with me. Well, it's all the better now, isn't it? That baby I so wanted
still remains to come. It's altogether more respectable, too."
He stopped to tell her that she was standing in the dirty stream.
"Take care; you are wetting your feet."
She took them out of the slush, and then observed:
"We are agreed about it, then?"
"Yes, we are agreed. Choose any time you like."
They did not even kiss each other, but just shook hands across the gate
like a couple of friends. Then they went off in opposite directions.
When Françoise informed her aunt that same evening of her intention
to marry Jean, explaining to her her need of a husband to assist her
in recovering her property, La Grande at first made no reply. She sat
stiffly in her chair with her eyes widely opened, calculating the
loss and gain and pleasure which she was likely to derive from the
marriage, and it was only the next day that she expressed her approval
of it. She had been thinking the matter over all night long as she lay
on her straw mattress, for she slept very little now, and would lie
with open eyes till day dawned, plotting how she might make things
disagreeable for the different members of her family. This marriage
seemed to her to be so pregnant with unpleasant consequences for
everybody, that she longed to see it come off with quite a youthful
feverishness. She could already foresee even the smallest among the
numerous vexations which would arise from it, and she was scheming how
she might embitter them, and render them as fatal as possible. She was
so pleased, indeed, that she told her niece that she would take the
whole matter upon herself for affection's sake. She emphasised the word
by a terrible shake of her stick. Since the others had cast the girl
off, she would take the place of her mother, and folks would see how
she managed matters.
As a first step, La Grande summoned her brother Fouan to talk to him
about the accounts of the guardianship. The old man, however, could
not give her any information. It wasn't his doing, he said, that he
had been appointed guardian, and as Monsieur Baillehache had managed
everything, he ought to be applied to. Moreover, when he discovered
that the old woman was bent upon annoying the Buteaus, he affected
still greater bewilderment. Age, and the consciousness of his weakness,
filled him with uneasy alarm for himself; he felt that he was at
everybody's mercy. Why should he quarrel with the Buteaus? He had twice
almost made up his mind to return to them after nights of quaking fear,
during which he had seen Hyacinthe and La Trouille ferreting about his
room, and even thrusting their bare arms under his bolster, trying
to rob him of his papers. He felt quite convinced that he would be
murdered some night or other at the Château if he did not escape from
it.
La Grande, being unable to glean anything from him, dismissed him in a
state of great alarm, shouting out that he should be prosecuted if he
had tampered with the girl's property. Then she attacked Delhomme, as a
member of the family council, and gave him such a fright that he went
home ill, Fanny coming at once to tell the old woman that they would
prefer paying money down to being worried with law-suits. La Grande
chuckled. The game was beginning to be very amusing!
The question she now set herself to solve was whether the division of
the property should be pressed forward as the next step, or whether
the marriage should take place first. She pondered over it for two
nights, and pronounced in favour of an immediate marriage. Françoise,
married to Jean and claiming her share of the property, assisted by her
husband, would anger the Buteaus extremely. She then hurried things
forward, seeming to regain the nimble activity of youth, and she busied
herself about obtaining the necessary documents on behalf of Françoise,
and made Jean give her his. Then she made all the arrangements both for
the civil and religious weddings, and her eagerness even carried her
so far that she advanced the necessary money, taking care, however,
to obtain in exchange for it a receipt signed by both Jean and
Françoise--a receipt in which the sum advanced was doubled by way of
providing for the interest. The glasses of wine which she was forced to
offer to the guests during the preparations wrenched her heart-strings
more than anything else, but as she was provided with her vinegary
liquid, her "gnat destroyer," folks were not pressing in this respect.
She decided that there should be no wedding feast on account of the
divided state of the family. After the mass they would merely just
swallow a glass of the "gnat destroyer," by way of drinking the health
of the newly-married pair.
Monsieur and Madame Charles, who were invited, excused themselves
on the ground that they were greatly worried on account of their
son-in-law, Vaucogne. Fouan, who was in a most uneasy state of mind,
went off to bed, and sent a message saying that he was ill. The
only relation present was Delhomme, who consented to act as one of
Françoise's witnesses, to mark the esteem which he felt for that steady
fellow, Jean. The latter, on his side, only brought his witnesses--his
master, Hourdequin, and one of the farm-hands, a companion. Rognes was
topsy-turvy, and at every doorway people watched for this wedding,
which had been so energetically pushed forward, and which seemed likely
to provoke so much quarrelling and fighting.
At the ceremony at the municipal offices Macqueron, inflated with
self-importance, went through the formalities, in presence of the
ex-mayor, in an exaggerated manner. At the church there was a painful
incident. The Abbé Madeline fainted while he was saying mass. He was
not feeling well. He regretted his native mountains since he had begun
to live in flat La Beauce, and he was extremely distressed by the
indifference of his new parishioners for religion, and so upset by the
continued chattering and squabbling of the women, that he no longer
dared even to threaten them with hell. They had realised that he was of
a yielding disposition, and they took advantage of this to tyrannise
over him even in religious matters. However, Cœlina, and Flore, and all
the other women present at the ceremony, expressed extreme sorrow for
his having fallen with his nose against the altar, and they declared
that it was an omen of misfortune and approaching death for the bride
and bridegroom.
It had been settled that Françoise should continue to live at La
Grande's till she had received her share of the property; for, with
her characteristic determination, she had quite made up her mind that
she would have the house. So what was the good of taking one elsewhere
just for a fortnight or so? Jean, who was to retain his post as
waggoner at the farm, would in the meantime join her every evening.
Their wedding night was a very sad and stupid one, though they were
glad to be at last together. When Jean took his wife in his arms, she
began to sob so violently that she almost choked: not that he used
the least roughness towards her; on the contrary, he treated her with
the utmost gentleness. In reply to his questions she told him, still
sobbing bitterly, that she had no complaint to make against him, but
that she could not help crying, though she did not know why she was
doing so. Such a wedding night as this was not calculated to make a man
very ardent. Though he embraced her and held her clasped in his arms, a
feeling of troubled constraint seemed to have come between them. Apart
from that they got on very well together, and being unable to sleep,
they spent the remainder of the night in speculating as to how their
affairs would progress, when they got hold of the house and land.
The next morning Françoise was anxious to demand her share of the
property. But La Grande now showed no great hurry to have the matter
settled. She wanted to make her spiteful enjoyment last as long as
possible, bleeding her relations by slow degrees with pin-thrusts; and
then, again, she profited too much by the services of Françoise and
her husband, who paid the rent of the bedroom by two hours' work every
evening, to be anxious to see them leave her and establish themselves
in a house of their own.
It was necessary, however, to ask the Buteaus how they proposed to
divide the property. La Grande, on behalf of her niece, claimed the
house, half the arable land, and half the meadow, foregoing the half of
the vineyard as a set-off against the house, estimating it as being of
the same value. It was a very fair proposal, and if matters had been
thus arranged in a friendly way, a recourse to the law, which always
retains a good slice of everything it gets hold of, would have been
avoided. Buteau, whom La Grande's arrival had revolutionised--he was
forced to be respectful with her on account of her money--dared not
listen any longer, but rushed out of the room, afraid lest he might so
far forget his own interests as to strike the old woman.
Lise who was left alone with her, and whose ears were red with anger,
stammered out:
"The house, indeed! She wants the house, does she? this heartless
hussy, this good-for-nothing who has got married without even coming to
see me! Well, aunt, you can tell her from me that if ever she gets this
house it will only be because I'm dead!"
La Grande remained perfectly calm.
"All right, all right, my child. There's no occasion to get excited.
You also want the house. Well, you have an equal right to it. We will
see what is to be done."
For the next three days the old woman went backwards and forwards from
one sister to the other, reporting to each of them all the abuse which
the other had indulged in, and exasperating them to such a degree that
both of them almost took to their beds. La Grande, unwearying in her
embassies, impressed upon them how great her affection for them was,
and what an amount of gratitude they owed her for undertaking this
unpleasant task. It was finally settled that the land should be divided
between the two sisters, but that the house, the furniture, and the
live stock should be sold, since they could not agree about them. Both
the sisters swore that they would buy the house, even if they had to
part with their last chemise to do it.
So Grosbois came to survey the land and divide it into two lots. There
were two and a half acres of meadow land, about the same amount of
vineyard, and about five acres of plough land. It was this latter
that Buteau, since his marriage, had been so determined to retain,
for it adjoined a field of his own which he had obtained from his
father, and the two plots together made up a parcel of between seven
and eight acres, such as no other peasant in all Rognes possessed. He
was, consequently, full of bitter wrath when he saw Grosbois setting
up his square and sticking his poles into the ground. La Grande was
there superintending, but Jean had thought it best not to be present,
fearing that there might be a fight if he came. As it was, there was
an angry discussion. Buteau wanted the line of division to be drawn
parallel to the valley of the Aigre, so that his wife's share might
still adjoin his own field; while La Grande, on the other hand,
insisted that the line should be drawn perpendicularly, asserting that
this was the way in which the family property had always been divided
for centuries past. The old woman won the day, and Buteau clenched his
fists and almost choked with suppressed rage.
"Curse it! Why, if the first lot falls to me," he blurted out, "my land
will be cut up into two pieces. There will be this piece in one place,
and my own field in another."
"Well, my lad," rejoined the old woman, "you must draw the lot that
suits you best."
For a month past Buteau had been in a state of the angriest excitement.
In the first place, Françoise was escaping him. He had become quite ill
with longing desire, now that he was no longer able to seize hold of
the girl as he had been wont to do, and to obstinately hope on that he
would succeed in effecting his purpose some day or other. And, now that
she was married, the thought that another man could do as he pleased
with her, ended by putting him in a perfect fever. And then this other
man was now trying to get his land into his possession, too. He felt
that he would as soon lose a limb. The girl he might, perhaps, have,
but not the land; the land which he, Buteau, had always looked upon as
his own, and with which he had sworn never to part! He began to indulge
in the most bloodthirsty thoughts, and ransacked his brains for some
method by which he might be able to keep the land, dreaming vaguely of
murders and acts of violence, which only his terror of the gendarmes
prevented him from committing.
