from making an

immediate scandal. It would be much preferable, she said, if Françoise

returned to his house of her own accord, when they had succeeded in

calming her. Then he went off, threatening, however, that he would

return to fetch the girl with a rope and a stick, if the Macquerons did

not prevail upon her to come back.

On the following Sunday Monsieur Rochefontaine was elected deputy; and

Hourdequin having sent in his resignation to the prefect, to avoid

being dismissed, Macqueron at last became mayor, and almost burst

through the skin in his insolent triumph.

CHAPTER VI.

The week passed away, and Françoise still persisted in her refusal to

return to her sister's house. There was a terrible scene one day on the

road. Buteau, who was dragging the girl away by the hair, was obliged

to let go on having his thumb severely bitten. Macqueron then became

so alarmed that he turned the girl out of his house, saying that as he

was the representative of the law he could not encourage her in her

rebellion.

La Grande happened to be passing at the time, and she took Françoise

home with her. The old woman was now eighty-eight years of age, but

she never thought about dying except as a means of bequeathing to her

heirs the worry of endless litigation in reference to her fortune. She

had made an extraordinarily complicated will, mixing everything up with

absolute delight; and, under the pretext of wronging no one, she had

left such directions as would compel the heirs to devour one another.

She had done this quite deliberately, feeling a satisfaction in the

thought that although she could not take her property with her to the

grave, she would at any rate go off with the consolation of having

done her very best to set all her relations by the ears. Nothing gave

her more pleasure than to see them quarrelling with one another, and

this it was that prompted her to take her niece into her own house.

Her natural stinginess made her hesitate just for a moment, but she

came to a decision at the thought that she would get a large amount of

work out of the girl in return for a small amount of food. That very

evening, in fact, she made her wash the whole house. When Buteau made

his appearance, she stood up and confronted him with her wicked-looking

old nose which resembled the beak of some aged bird of prey; and he

who had talked of smashing everything at the Macquerons' here began to

tremble and stammer, too much paralyzed by the fear of losing his share

of La Grande's property to dare to engage in a struggle with her.

"I want Françoise here," she said, "and I mean to keep her, since she

is not comfortable with you. Besides, she is of age now, and you have

certain accounts to render her. We shall have to talk about them."

Buteau went off in a furious frame of mind, alarmed at the trouble and

annoyance which he realised were in store for him.

Just a week afterwards, indeed, about the middle of August, Françoise

at last came of age. She was now her own mistress. By her change of

residence, however, she had done little more than change her troubles,

for she, also, trembled before her aunt, and was nearly killed by

over-work in this cold, parsimoniously-managed house, where everything

had to be made shiny without any expenditure upon soap or brushes. Cold

water and elbow-grease had to suffice for everything. One day the girl

almost got her head cut open by a blow from her aunt's stick, merely

for forgetting herself so far as to give the fowls some grain.

Several of the neighbours said that, in her anxiety to spare her horse,

La Grande harnessed her grandson Hilarion to the plough; and, even if

that was an exaggeration, there was no doubt but that she did treat the

lad like a beast of burden, beating him and almost killing him with

work, abusing of his great strength to such a degree that he sank down

quite worn out with exhaustion, and feeding him so miserably, with mere

crusts and leavings, just as though he were a pig, that he was always

on the verge of starvation, as well as being stupefied with fear. When

Françoise discovered that she was meant to make up the second horse in

the pair, her one thought was of how she might get away from the house;

and then it was that she suddenly determined to marry.

She was simply prompted by the wish to finish with it all. With her

ingrained and obstinate ideas of justice, ideas which even in her

childhood had caused her no little trouble, she would rather have

killed herself than have gone back to her sister's. She wanted nothing

but justice, she told herself, and she despised herself for having

submitted so long. She now made no reference to the swinish Buteau; it

was only of her sister that she spoke harshly, saying that if it had

not been for her they could still have continued living all together.

Now that this rupture had taken place between them, a rupture which

could never be healed, she only lived to obtain her property, her share

in the inheritance. The thought of this worried her from morning to

night, and she went wild on account of the endless formalities that

would have to be gone through. What was the good of them all? This is

mine! that is yours! Why couldn't the whole thing be settled in a

couple of minutes? It could only be, she declared, because every one

was in league to rob her. She suspected the whole family, and came to

the conclusion that her only means of extricating herself from this

predicament was to take a husband.

Jean, certainly, had not got an inch of land, and he was fifteen

years her senior. But then no one else had asked for her, and perhaps

no one else would have dared to take her, from fear of Buteau, who

was so generally dreaded in Rognes that no one cared to have him for

an adversary. Then, too, she and Jean had had to do with each other

once; though this fact was not of much importance, since it had had

no consequences. On the other hand, he was gentle, and kindly, and

straightforward. Why not take him, since there was no one else she

cared about, and as her only object in marrying was to get some one to

defend her interests and to do what she could to enrage Buteau? Yes,

she, too, would have a man of her own!

Jean still retained a great affection for her, although with time his

lustful desire to possess her had greatly quieted down. But he still

adhered to her, and looked upon himself as engaged to her by reason of

the promises they had exchanged. He had waited patiently till she was

of age, without harassing her to depart from the waiting course she

had determined upon, and he had even restrained her from acting in any

way against her own interests while she remained at her sister's. As

a result, there was now every reason why all honourable people should

be on her side. And, although he blamed her for the tempestuous way in

which she had left the Buteaus, he repeated that she now had the game

in her hands. Whenever she chose to speak of the other matter he should

be ready and willing to hear her.

Their marriage was agreed upon in this wise, one evening when he had

come to meet her behind La Grande's cow-house. There was a rotten old

gate there, opening into a court, and they were leaning against it,

he outside and she inside, with the stream of liquid manure from the

stable trickling between their feet.

The girl was the first to refer to the subject.

"If you're still of the same mind, Corporal, I'm willing to consent

now," she said, looking him straight in the eyes.

He returned her look, and replied slowly:

"I've not said anything to you about it lately, because it would have

seemed as if I wanted your property. But you are right all the same.

Now's the time."

Then there was a pause. Jean had laid his hand upon the girl's, which

was resting upon the gate. Then he resumed: "You mustn't let any of the

neighbours' gossip about La Cognette trouble you. It's three years and

more since I even touched her."

"And you," she exclaimed, "you mustn't worry yourself about Buteau.

The swine brags everywhere that he has had to do with me. Perhaps you

believe it?"

"Everybody in the neighbourhood believes it," Jean murmured, evading a

direct reply.

Then, seeing that she was still looking at him, he continued:

"Well, yes, I did believe it. I knew the scoundrel so well, that I

didn't see how you could possibly have prevented him."

"Oh, he tried often enough, and I suffered dreadfully at his hands; but

if I swear to you that he never gained his ends, will you believe me?"

"Yes, I believe you."

Then, in token of his pleasure, he closed his fingers round her hand,

and kept it pressed in his own as he stood with his arm resting on the

gate. Noticing that the dribbling stream from the stable was wetting

his boots, he set his legs apart.

"You seemed to stick on there so persistently," he continued, "that it

almost appeared as though you enjoyed his buffetings."

The girl felt ill at ease, and her frank, straightforward gaze was

lowered.