At last a meeting was arranged at Monsieur Baillehache's office, at
which Buteau and Lise, for the first time since the marriage, again
found themselves in the presence of Françoise and Jean, whom La Grande
had accompanied for the pleasure of the thing, and under the pretext
of seeing that nothing wrong was done. The five of them went into
the private office in silence, comporting themselves stiffly. The
Buteaus seated themselves on the right. On the left, Jean remained
standing behind Françoise's chair, as though to express that he was
not of the meeting, but had simply come to support his wife. The aunt,
tall and scrawny, sat down in the middle, turning her round eyes and
her hawk-like beak first on one couple and then on the other with
a satisfied air. The two sisters did not even appear to know each
other. They sat there with a hard expression on their faces, without
exchanging a single word or look. The men, however, had given one
another a rapid glance, gleaming and penetrating like a dagger thrust.
"Now, my friends," said Monsieur Baillehache, who remained calm amid
all these expressions of murderous hate, "we are first of all going to
finish with the division of the land, upon which subject we are now
quite agreed."
He then made them affix their signatures forthwith. The parchment was
already engrossed, blanks being left after the names of the parties for
the description of the various parcels, and they all had to sign before
the lots were drawn, which ceremony was immediately proceeded with, in
order to prevent any trouble.
Françoise, having drawn number two, number one was, of course, left for
Lise, and Buteau's face turned quite purple from the angry surging of
his blood. Luck was always against him! Here was his land cut atwain,
and this hussy and her man had their share between his two parcels!
"The devil take and confound them all!" he growled from between his
clenched teeth.
The notary requested him to restrain his feelings till he got into the
street again.
"This will cut up our land," remarked Lise, without turning towards her
sister. "Perhaps we might be able to make an exchange. It would suit us
better, and be to no one's disadvantage."
"No!" said Françoise, drily.
La Grande nodded her approval. It would bring bad luck to interfere
with the ruling of chance. The result of the drawing made the old woman
gay. As for Jean, who was still standing behind his wife, he seemed so
determined to hold himself aloof from the proceedings that he had not
moved, and his face was a perfect blank.
"Come now, let us finish with it all," said the notary.
The two sisters had, by common consent, deputed him to arrange for the
sale of the house and furniture and live stock. The sale was advertised
to take place in his office on the second Sunday in the month, and the
conditions of the sale stated that the purchaser could have the right
of entering into possession on the same day. When the sale was over,
the notary would at once proceed to balance accounts between the two
co-heiresses. The different parties concerned signified their approval
of all this by silently nodding their heads.
Just at this moment, however, Fouan, who had been summoned to attend
the meeting as Françoise's guardian, was introduced by a clerk, who
prevented Hyacinthe from coming in at the same time, on account of his
intoxicated condition. Although more than a month had elapsed since
Françoise had attained her majority, the accounts of the guardianship
had not yet been rendered; and this fact tended to complicate matters.
It was necessary for the accounts to be passed before the old man could
be released from his responsibility. He looked first at one party,
and then at the other, straining his little eyes, and trembling with
increasing fear lest he should find himself compromised and given up to
justice.
An abstract of the accounts had been prepared, and it was read by the
notary. They all listened to it attentively, full of uneasy anxiety,
since they could not completely understand, and fearing that if they
let a word pass unheard that very word would somehow bring them into
trouble.
"Have you any observations to make, any of you?" asked the notary when
he had finished reading the abstract.
They all looked bewildered. What observations? Perhaps they had
forgotten something, and were allowing themselves to be robbed.
"Excuse me," La Grande suddenly interposed, "but this by no means suits
Françoise. My brother must be intentionally shutting his eyes if he
can't see that the girl's being defrauded."
"I! what? eh?" stammered Fouan. "I haven't taken a copper of hers, so
help me God!"
"I say that Françoise, since her sister's marriage, now nearly five
years ago, has been employed as her servant, and that she is entitled
to wages."
Buteau sprang up from his seat at this unexpected demand, and Lise
almost choked with anger.
"Wages!" she cried; "wages to a sister! That is too ridiculous!"
Monsieur Baillehache hushed them, and declared that the girl was
perfectly entitled to claim wages if she chose to do so.
"Yes, I do claim them," said Françoise; "I wish to have everything that
is my due."
"But then you must take all her food into account!" cried Buteau, wild
with excitement. "She makes short work with bread and meat! Just you
feel her, and say if you think that she's got as fat as that on air!"
"And then there's her linen and dresses!" Lise added furiously; "and
her washing! Why, she used to sweat so much that she'd soil a chemise
in a couple of days."
"If I sweated like that," replied Françoise, with annoyance, "it was
because I worked so hard."
"Sweat dries and doesn't soil," interposed La Grande, curtly.
Monsieur Baillehache again intervened. He told them that a debtor and
creditor account would have to be drawn up, the wages on one side and
the board and lodging and other expenses on the other. Then he took a
pen, and made an attempt to draw up a statement from the information
they gave him. It was a terrible business. Françoise, backed up by La
Grande, showed herself very exacting, setting a high price upon her
services, and detailing at length all that she had done while she was
with the Buteaus: her work in the household, and with the cows, and
out in the fields, where her brother-in-law had made her labour like a
man. The exasperated Buteaus, on the other hand, swelled out the list
of expenses as much as possible, counting up every meal, telling lies
about the girl's clothes, and claiming even the money which had been
spent in presents for her on fête-days. But, despite all they could do,
they found themselves with a balance of a hundred and eighty-six francs
against them. Their hands trembled and their eyes blazed as they tried
to think of something else that they might charge for.
The statement was about to be passed when Buteau suddenly cried out:
"Stop a moment. There's the doctor. He came twice when she was out of
sorts; that makes another six francs."
La Grande was by no means inclined to let the others enjoy this victory
undisturbed, and she stirred up old Fouan to make him recollect how
many days' work the girl had done on the farm while he was living in
the house. Was it five days or six, at a franc and a half the day?
Françoise cried six, and Lise cried five, hurling the words at each
other's heads as though they had been stones. The distracted old man
now supported one and then the other, tapping his forehead with his
fists. Françoise, however, carried the day, and there was now a balance
to her credit of a hundred and eighty-nine francs.
"Well, is everything included now?" asked the notary.
Buteau seemed quite crushed and overwhelmed with this ever-increasing
liability, and no longer struggling, he sat there hoping that affairs
had now seen their worst.
"I'll take off my shirt if they want it," he groaned in a doleful
voice.
La Grande, however, had kept a last terrible bolt in reserve. It was
a very important and simple matter, which everybody seemed to have
forgotten.
"And then there's the five hundred francs compensation for the road up
yonder."
Buteau now sprang wildly to his feet, his eyes projecting out of his
head, and his mouth wide open. He could say nothing, however; no
discussion was possible. He had received the money, and was bound
to hand half of it over. For a moment he ransacked his brains for
something to say, but he could not think of anything at all; and in
the wild anger that was rising and making his head throb, he suddenly
rushed forward at Jean.
"You filthy blackguard!" he cried, "it is you who killed our
friendship! If it hadn't been for you, we should still have all been
living together in peace and quiet!"
Jean, who had very sensibly preserved silence, was now forced to assume
an attitude of defence.
"Keep off!" he said, "or I'll strike."
Françoise and Lise had hastily sprung up and planted themselves in
front of their respective husbands, their faces swollen by their
gradually accumulating hatred, and their nails outstretched and ready
to tear each other's faces. A general engagement, which neither Fouan
nor La Grande seemed inclined to prevent, would certainly have taken
place, and caps and hair would soon have been flying about, if the
notary had not thrown off his professional calmness.
"Confound it all!" he cried, "wait till you've got outside. It's
disgusting that you can't settle your accounts without fighting!"
Then as the quivering antagonists quieted down, he added: "You are now
agreed, I think, eh? Well, I will have the accounts made out in proper
form, and then, when they have been signed, we will proceed to the sale
of the house, and get the whole matter done with. Now you can go, and
mind you are careful. Folly sometimes turns out very expensive!"
This remark finished pacifying them. As they were leaving, however,
Hyacinthe, who had been waiting outside for his father, attacked the
whole family, and roared out that it was a foul shame to involve a poor
old man in their dirty business for the sake of robbing him, no doubt;
and then, as his drunkenness made him affectionate, he took his father
away, as he had brought him, in a cart, bedded with straw, which he had
borrowed from a neighbour. The Buteaus went off on one side, while La
Grande pushed Jean and Françoise towards "The Jolly Ploughman," where
she had herself treated to some black coffee. She was radiant.
"At any rate I've had a good laugh!" she exclaimed, as she put the
remains of the sugar into her pocket.
La Grande had another idea that same day. When she got back to Rognes,
she hurried off to make an arrangement with old Saucisse, who had once
been a lover of hers, so folks declared. The Buteaus having threatened
to bid against Françoise for the house, even though it cost them
all they possessed, it had occurred to her that if Saucisse bid on
Françoise's behalf the others might not have any suspicions, but let
him secure the house; he was their neighbour and might very well wish
to enlarge his premises. In consideration of a present the old man
immediately consented to do as he was asked.
On the second Sunday of the month, when the sale came off, matters
turned out just as La Grande had foreseen. Once more the Buteaus were
seated on one side of Monsieur Baillehache's office, and Françoise
and Jean and La Grande on the other. There were also various other
people there, some peasants, who had come with a vague idea of bidding,
if things went very cheaply. After four or five bids from Lise and
Françoise, the house stood at three thousand five hundred francs,
which was just about its value. When they got to three thousand
eight hundred, Françoise stopped. Then old Saucisse came upon the
scene, pushed the bidding up to four thousand francs, and then on
to an additional five hundred. The Buteaus looked at each other in
consternation. They felt as though they could really go no higher;
the thought of such a large sum of money quite froze their blood.
Lise, however, let herself be carried away as far as five thousand
francs; but then the old man quite crushed her by immediately bidding
five thousand two hundred. That settled the business, and the house
was knocked down to him for the five thousand two hundred francs. The
Buteaus sniggered. It would be very pleasant to handle their share of
this big sum of money, now that Françoise and her filthy blackguard of
a husband had failed to get the house.
However, when Lise, upon her return to Rognes, once more entered
the old house where she had been born and where she had hitherto
lived, she burst into tears. Buteau, also, was dreadfully cut up and
down-hearted, and he relieved his feelings by falling foul of his wife;
swearing that if he had had his own way he would have parted with the
last hair on his head rather than have let the house go. But your
heartless women, he cried, refused to open their purses, except it
were for self-indulgence. In this, however, he was lying, for it was
he himself who had held Lise back. Then they got to blows. Ah! The
poor old patrimonial abode of the Fouans, built by an ancestor three
hundred years previously, and now crazy and cracked, mended and patched
in every part, sunken and thrown forward by the sweeping winds of La
Beauce! To think that the family had lived in it for three hundred
years, that they had grown to love it and honour it as a holy relic,
and that it was counted as a leading item in the inheritances! Buteau,
at the thought of losing it, knocked his wife down with a back-hander,
and when she struggled up again she kicked him so violently that she
nearly broke his leg.
On the evening of the next day matters were even worse--the thunderbolt
fell. Old Saucisse had gone in the morning to complete the sale, and
by noon all Rognes knew that he had bought the house on behalf of
Françoise, with her husband's authorisation; and not only the house,
but the furniture also, and Gédéon and La Coliche. There was a howl of
anguish and distress at the Buteaus', as though lightning had stricken
them. Husband and wife threw themselves upon the ground, and roared and
wept in their wild despair at finding themselves defeated, outwitted,
by that hussy of a girl. What maddened them, perhaps, more than
anything else, was the knowledge that the whole village was laughing
at them for their lack of penetration. To be fooled in this way, and
turned out of their own house by such a trick! No, indeed, it was too
much! They would not submit to it!
When La Grande presented herself the same evening on Françoise's
behalf, and politely inquired of Buteau when it would be convenient for
him to give up possession, he thrust her out of the house, casting all
prudence to the winds and only making use of a foul expression.
The old woman went off chuckling, simply remarking that she would send
the bailiff. The next day, indeed, Vimeux, with a pale, uneasy face,
and looking more pitiable than usual, came up the street and gently
knocked at the door, anxiously watched by all the gossips in the
neighbouring houses. No notice was taken of his knock, and he gave a
louder one, and even summoned up enough courage to call out and explain
that he had come to serve a notice to quit. Then the window of the
garret was opened, and a voice roared out the same foul word as had
been addressed to La Grande; while the contents of a chamber utensil
were flung upon Vimeux, who, soaked from head to foot, had to go off
without serving the notice. For a whole month Rognes roared over his
adventure.
La Grande, however, now immediately went off to Châteaudun with Jean,
to consult a lawyer. The latter explained to her that at least five
days would be necessary before the Buteaus could be ejected. Complaint
would have to be formally laid; then an order would have to be obtained
from the presiding judge; this order would then have to be registered,
and then the ejectment would take place, the bailiff being assisted
by the gendarmes, if necessary. La Grande tried hard to get matters
settled a day sooner, and when she returned to Rognes--it was then
Tuesday--she told every one that on the Saturday evening the Buteaus
would be turned into the street at the point of the sword like thieves,
if they did not voluntarily take themselves off in the meantime.
When this was repeated to Buteau, he made a threatening gesture and
told every one he met that he would never leave the house alive, and
that the soldiers would have to break down the walls before they
dragged him out. His fury acquired such an extravagant character that
the whole neighbourhood was at a loss to know whether he was pretending
to be mad, or really was so. He passed wildly along the roads, standing
in the front of his cart, and keeping his horse at the gallop, without
replying when he was spoken to or warning the foot passengers. He
was met at nights, too, how in one part of the neighbourhood, now
in another, returning from nobody knew where, possibly from seeing
the fiend. One man who had ventured up to him had received a heavy
cut from his whip. He spread terror abroad, and the whole village
was soon constantly on the look-out. One morning it was seen that he
had barricaded the house, and terrible cries were heard from behind
the closed doors, piteous howls in which the neighbours fancied they
could distinguish the voices of Lise and her two children, Laure and
Jules. The whole neighbourhood was revolutionised, and took counsel
together as to what should be done; with the result that an old peasant
risked his life by raising a ladder to one of the windows, in view of
climbing up to see what was going on inside. Buteau, however, opened
the window, and overturned both the ladder and the old man, the latter
almost having his legs broken. Couldn't a chap be left alone in his own
house? Buteau roared as he shook his fists, and he threatened to murder
everybody if they made any further attempt to interfere with him. Lise
also appeared with her two children, and gave utterance to a flood of
virulent language, abusing her neighbours for poking their noses into
what did not concern them. After that no one dared to make any further
attempt at interference; but the general alarm increased at every
fresh outburst, and people shuddered as they listened to the dreadful
uproar. The more cynical fellows thought that Buteau was only acting,
but others swore that he had gone off his nut, and that some terrible
result would ensue. The truth, however, was never known.
On the Friday, the day before the Buteaus were to be ejected, another
scene caused great emotion. Buteau, having met his father near the
church, began to cry like a calf, kneeling down on the ground in
front of the old man, and asking pardon of him for all his previous
misconduct. It was probably owing to that, he said, that his present
troubles had come upon him. He besought his father to return to live
with him, seeming to think that this alone could put fortune again on
his side. Fouan, worried by all this braying, and amazed by his son's
seeming repentance, promised to entertain the proposal some day, when
all the family worries were over.
At last the Saturday arrived. Buteau's excitement had gone on
increasing, and from morn to night he was ever harnessing and
unharnessing his horse again without the slightest reason. Folks fled
out of the way when they saw him driving furiously along, full of
consternation at the sight of all this aimless rushing about. At about
eight o'clock on the Saturday morning Buteau once more put his horse
between the shafts, but did not leave his premises. He took up his
stand at the door, calling out to every one who passed by, sniggering
and sobbing and yelling out his troubles in coarse language. Oh, it was
a nice thing, wasn't it? to be made a fool of by a young hussy who'd
been his keep for the last five years! Yes, she was a strumpet, and
so was his wife! Yes, a couple of fine strumpets, who fought together
as to which of them he should belong. He continued harping upon this
lie, inventing all kinds of nasty details out of spite and revengeful
bitterness. Lise having come to the door, there was another atrocious
scene between them. Buteau thrashed her in sight of everybody, and then
sent her back again, limp and subdued, while he himself felt relieved
by the hiding he had given her. He still remained at the door on the
look-out for the agents of the law, which he jeered at and reviled. Had
the law stopped on the way to make a beast of herself? he cried. At
last, no longer expecting the bailiff, he became triumphant.
It was not till four o'clock that Vimeux made his appearance,
accompanied by a couple of gendarmes. Buteau turned pale, and hastily
closed the yard door. Possibly he had believed that matters would never
be pushed to an extremity. A death-like silence fell upon the house.
Protected by armed men, Vimeux was now quite insolent, and knocked
at the door with his two fists. No answer was vouchsafed. Then the
gendarmes came forward and made the old door shake with the butts of
their guns. A crowd of men, women, and children had followed them; all
Rognes was there, waiting to see the siege. Then suddenly the door was
thrown open again, and Buteau was seen, standing in the front of his
cart, and lashing his horse forward. He came out at a gallop, right
into the midst of the assembled crowd.
"I'm going to drown myself! I'm going to drown myself!" he bellowed out
amid the cries of alarm.
It was all up, and he was going to make an end of it by hurling himself
and his horse and cart into the Aigre!
"Look out, there," he shouted; "I'm going to drown myself!"
Fright dispersed the inquisitive folks, as Buteau lashed his whip and
the cart rushed wildly out. However, just as he was going to dash down
the slope, at the risk of smashing the wheels of the vehicle, several
men ran forward to arrest his course. The obstinate fool was quite
capable of making the plunge, they cried, just for the sake of annoying
people! They caught him up, but there was a struggle; while some sprang
to the horse's head others had to climb into the cart. When they led
him back to the house again, he clenched his teeth and stiffened his
whole body, but said not a single word, letting fate take its course,
with no other protest save the silence of impotent anger.
La Grande now made her appearance with Françoise and Jean, whom she
was bringing to take possession of the house. Buteau contented himself
with staring at them with the sombre gaze with which he now watched
the completion of his misfortune. Lise, however, began to cry out and
struggle, as though she were mad. The gendarmes had ordered her to take
what belonged to her and quit the premises. There was nothing left for
her but to obey, since her husband was poltroon enough, she cried, to
stand by without striking a blow in her defence. With her arms a-kimbo,
she began to abuse him.
"You craven! to stand by and allow us to be turned into the street in
this way! You haven't got any pluck, eh? Why don't you hit the swine!
Get out of my sight, you coward! You're no man!"
As she went on yelling all this in his face, exasperated by his
quiescent demeanour, he at last gave her such a violent shove that she
moaned. However, he still persisted in his silence, and merely glowered
at her with his sombre eyes.
"Come now, look sharp," cried Vimeux, triumphantly, "We shan't go away
till you have given up the keys to the new owners."
Lise thereupon began to remove her goods in a wild paroxysm of rage.
During the last three days she and Buteau had already transferred
a great many things, tools and implements, and the larger domestic
utensils, to the house of their neighbour, La Frimat. It was indeed
evident that they had really anticipated the ejection, for they had
made arrangements with the old woman to have the use of her house
till they had time to settle down again. The place was too big for La
Frimat, who merely retained the bedroom to which her paralysed husband
was confined.
As the furniture and live-stock had been sold together with the house,
Lise merely had to remove her linen, her mattresses, and a few other
trifling articles. Everything was tossed out of the door and windows
into the middle of the yard, while the two little ones yelled as though
they thought that their last day had come, Laure clinging to her
mother's skirts, while Jules, who had tumbled down, was wallowing in
the midst of the ejected property. As Buteau made no attempt to assist
his wife, the gendarmes, like good fellows, began to place the bundles
in the cart, which was still standing in front of the door.
However, the row commenced all over again when Lise caught sight of
Françoise and Jean, standing beside La Grande. She rushed forward and
gave free flow to all her accumulated wrath and spite.
"Ah, you filthy cat, you've come to look on with your tom, have you?
Yes, feast your eyes on our trouble! It's just as though you were
drinking our blood! You thief! you thief! you thief!"
She almost choked as she shouted this last word, which she hurled again
at her sister every time she came out into the yard with some fresh
burden. Françoise did not reply. She was very pale, her lips were
closely pressed together, and her eyes seemed to be on fire. But soon
she assumed an air of suspicious watchfulness, and gazed at everything
that was brought out, as though she wished to make sure that nothing
belonging to herself was taken away. Presently her eye fell upon a
kitchen-stool which had been included in the sale.
"That belongs to me," she exclaimed in a rough voice.
"Belongs to you, does it?" replied her sister; "go and fetch it, then!"
and she hurled the stool into the pond.
The house was at last evacuated. Buteau took hold of the horse's
bridle, while Lise picked up her two children, her two last bundles,
Jules in her right arm and Laure in the left. Then, as she finally left
her home, she stepped up to Françoise and spat in her face.
"There! take that for yourself!"
Her sister immediately spat back at her.
"And you take that!"
After these farewell words, the offspring of their bitter hatred, Lise
and Françoise slowly wiped their faces, without taking their eyes off
one another. They were sundered for ever now; there was henceforth
nothing in common between them save their kindred blood, which surged
with such hot hate.
Finally, Buteau opened his mouth again to roar out the order to start,
which he coupled with a threatening gesture in the direction of the
house.
"It won't be long before we come back again!"
La Grande followed them to see the end of it all; and, indeed, now that
the Buteaus were completely overthrown, she resolved to turn against
Françoise and Jean, who had left her so speedily, and whom she already
found much too happy together. For a long time the villagers continued
standing about in groups, talking to each other in undertones.
Françoise and Jean had entered the empty house.
While the Buteaus were unloading their bundles at La Frimat's they were
amazed to see old Fouan appear. With a frightened look, and glancing
behind him as though he was afraid of being pursued, he asked: "Is
there a corner here for me? I have come to sleep here."
He had just fled in terror from Hyacinthe's. For a long time past
whenever he awoke during the night he always saw that bony creature
La Trouille prowling in her chemise about his room, searching for the
papers, which he had now taken the precaution to conceal out-of-doors
in a hole in a rock, which he had stopped up with earth. The girl was
sent on this errand by her father on account of her light suppleness,
and she glided about with bare feet just like a snake, insinuating
herself everywhere, between the chairs and under the bed. She evinced
the greatest enthusiasm in the search, feeling certain that the old
man placed the papers somewhere about his person when he dressed
himself, and exasperated that she could not discover where he hid
them on going to bed. She had convinced herself that he did not put
them in the bed itself, for she had felt everywhere with her slender
arm, with such skilful dexterity that Fouan had scarcely known that
she had touched him. On that particular day, however, soon after
breakfast, he had had a fainting fit, falling against the table in
a state of unconsciousness; and, as he came to himself again, still
so overcome that he kept his eyes closed, he realised that he was
lying on the ground near where he had fallen, and he could feel that
Hyacinthe and La Trouille were undressing him. Instead of doing what
they could to bring him round, the wretches had had but one idea,
that of at once profiting by the fit to search him. La Trouille
manifested an angry roughness in her search, not going about it in
her wonted gentle manner, but pulling roughly at his jacket and
trousers, and even examining every corner of his flesh to make sure
that he had not concealed his treasure there. She turned him round,
and then, stretching out his limbs, she searched him as though she
were ransacking some old bag. Nothing! Where could he have hidden the
papers? It was enough to make one cut him open and look inside!
The old man was in such terror lest he should be murdered if he moved
that he still feigned unconsciousness, and kept his eyes closed and
his legs and arms rigid. But as soon as he found himself free again he
fled, firmly resolved never to spend another night at the Château.
"Tell me, can you give me a corner?" he asked again.
Buteau's spirits seemed to revive at his father's unexpected return. It
was money that was coming back.
"Certainly I can, dad! We'll squeeze together to find a corner for you.
It will bring us luck, too. Ah, I should be a rich man, if merely a
good heart were needed to make one so!"
Françoise and Jean had slowly entered the empty house. The night was
closing in, and the rooms lay silent in the mournful, fading light.
Everything there was very old. This patrimonial roof had sheltered
the toil and wretchedness of three centuries, and there was an air of
solemnity about the place such as dwells in the gloom of an ancient
village church. The doors were still standing open. It seemed as
though a storm of wind had blown through the house; the chairs lay
overturned on the ground amid the general chaos of the removal. The
place looked as though it were dead.
Françoise slowly went over it, examining every corner. Vague
recollections and confused sensations awoke in her as she proceeded. In
that spot she had played as a child. It was in the kitchen, near that
table, that her father had died. As she stood in the bedroom, in front
of the bed stripped of its mattress, she thought of Lise and Buteau,
and of the nights when they had embraced each other so vigorously that
she could hear the sound of their panting breath through the ceiling.
Was she even now to be tormented by them? She felt as though Buteau
were still there. Here he had seized hold of her one night, and she had
bitten him. And here again, too, and here. There was not a corner in
the whole house that did not suggest some painful recollection.
Then as Françoise turned round, she started at seeing Jean. What was
this stranger doing in the house? There was an air of constraint about
him, as though he were on a visit, and did not like to take the liberty
of touching anything. She felt overwhelmed with a feeling of solitude,
and grew sick at heart to find that her victory had not made her more
joyful. She had fancied she would enter the house, full of happiness,
triumphant in the thought of having ejected her sister; but now the
house afforded her no pleasure, and her heart was heavy and ill at
ease. Perhaps it was the dying day that was filling her with melancholy!
When the night had quite fallen, she and her husband were still
wandering from one room to another in the darkness, without having had
the courage even to light a candle.
Presently, however, a noise brought them back into the kitchen, and
they became merry on recognising Gédéon, who had effected an entrance
after his usual custom, and had his head inside the side-board, which
had been left open. Close by, inside the stable, they could hear old La
Coliche lowing.
Then Jean, taking Françoise in his arms, kissed her tenderly, as though
to say that, despite everything, they would be happy.
PART V.
CHAPTER I.
Prior to the ploughing, La Beauce, stretched beneath the grey, damp,
November sky, was hidden from sight by a covering of manure. Carts were
lumbering along the country roads, piled up with old straw litter,
which filled the air with a smoky vapour; it was as though the vehicles
were bearing a supply of heat to the soil. Little piles of litter from
cattle-sheds and stables rose up over certain fields like surging
waves, while on other patches the manure had already been spread out,
and soiled the land with a dingy flood. In this mass of fermenting dung
the rich fertility of the coming spring lay brooding; the decomposed
matter was returning to the universal womb, and life would once more
spring from death. From end to end of the vast plain the air reeked
with the strong odour of the dung, which by-and-bye would bring forth
bread for men.
One afternoon Jean was taking a heavy load of manure to his plot of
land on the plateau. It was a month since he and Françoise had taken
up their abode in the old house, and they had now dropped into the
monotonous, though busy, routine of country life. As Jean approached
his field he espied Buteau in the adjoining plot, with a pitchfork in
his hand, engaged in spreading out the manure which had been placed
there in heaps the previous week. The two men cast side-long glances
at each other. Being neighbouring owners, they frequently met and
worked in close proximity to each other. Buteau greatly suffered; for
the loss of Françoise's share, torn from his seven-acre plot, had left
him with two detached parcels, one on the right and one on the left of
Françoise's strip, and he constantly had to make circuits to get to one
parcel from the other. The two men never said a word to each other. The
chance was that some day a quarrel would break out between them, and
then they would murder each other with their pitchforks.
Jean now commenced to discharge his load of manure. He had mounted on
to the top of it; and, buried in it up to his hips, he was throwing it
down with his pitchfork, when Hourdequin passed by, having been engaged
in a round of inspection all the morning. He had retained a kindly
recollection of his servant, and he stopped to speak to him. His form
seemed to have aged, and his face was worn with the anxiety which his
farm and other matters were causing him.
"Why have you never tried phosphates, Jean?" he asked.
Then, without waiting for a reply, he went on talking for a long time,
as though he were trying to drown his thoughts. The true solution of
successful agriculture, he said, was to be looked for in these various
natural and artificial manures. He himself had tried everything, and
had just passed through that craze for manures which sometimes seizes
hold of farmers like a fever. He had tried all manner of things, one
after another; grass, leaves, the refuse of pressed grapes, rape
and colza oil-cake, crushed bones, flesh cooked and pounded, blood
desiccated and reduced to a powder; and it was a source of vexation
to him that the absence of any slaughterhouse in the neighbourhood
prevented him from trying the effects of blood in a liquid state. He
was now using road-scrapings, the scourings of ditches, the cinders
and ashes from stoves, and especially scraps of waste wool, having
purchased the sweepings of a woollen manufactory at Châteaudun. His
theory was that everything that came from the soil was a proper
material to return to it. He had great pits filled with compost at the
rear of his farm, and in them he stowed all the refuse of the whole
neighbourhood, whatever he could get hold of, even offal and putrifying
carcasses picked out of stagnant ponds and elsewhere. It was all
golden, he said.
"I have sometimes had very good results with phosphates," he remarked
to Jean.
"But one gets so dreadfully cheated," Jean replied.
"Yes, certainly, if you buy from chance agents who are trying to do
a small business in the country. At each market there ought to be a
chemical expert who understands these artificial manures, which it is
so difficult to get unadulterated. The future lies in them, I'm sure,
but before that future comes I'm afraid we shall all be done up. We
must have courage, however, and be content to suffer for the sake of
others."
The stench of the dung which Jean was moving seemed to have somewhat
revived the farmer's spirits. He revelled in it, and inhaled it with a
sense of vigorous enjoyment, as though he smelt in it the procreative
elements of the soil.
"No doubt," he resumed after a pause, "nothing has yet been discovered
which equals farmyard manure; but one never can get a sufficient
quantity of it. And then the men just toss it on to the ground. They
don't know how to prepare it or how to manipulate it. See, now, that
dung of yours has been burnt by the sun; you don't keep it covered."
Then he launched out into invectives against routine, when Jean
confessed that he still made use of Buteau's old dung-hole in front of
the cow-house. For some years past he himself, he said, had introduced
layers of soil and turf into his pits, and had set up a system of pipes
to convey the slops of the kitchen, with the urine of the family and
cattle, and indeed all the drainings of the farm, down to a reservoir;
and twice a week the dung-hill was watered with this liquid-manure.
Now-a-days he even carefully saved and utilised all the contents of the
privies.
"It is downright folly," he exclaimed, "to waste the good things that
God gives us! For a long time I had scruples of delicacy about it, just
as the peasants have. But old Mother Caca converted me. You know old
Mother Caca, don't you? She's a neighbour of yours. Well, it was she
alone who went about matters in the right way; and the cabbage over
whose roots she used to empty her slops was the king of cabbages, both
in size and flavour, and it was so simply on account of what the old
woman did."
Jean laughed as he jumped down from his cart, which was now empty, then
he began to divide his manure into little heaps. Hourdequin walked on
after him, amid the warm reek which floated round them.
"The yearly refuse of Paris alone would be sufficient to fertilise some
seventy thousand acres," said the farmer. "It has all been properly
calculated. And yet this is all wasted! There is only just a small
quantity of dried night-soil utilised. Just think of it; seventy
thousand acres! Ah, if we could only have it here, it would cover all
La Beauce, and then you would see the wheat grow!"
He embraced the whole level extent of La Beauce in a sweeping gesture;
and in his enthusiasm he mentally beheld all Paris pouring out its
fertilising flood of human manure over the spreading tract. Streamlets
were trickling along in all directions, overflowing the fields as the
sea of sewage mounted higher and higher beneath the glowing sun, sped
onward by a breeze which wafted the odour far and wide. The great
city was restoring to the soil the life it had received from it. The
earth slowly absorbed the fertilising tide, and from the glutted and
fattened soil there burst forth great teeming harvests of white bread.
"We should want boats in that case," remarked Jean, who was at once
amused and disgusted by the novel idea of submerging the land beneath a
sea of sewage.
Just at that moment the sound of a voice made him turn his head, and he
was astonished to see Lise in her light cart, which was drawn up at the
side of the road. She was shouting to Buteau at the top of her voice:
"I'm just off to Cloyes to fetch Monsieur Finet. Your father has fallen
down in a fit in his bedroom. I'm afraid he's dying. You'd better go
home and see to him."
Then, without waiting for a reply, she whipped her horse forward, and
rattled along the straight road, disappearing out of sight in the
distance.
Buteau leisurely continued spreading out his last heaps of manure,
growling to himself as he did so. His father ill; here was a nuisance!
Very likely it was all a sham, just to get himself coddled and
pampered! Then he put on his jacket again, as the thought struck him
that after all something serious must be the matter with the old man,
since his wife had of her own accord decided to go to the expense of a
doctor.
"Now, there's a fellow who's stingy with his manure!" observed
Hourdequin, looking with interest at the dung in the adjoining field.
"A niggardly peasant has niggardly land. Ah, he's a wretched scamp, and
you will do well to beware of him, especially after the worries you've
had with him. How can you expect things to prosper when there are so
many scoundrels and lewd hussies in the land? There are far too many,
far too many!"
Then, saddened once more, he went off in the direction of La Borderie,
just as Buteau, with his slouching gait, had got back to Rognes. Jean,
left to himself, went on with his work, piling up at every ten yards
or so a fresh heap of the manure, from which an ammoniacal vapour
was rising in still greater force. Other heaps were smoking in the
distance, blurring the line of the horizon with a fine bluish mist. All
La Beauce would lie warm and odorous until the coming frosts.
The Buteaus were still quartered at La Frimat's, occupying the whole of
her house, except the back room on the ground-floor, which she reserved
for herself and her paralytic husband. As for a long time past she
had had neither a horse in her stable nor any cows in her cow-house,
her tenants had placed their own animals there. They found themselves
rather cramped for room on the whole, and they chiefly regretted the
loss of their kitchen-garden and orchard; for La Frimat naturally
retained her acre or so of ground for her own use, especially as by
desperately hard work she managed to get out of this strip of land
just sufficient to support her old husband and provide him with a few
luxuries. This want of a kitchen-garden would of itself have sufficed
to make the Buteaus move to other quarters, had they not perceived that
their proximity was a source of much annoyance to Françoise. There was
only a wall between the grounds of the two houses, and the Buteaus
used to declare, in loud tones, on purpose to be overheard, that they
were only just staying at La Frimat's for a time, for they would
certainly return to their old home very soon. As this was a matter
of certainty, what was the use of troubling themselves with another
removal? They never condescended to explain by what means their return
to their old home was to be effected, and it was this calm assurance,
this persistent expression of certainty on their part, based upon she
knew not what, that sent Françoise almost wild, and quite spoilt her
pleasure at finding herself mistress of the house. Then, too, Lise
occasionally reared a ladder against the shed, and mounted it, to
assail her sister with coarse abuse. Ever since the accounts had been
balanced between them at Monsieur Baillehache's office, she had accused
her sister of robbing her, and she was never weary of hurling the most
abominable accusations from one yard to the other.
When Buteau at last reached the house, he found old Fouan lying on the
bed in the little closet which he occupied behind the kitchen, under
the staircase leading to the loft. The two children, Jules and Laure,
the former of whom was now eight years of age, while the latter was
three, had been left to watch him; and they were amusing themselves
with making streams of water on the floor by pouring out the contents
of their grandfather's jug.
"Well, what's the matter, eh?" asked Buteau, standing in front of the
bed.
Fouan had recovered consciousness. His widely opened eyes slowly turned
towards his son, and fixed their stare upon him, but his head remained
quite motionless, and he looked as though he were petrified.
"Come, now, dad, none of your jokes! I'm too busy for them," said
Buteau. "You mustn't go off the hooks to-day."
Then, as Jules and Laure had now managed to break the jug, he gave them
a couple of cuffs which set them howling. The old man's eyes were
still staring, widely open, with the pupils enlarged and rigid. If he
could not express himself more intelligibly than that, thought Buteau,
there was nothing more to be done at present. They must wait and see
what the doctor said. He now regretted having come away from the field,
and he began to chop some wood in front of the kitchen, for the sake of
doing something.
Lise returned almost immediately with Monsieur Finet, who made a
lengthy examination of the ailing man, the Buteaus awaiting the result
with an uneasy air. The old man's death would have been a release to
them, if he had been carried off at once; but, if he were to linger
on for a long time they might incur heavy expenses, and then again,
if he died before they had succeeded in possessing themselves of his
hoard, Fanny and Hyacinthe, as they foresaw, would give them a deal of
trouble. The doctor's silence served to increase their uneasiness, and
when he took a seat in the kitchen to write out a prescription, they
determined to question him.
"Is it anything serious, then? Will it last a week? Dear me, what a lot
you are writing down for him? What can it all be?"
Monsieur Finet made no reply. He was accustomed to be questioned in
this way by the peasantry, who lost their heads in the presence of
illness, and he treated them like so many animals, refraining from
entering into conversation with them. He had great experience with
common-place complaints, and generally saved his patients, being
perhaps more successful in dealing with them than a man of greater
science would have been. However, the mediocrity to which he accused
the peasants of having reduced him made him harsh and stern towards
them. This only served to increase their deference, despite the doubts
they continually entertained as to the efficacy of his draughts. Would
it be worth the money it cost? That was the question always uppermost
in their minds.
"Do you think, then," asked Buteau, alarmed by the sight of the page of
writing, "that all that will make him better?"
The doctor merely shrugged his shoulders. Then he again returned to
the sick man's bedside, feeling interested in the case, and surprised
to notice symptoms of fever after this slight attack of cerebral
congestion. Keeping his eyes fixed upon his watch, he again counted the
beats of the old man's pulse, without trying to extract the slightest
information from him. Meantime Fouan continued staring at him with his
stupefied air.
"It will be a three weeks' business," said the doctor as he went away.
"I will come again to-morrow. Don't be surprised if he's off his nut
to-night."
Three weeks! The Buteaus had had ears for those words only, and they
were full of consternation. What a pile of money it would cost them if
there would be a pageful of medicine every night! And what made matters
worse was that Buteau now had to get into the cart and drive off to the
druggist's at Cloyes. It was a Saturday, and when La Frimat returned
from selling her vegetables she found Lise sitting alone, and feeling
so miserable that she could do nothing. The old woman expressed the
bitterest grief when she heard what had happened. She never had any
luck! she cried. If it had happened some other day, when she had been
at home, she might at least have profited by the doctor's presence to
consult him about her husband.
The news had already spread through Rognes, for the impudent La
Trouille had called at the house, which she would not leave without
touching her grandfather's hand, so that she might return and tell
Hyacinthe that the old man was not dead. Then, after this shameless
slut, La Grande made her appearance, evidently sent by Fanny. She
planted herself by the side of her brother's bed, and formed her
opinion of his condition by the appearance of his eyes, just as she
judged the eels from the Aigre; and she went away with a perk of her
nose, as though to say that he would certainly get over it this time.
The family now took matters easily. What was the good of troubling
themselves, as the old man would in all probability recover?
The house was topsy-turvy up to midnight. Buteau had returned in an
execrable temper. There were mustard-plasters for the old man's legs,
a draught to be taken every hour, and a purgative, in case he seemed
better, for the morning. La Frimat proffered her assistance, but, at
ten o'clock, growing drowsy, and not feeling much interested in the
matter, she went to bed. Buteau, who wanted to do the same, tried to
hustle Lise off. What was the good of their staying there? he cried.
They couldn't do the old man any good by just looking at him!
Fouan was now rambling in his talk, speaking inconsequentially in loud
tones. He appeared to imagine that he was out in the fields, hard at
work, as in the far-off days of his youthful vigour. Lise, whom these
reminiscences of the past affected with an uneasy disquietude, as
though her uncle were already buried and was now restlessly wandering
on the earth again, was about to follow her husband, who was undressing
himself, when she stopped to put away the old man's clothes which were
still lying on a chair. She carefully shook them, after having made
a lengthy examination of the pockets, in which she found nothing but
some string and a damaged knife. As she next proceeded to hang them
up in the cupboard, she suddenly caught sight of a little bundle of
papers in the middle of a shelf, right in front of her eyes. Her heart
gave a great leap. Here was the secret treasure! the treasure which
had been so anxiously sought for during the last month in all sorts of
extraordinary places, and which was now openly presented to her sight
as if to invite her to take it! It was evident that the old man had
just been going to transfer it to some fresh hiding-place when he was
seized by the fit.
"Buteau! Buteau!" she called in so stifled a voice that her husband at
once ran to her in his shirt, imagining that his father was dying.
For a moment he, too, remained choking with amazement. Then a wild
delight took possession of them both, and taking hold of each other's
hands they jumped about opposite each other like a couple of goats,
forgetting all about the sick man, who was now lying with his eyes shut
and his head seemingly riveted to the pillow. He was still rambling
on, spasmodically, in his delirium. Just now he fancied that he was
ploughing.
"Come, now, get along, you brute! Confound it all, there's a great
piece of flint, and it won't yield! The handles are getting broken, and
I shall have to buy new ones. Get along, you brute, get along!"
"Hush!" murmured Lise, turning round with a startled air.
"Stuff!" retorted Buteau. "You don't suppose he understands, do you?
Can't you hear him drivelling?"
They now both seated themselves near the bed, for their sudden shock of
delight left their legs quite weak and tremulous.
"No one can ever say that we hunted about for it," Lise observed, "for,
as God is my witness, I wasn't thinking about his money at all! It
tumbled into my hand. Let us see what there is."
Buteau had already unfolded the papers, and was reckoning them up aloud.
"Two hundred and thirty, and seventy; that's just three hundred
altogether. That's exactly what I reckoned it at before, when I saw
him draw fifteen five-franc pieces for the quarter's interest at the
tax-collector's. Doesn't it seem funny, now, that these shabby bits of
paper are just as good as real money?"
Lise again hushed him, alarmed by a sudden snigger from the old man,
who now seemed to be imagining that he was engaged in reaping the
famous harvest in Charles X.'s time, which was so plentiful that there
was not room enough in which to garner it all.
"What a lot! what a lot! Did ever any one see such a harvest? What a
lot! what a lot!"
His choking laugh sounded like a death-rattle; and his delight must
have been altogether internal, for not a trace of it appeared on his
rigid face.
"Oh, it's only some of his crazy thoughts that he's sniggering about,"
Buteau remarked, shrugging his shoulders.
There was now an interval of silence, during which the husband and wife
looked at the papers, absorbed in thought.
"Well, what are we to do with them?" Lise murmured, presently.
"Oughtn't we to put them back again?"
Buteau made an energetic gesture of refusal.
"Oh, yes, indeed, we must put them back again," his wife protested. "He
will look for them, and he will make an outcry if he doesn't find them,
and then we shall have a fine row with our swinish relatives."
She now checked herself for the third time, startled by hearing her
father sobbing. He seemed to be a prey to some bitter, hopeless grief,
for his sobs sounded as though they came from the very depths of his
soul. It was impossible to guess what was troubling him, for he only
moaned out in a voice that gradually grew more hollow:
"It's all over--all over--all over."
"And do you suppose," Buteau now exclaimed violently, "that I am going
to leave these papers in the possession of that old chap who's off his
nut, for him to burn them or tear them up? No, indeed."
"Yes, that is perhaps true," murmured Lise.
"Come, now, we've had quite enough of the matter; let's go to bed. If
he asks for the papers, I'll make it my business to reply to him; and
the others had better not try to worry me!"
They now went off to bed, after concealing the papers under the marble
top of an old chest of drawers, which seemed to them to be a safer
hiding-place than one of the drawers themselves, even if they were kept
locked. The old man was left alone, without a candle, for fear of
fire, and he continued sobbing and talking deliriously all through the
night.
On the morrow Monsieur Finet found him calmer, and altogether better
than he had expected. Ah, those old plough horses had their souls well
riveted to their bodies! he exclaimed. The fever which he had feared
did not seem likely now. He prescribed steel, quinine, and other
expensive drugs, filling the Buteaus with renewed consternation; and,
as he was leaving, he had a struggle with La Frimat, who had been on
the watch for him.
"My good woman," he said, "I have already told you that there is really
no difference between your husband and this block of stone. I can't put
life into stones, can I? You must know very well what the end will be;
and the sooner the better both for him and for you."
He then whipped up his horse, and the old woman sank down on to the
block of stone in a flood of tears. It was already a weary long time,
a dozen years and more, that she had been burdened with the support of
her husband, and her strength was failing her with advancing age. She
was afraid, indeed, that ere long she would be too weak to cultivate
her patch of ground: but all the same, it upset her to think that she
might soon lose the infirm old man, who had become like her child, whom
she lifted and dressed and undressed and pampered with dainties. Even
the unparalysed arm which he had hitherto been able to use was now
growing so stiff that she herself was obliged to put his pipe into his
mouth.
At the end of a week Monsieur Finet was astonished to find Fouan on his
legs again. He was still very feeble, but he was obstinately bent on
getting about, saying that the best way to keep from dying was to be
determined not to die. Buteau sniggered behind the doctor's back with a
contemptuous grin, for he had tossed all the prescriptions, after the
second one, aside, declaring that the best way was to let the complaint
feed on itself till it was exhausted. On market-day, however, Lise
had been weak enough to bring back with her from the town a draught,
which had been prescribed on the previous evening; and when the doctor
paid his last visit on the Monday Buteau told him that the old man had
nearly had a relapse.
"I don't know what it was they put into the bottle you ordered, but it
made him dreadfully sick," he said.
That day, in the evening, Fouan at last spoke on the subject nearest
his heart. Ever since he had left his bed he had been prowling about
the house with an air of anxiety, with his mind quite blank as to
where he had deposited his papers. He ferreted and searched everywhere,
and made desperate efforts to remember where he had put them. Then,
at last, a vague recollection dawned upon him. Perhaps he had not
hidden them away anywhere, but had left them lying on the shelf.
But, then again, supposing he was mistaken in his fears, supposing
no one had taken the papers, was it advisable to give the alarm, and
confess to the existence of this money, which it had cost him such
a struggle in the past to get together, and concerning which he had
ever since maintained the most determined silence? For two days he
struggled on against contending emotions--the despair with which the
sudden disappearance of his money filled him, and the fear of the
consequences of indiscreetly opening his mouth. Gradually, however, a
clear recollection of matters returned to him, and he remembered having
placed the packet of papers on the shelf on the morning of his attack,
pending an opportunity to slip them into a chink in the rafters of the
ceiling, which he had just discovered as he lay on his bed gazing into
the air. Plundered and desperate, he now unbosomed himself.
They had just finished their evening meal. Lise was putting the plates
away, and Buteau, who had been watching his father with leering eyes
ever since the day he had left his bed, expected the outbreak, and
was swinging himself on his chair, thinking that the explosion was
now really coming off, for the old fellow seemed so very wretched and
excited. He was not mistaken, for Fouan, who had been persistently
tottering about the room on his shaky legs, now suddenly halted in
front of his son.
"Where are the papers?" he demanded of him in a hoarse voice, and the
words almost seemed to choke him.
Buteau opened his eyes widely, with an expression of profound surprise,
as though he failed to understand.
"Eh? what? What do you say? Papers! what papers?"
"My money!" roared the old man, bracing himself to his full height, and
assuming a threatening expression.
"Your money! What, have you still got some money left? Why, you swore
that we had cost you so much that you hadn't a copper to call your own.
Oh, you cunning old chap, so you really have some money."
He was still swinging about on his chair, sniggering and highly amused,
triumphant at having had such a good scent, for he had been the first
to suspect the existence of the treasure.
Fouan trembled in every limb.
"Give it back to me!"
"Give it back to you? I haven't got your money! Why, I don't even know
where it is!"
"You have robbed me of it. Give it back to me, or I swear that I will
make you give it up by force."
And, in spite of his great age, he seized Buteau by the shoulders and
shook him. The son now sprang up from his chair and seized hold of his
father in turn. But it was not to shake him, but simply to roar out in
his face:
"Yes, I've got it, and I mean to keep it. I'm going to take care of it
for you, you crazy old stupid, with your rambling wits. It was high
time, too, that I did take the papers, for you were going to tear them
up. He wanted to tear them, didn't he, Lise?"
"Oh, yes, as sure as I'm here! He didn't know a bit what he was doing."
Fouan was overwhelmed with consternation upon hearing this. Could it
really be true that he was going mad, since he could recollect nothing
of what had taken place? Supposing he had really wanted to destroy the
papers, just like a child playing with pictures, in that case he could
no longer be good for anything, and was only fit to be killed! He was
now quite broken down, and all his courage and strength left him; he
could merely stammer out tearfully:
"Give them back to me!"
"No!"
"Give them me, since I'm all right again now."
"No, no, indeed! you'd only wipe yourself with them, or use them to
light your pipe!"
After that the Buteaus obstinately persisted in their refusal to
surrender the papers. They spoke, about them quite openly to their
neighbours, and they gave an exciting account of how they had arrived
just in time to snatch them from the old man's hands when he was about
to tear them up. One evening they even showed La Frimat a rent in one
of the documents. Surely no one, they protested, could blame them for
preventing such a misfortune, for the money would have been destroyed
and lost to everybody. The neighbours publicly expressed their approval
of the Buteaus' conduct, though they privately suspected them of lying.
Hyacinthe was in a terrible rage. To think that the treasure which it
had been impossible for him to find in his own house should have been
so speedily discovered by the others! One day, indeed, he had actually
held it in his hands, and had been fool enough not to stick to it! He
swore to himself that he would call his brother to account when the old
man died. Fanny, too, said that the money would have to be divided. The
Buteaus did not say the contrary, but, of course, the old man might
recover possession, or give the bonds away by deed.
As for Fouan, he poured the story of his wrongs into the ears of
everybody he came across, waylaying every one he could, and bemoaning
his piteous lot to them. In this way, one morning, he went into his
niece's yard to pour out his troubles to Françoise and Jean.
Françoise was helping her husband to load a cart with manure. While the
latter stood in the dung-hole and threw the manure into the vehicle
with his pitchfork, Françoise, standing aloft, trampled it down with
her feet to compress it.
The old man stood leaning on his stick in front of them, and began
bewailing his sad fate.
"I'm dreadfully harassed about this money of mine, you know, which they
have taken from me and won't give me back. What should you do if you
were in my place?"
Françoise let him repeat the question three times before she said
anything in reply. She was annoyed at his coming to talk to her in
this way, and received him coldly, being anxious to avoid all cause of
quarrel with the Buteaus.
"Well, uncle," she answered at last, "it's really no business of ours,
you know. We are only too glad to have finished with our own troubles."
Then turning her back upon him, she continued treading down the dung
which rose around her up to her thighs. As her husband went on tossing
up forkful after forkful, she all but vanished amid the steamy smoke
from the disturbed manure, and yet she felt at ease, with her heart in
the right place, amid the asphyxiating fumes.
"I'm not mad; that can be seen, can't it?" Fouan continued, not seeming
to have heard Françoise. "They ought to give me back my money. Do you
and Jean, now, think me capable of destroying it?"
Neither Françoise nor Jean said a word.
"I should, indeed, have to be mad to do that, and I'm not mad--you and
your husband could bear witness to that, couldn't you?"
Françoise now suddenly braced herself up, standing on the top of the
loaded cart. She looked very tall and sturdy and vigorous, almost as if
she had sprung into life and grown up there where she was standing, and
as if that scent of rich fecundity had emanated from herself. As she
stood there with her hands resting on her hips, and her bosom swelling
roundly, she looked a real woman.
"There, there, uncle, that's enough!" she said. "I've told you already
that we don't want to have anything to do with all that squabbling.
And, while we are on the subject, perhaps you would do as well not to
come here again."
"Do you mean to cast me off, then?" asked the old man, trembling as he
spoke.
Jean now thought it time to interpose.
"No; but we don't want to be mixed up in any quarrels. There would be
a three days' row if they were to see you here. Every one has his own
peace and quietness to look after, you know."
Fouan stood motionless, gazing at them one after the other out of his
poor dim eyes. Then he went away.
"If ever I want any help," he said, "it is clear I shall have to look
somewhere else for it."
They allowed him to go away, though they felt uneasy and troubled.
They were not yet evil-hearted. But what could they do? They could not
have helped him by interfering in the matter, and their own peace and
quietness would have been ruined to no purpose. While Jean went off to
get his whip, Françoise carefully collected the fallen straws with a
shovel and threw them on to the cart.
The next day there was a violent scene between Fouan and Buteau. Every
day, indeed, there were bitter passages between them about the papers,
the old man doggedly repeating his "Give me them back again!" and the
son refusing to do so, with his "Hold your row, and let me alone!" But
matters had gradually grown more serious, especially since the old man
had set about trying to discover where his son had hidden the bonds.
He now, in his turn, prowled inquisitively about the whole house,
examining drawers and closets, and tapping against the walls to see if
he could discover any hollow place. His eyes were continually straying
from one spot to another, in the one fixed idea that had seized hold
of him; and as soon as ever he found himself free from observation,
he got rid of the children and recommenced his search, with all the
eagerness of some young scapegrace who flies off to make love to the
servant-maid as soon as his parents are out of the way. That day,
however, Buteau returned home unexpectedly, and found Fouan stretched
on the floor on his stomach, with his nose under the chest of drawers,
trying to ascertain if there were any possible hiding-place there. The
sight almost put Buteau beside himself, for his father was unpleasantly
warm in his scent now. What he was seeking below was hidden away above,
sealed down, as it were, by the heavy weight of the marble slab.
"You confounded old addle-pate; so you are playing the snake now? Get
up at once!"
He dragged his father by the legs, and then set him on his feet again
with a vigorous pull.
"Haven't you got tired of thrusting your eye into every little hole and
cranny? I'm getting quite weary of seeing you poking about in every
chink and crevice in the house."
Fouan, annoyed at having been discovered, looked his son in the eyes,
and cried in a sudden burst of anger:
"Give them back to me!"
"Hold your jaw!" roared Buteau in his face.
"Well, I'm made too wretched here. I shall go away."
"All right! Off you go, then, and a pleasant journey to you! And if
ever you come back here you'll show that you've got no spirit!"
As he spoke, he seized his father by the arm, and thrust him out of the
house.
CHAPTER II.
Fouan made his way down the hill. His anger speedily evaporated, and
when he reached the bottom and gained the high-road he stopped short,
feeling dazed and confused at finding himself in the open with nowhere
to go to. The church clock struck three, and the damp wind of the grey
November afternoon blew piercingly cold. The old man shivered; it had
all taken place so quickly that he had not even been able to pick up
his hat. Fortunately, however, he had his stick with him. For a moment
or two he began to walk on towards Cloyes. Then he asked himself where
he was going to in that direction, and he turned round and made his way
back towards Rognes, with his usual dragging gait. As he reached the
Macquerons', he felt inclined to go in and have a glass. He searched
his pockets, but he could not find a copper, and he felt ashamed to
show himself, fearing that they might have already heard of what had
happened. He fancied that Lengaigne, who was standing at his door,
was watching him with that suspicious glance which is given to some
disreputable tramp; and Lequeu, who was looking out of one of the
school windows, did not even nod to him. It was easily understood; he
was once more an object of contempt to every one, now that he was again
without any means, now that he had been stripped anew, and this time to
the very skin.
When he reached the Aigre, he leant his back for a moment or two
against the parapet of the bridge. The thought of the night that was
now closing in filled him with uneasiness. Where could he sleep? He had
not the least shelter to turn to. The Bécus' dog passed by, and the old
man looked at it with envy; that dog, at any rate, knew that its kennel
and bed of straw were awaiting it. He tried to think of some refuge,
but his brain was confused, and his outburst of anger had exhausted him
and made him drowsy. His eyelids closed heavily, as he tried to recall
some sheltered corner where he would be protected from the cold. Then
his mind seemed to become the prey of a night-mare, and he saw all
the country-side revolving before him, bare, and swept by the gusts
of wind. However, with sudden energy, he shook himself, and tried to
throw off his drowsiness. He must not lose heart in this way. Folks
would never let a man of his age die with cold out-of-doors.
He now mechanically crossed the bridge, and found himself opposite
the Delhommes' little farm. Immediately he caught sight of the house
he turned aside and went round to the back, so that no one should see
him. There he halted again, leaning against the wall of the cow-house,
in which he heard his daughter Fanny's voice. Had he had any thought
of returning to her? The old man himself could not have answered
this question; his feet had mechanically carried him there. In his
mind's eye he could see the inside of the house as plainly as if he
had entered it: the kitchen on the left, and his old bedroom on the
first floor, at the end of the hay-loft. His former spite was fading
away; and his legs shook so with emotion that he would have fallen
to the ground had he not had the support of the wall. For a long
time he remained there like this, with his back resting against the
house-side. Fanny was still talking inside the cow-house, but he could
not distinguish what she was saying. Perhaps it was this muffled sound
of his daughter's words that stirred up the old man's heart. She seemed
to be scolding a servant, for her voice grew louder, and Fouan finally
heard her addressing such cutting remarks, in a harsh, stern voice, to
the unfortunate servant girl, that the latter burst out into tears.
These words affected the old man painfully; all his feelings of emotion
vanished, and he sternly braced himself up, feeling convinced that if
he had pushed open the door, his daughter would have received him with
the same harsh tones. He could again hear her saying: "Oh, my father
will return and ask us, on his knees, to take him back again." That
never-forgotten speech of hers had, like a knife, irretrievably severed
every bond between them. No, no! Sooner die of hunger and sleep at the
bottom of a ditch than see her triumphing over him with her haughty
assumption of perfect irreproachableness! At this thought he removed
his back from the wall, and painfully went on his way.
To avoid following the road, Fouan, who believed that every one was
watching for him, went up the right bank of the Aigre, beyond the
bridge, and soon found himself in the midst of the vineyards. His
intention was to reach the plateau without having to go through the
village. He was obliged, however, to pass near the Château, where his
legs now seemed to carry him instinctively like those of some old
horse going to the stable where he has been accustomed to eat his oats.
The ascent up the hill made him pant, and he sat down to get his breath
back, and began to think. Certainly if he were to go inside and say to
Hyacinthe: "I am going to appeal to the law; help me against Buteau,"
the scamp would receive him with an explosion of welcome, and they
would spend an evening of jovial riot together.
From where he was sitting he could hear the sound of merriment;
proceeding, no doubt, from some tipsy debauch which would be prolonged
till morning. Attracted by the sound, and already feeling a void in his
stomach, he approached nearer, and recognised Canon's voice, together
with the smell of some stewed beans, those beans which La Trouille
knew so well how to cook whenever her father wanted to celebrate the
arrival of his friend. Why shouldn't he, Fouan, go in and join the two
scamps in their merry-making? He could hear them warmly disputing amid
the clouds of smoke from their pipes, and apparently so gorged with
wine that he positively envied them. A sharp explosion from Hyacinthe
stirred the old man with emotion, and he had already reached out his
hand towards the door when La Trouille's shrill laughter paralysed him.
She was now the object of his fear, and in his mind's eye he could
still see her, scrawny and clad in her chemise, stealthily approaching
him like a snake, and warily feeling him and making him her prey. What
good would it do even if the father did assist him to recover his
money? The daughter would be there to strip him of it again.
Suddenly the door of the Château was thrown open, and the girl appeared
and cast a glance outside, having fancied she could hear something. The
old man just had time to throw himself behind the bushes; and, as he
made his escape, he could see La Trouille's green eyes glistening in
the gloaming.
When Fouan gained the open plain he experienced a sort of relief
in finding himself quite alone, able to die without interference
and observation. For a long time he walked on at random, now going
straight before him, and then turning aside, without any reason or plan
whatever. The night had now fully fallen, and the icy wind scourged him
bitterly. Every now and then, as some fierce gust swept past him, he
was obliged to turn his back to it, his breath quite failing him, and
his few white hairs bristling upright on his head. Six o'clock struck;
all Rognes must now be at table. His stomach and his legs began to feel
faint, and he was obliged to slacken his pace. At last he set off in
the direction of La Borderie, and then, after making a sudden turn, he
was surprised to find himself again on the edge of the valley of the
Aigre.
Between a couple of squalls, a violent lashing shower poured down. The
old man was soaked to the skin, but he still walked on, encountering
two other downfalls, and at last he shivered with cold and weariness.
Presently, without knowing how he got there, he found himself in the
open square by the church, in front of the old family house of the
Fouans, where Françoise and Jean now dwelt. But no, he could not seek
a refuge there! They had driven him away! The rain now began to pour
down again in such heavy torrents that he began to lose all heart. He
stepped up to the Buteaus' door and peeped into the kitchen, whence
streamed the odour of cabbage soup. All his poor trembling body was
longing to submit and return: a physical craving for food and warmth
was urging him to enter. But amid the noise of people eating, he could
distinguish some words.
"Well, what if father doesn't come back?" Lise was asking.
"Oh, don't bother about him," replied Buteau; "he's too fond of his
belly not to come back when he feels hungry."
Treading as silently as possible, Fouan now glided away, fearing lest
he should be seen stealing back like a beaten dog for a bone. He was
nearly choked with shame and humiliation, and fiercely resolved that
he would go away and die in some corner. They should see if he was so
fond of his belly! He made his way down the hill again, and then let
himself sink upon the trunk of one of the felled elm-trees on the grass
in front of Clou's farriery. His legs could carry him no further, and
he lost all hope in the black loneliness of the road. Every one was
indoors, and the houses were all so closely shuttered on account of the
bad weather that it seemed as though there were not a living soul in
all the neighbourhood. The heavy shower had had the effect of laying
the wind, and the rain soon streamed down perpendicularly in ceaseless
torrents. The old man felt too weak even to get up and look about
for a shed or stack to shelter him. Utterly stupefied by misery and
exhaustion he continued to sit perfectly motionless, his stick between
his legs, and his bare head washed by the rain. He had resigned himself
to his fate. When a man has neither children nor home nor anything, he
must tighten his trouser strap and sleep out of doors. Nine o'clock
struck, and then ten. The rain came down still more violently, soaking
the old man's bones through and through. Then some lanterns gleamed
through the darkness, flitting hastily away; the evening gatherings
were breaking up. Fouan started on recognising La Grande, who was
probably returning from the Delhommes', where she had been spending the
evening for the sake of saving her own candle. Then he got up with a
painful effort that made his limbs crack and followed her; but she had
entered her house before he could overtake her. When he stood before
the closed door, he hesitated and his courage fell. At last, however,
he ventured to knock, impelled by his utter wretchedness.
He had come at an unfortunate time, for La Grande was in a frightfully
bad temper, the result of an unfortunate affair which had upset her
during the previous week. One evening, when she was alone with her
grandson Hilarion, it had occurred to her that she might as well employ
his strong arms in chopping some wood before he went off to sleep; and,
as the lad set about the work somewhat languidly, she remained in the
wood-house, abusing him. So far, this brutish, distorted fellow, as
strong as a bull, had, in his abject fear of his grandmother, allowed
her to abuse his brawny muscles without even a glance of rebellion. For
some, few days past, however, he had been looking rather dangerous, and
had begun to quiver beneath the weight of his excessive tasks, flushing
hotly with surging blood. To excite him, La Grande unwisely struck
him across the back of his neck with her stick. As she did so, he let
the cleaver fall, and glared at her. This seeming rebellion drove
the old woman almost wild, and she rained a shower of blows upon the
lad's flanks and hips. Then Hilarion suddenly rushed at her, and she
expected, in fear and trembling, that he was going to strangle her or
kick her to death.
But this was not his intention. He had, perforce, practised too much
abstinence since the death of Palmyre, and his anger turned into sexual
rage. Brute-like, he recognised neither relationship nor age, nothing
but her sex, in this old grandmother of eighty-nine, whose body was as
dry as a stick, and who had barely anything of the woman about her.
However, she was still strong and vigorous, and able to defend herself,
and she scratched and fought, till at last managing to lay hold of the
cleaver, she split her grandson's skull open with a heavy blow. The
neighbours ran up on hearing her cries, and she related to them all
that had happened. She was all but overcome, she said; little more, and
the villain would have succeeded in violating her. Hilarion did not die
till the next morning. The magistrate came to make an investigation;
then there was the funeral, and all sorts of other worries, from
which the old woman had now outwardly recovered, though at heart the
ingratitude of the world had deeply wounded her, and she had firmly
resolved never to help any member of her family.
Fouan knocked at the door timorously, and it was not till he had done
so a third time that La Grande heard him. Then coming to the door, she
asked:
"Who's there?"
"It's I."
"Who's that?"
"I, your brother!"
She had, doubtless, recognised his voice at once, but she delayed
matters, and questioned him just for the sake of making him speak.
After a pause, she asked him again:
"What do you want?"
The old man trembled, but made no reply. Then La Grande roughly threw
the door open; and as the old man was about to enter, she barred the
way with her scrawny arms, and forced him to remain outside in the
pouring rain which was still relentlessly streaming down.
"I know very well what you want," she exclaimed. "I heard all about you
to-night. You have been idiot enough to let them strip you again; you
haven't even had wit enough to keep the money you had hidden away! And
now you want me to take you in, eh?"
Then, seeing the old man trying to excuse himself, and stammering
explanations, she burst out violently:
"Didn't I warn you over and over again? Times and times I told you what
a fool you were making of yourself by giving up your land! But now you
are finding out the truth of my words, turned out of doors by those
scamps your children, and wandering about in the night like a tramp,
like a beggar that hasn't even got a stone to lay his head upon!"
Stretching out his hands he burst into tears, and tried to push La
Grande's arms aside, and force his way into the house, despite her. But
she firmly held her ground, and finished saying what she had upon her
mind.
"No, no, indeed! Go and beg a shelter from those who have stripped
you! I owe you nothing! The rest of the family would only accuse me of
interfering in their affairs again. But apart from all that, you have
given up your property, and I will never forgive you for it!"
Then, bracing herself up and exposing her withered neck, she glared
fiercely at him with her round, hawk-like eyes, and slammed the door
violently in his face.
"It serves you right--go and die on the road."
Fouan remained standing stiffly outside the pitiless door. The rain was
still streaming down with monotonous persistence. Presently he turned
away and stepped once more into the inky darkness which the slow, icy
downpour from the heavens was flooding.
Where did he go? He could never quite recollect. His feet stumbled
in the puddles, and he groped about with his hands to avoid running
against the trees and walls. He no longer reflected, he no longer
recognised anything: this little village, every stone of which he knew
so well, seemed like some unknown and far-off terrible spot, where he
was a stranger, lost, unable to find his way. He turned to the left,
but, fearing lest he should fall into some hole or other, he turned
round again to the right; then he stopped altogether, trembling all
over, finding danger at every turn. Presently he discovered a railing,
and he followed it till it brought him to a little door, which opened
at his touch. Then the ground seemed to slip away beneath his feet,
and he rolled down into some sort of a hole. Here, at any rate, he
felt more comfortable, for he was sheltered from the rain and the
place was warm. A grunt soon warned him, however, that he had a pig
for a neighbour, and the disturbed animal, thinking that some food had
arrived, was already poking its snout into his ribs. Fouan began to
struggle with it, but he felt so weak that he made all haste to escape,
for fear he might be devoured. Still he could go no further, and he let
himself drop down outside the door, huddling himself up closely against
it so that the projecting roof might shelter him from the rain. Heavy
drops, however, still continued to soak his legs, and icy gusts of wind
seemed to freeze his saturated clothes to his body. He envied the pig,
and would have returned to it, if he had not heard it gnawing at the
door behind his back and snorting ravenously.
In the early dawn Fouan awoke from the painful somnolence into which he
had sunk. A feeling of shame again took possession of him, as he told
himself that his story must be the common talk of the neighbourhood,
and that every one knew he was a pauper tramping the roads. A man
stripped of everything could not hope for either justice or pity.
He kept himself well under the hedges as he walked along, in the
constant fear of seeing some window open and being recognised by some
early-rising woman in his miserable condition as a poor old outcast.
The rain was still falling, and when he reached the plain he concealed
himself in a rick. He spent the whole day in gliding from one place of
concealment to another, in such a state of alarm, indeed, that, when
he had lain in any one hiding-place for a couple of hours, he felt
sure that he was about to be discovered, and crept out and concealed
himself somewhere else. The one thought that now racked his brain was
whether it would take him a long time to die in this way. He was now
not suffering so much from cold, but he was tortured with hunger, and
he said to himself that it was from hunger that he would die. He might
perhaps have to live through another night and another day! Still he
did not waver; he would rather stay and perish where he was than return
to the Buteaus.
But as the darkness again began to close in, he was seized with an
agonising terror at the thought of having to spend another night out
in the ceaseless deluge of rain. His bones were beginning to shiver
with cold again, and an intolerable aching hunger was gnawing at his
stomach. When the sky grew black and dark, he felt as though he were
being drowned and swept away into the streaming gloom. His mind grew
confused and blank, and his feet carried him along mechanically. A
purely animal instinct was shaping his course, and thus it happened
that, without any conscious intention of doing so, he found himself
once more in the kitchen of the Buteaus' house, the door of which he
had opened.
Buteau and Lise were just finishing the remains of the previous day's
cabbage-soup. Upon hearing the door open the husband turned his head
and looked at Fouan, who stood in silence, wrapped in the steam from
his saturated clothes. For a long time the son thus looked at his
father without saying anything. Then he broke out into a snigger:
"Ah, I knew quite well that you'd show you'd got no spirit!"
The old man, standing bolt upright, and seeming as though rooted to the
ground, answered not a word.
"Well, all the same, give him some grub, wife, since it's hunger that
has brought him back!"
Lise had already risen and brought a plateful of the soup. Fouan took
it and sat down apart from the others on a stool, as though he declined
to join his children at table. He began to swallow the soup ravenously,
his whole body trembling with the violence of his hunger. Buteau now
leisurely finished his meal, and then began to sway about on his chair,
making darts with his knife at scraps of cheese, and then putting them
into his mouth. He was watching the old man's ravenous appetite with
interest, and followed the movements of his spoon with a mocking leer.
"Your walk in the fresh air seems to have given you a rare appetite,"
said he. "But you mustn't take these strolls every day you know; it
would come in much too expensive!"
The old man still went on gulping down the soup, with a hoarse sound in
his throat as he swallowed it; however, he did not say a word.
"A nice old gentleman you are, to stay out all night in this way,"
his son continued. "You've been after the girls, I bet; and it's they
who've emptied you so, eh?"
Still there came no reply. Fouan persisted in his dogged silence,
making no sound except such as resulted from his greedy gulping.
"Don't you hear that I'm talking to you?" Buteau at last shouted in
irritation. "You might at any rate have the politeness to answer me?"
Fouan, however, still kept his blank gaze fixed on the soup. It
seemed as though he neither heard nor saw, but was miles away in his
isolation. It was as if he wished to imply that he had merely returned
to eat, and that, although his belly was in the kitchen, his heart was
there no longer. He now energetically began to scrape the bottom of his
plate with his spoon, so as to lose nothing of the soup.
At last, Lise, affected by the sight of such keen hunger, interposed.
"Let him alone," she said, "since it pleases him to play the dummy."
"I'm not going to have him playing the fool with me again!" retorted
Buteau angrily. "I've had quite sufficient of that already. Let to-day
be a lesson to you, you pig-headed old fool! If you give me any more of
your nonsense, I shall leave you to starve out on the road!"
Fouan, having now quite finished his soup, rose painfully from his
seat, and, still maintaining his unbroken silence--a sepulchral
silence that seemed to grow ever more oppressive--turned his back and
dragged himself under the staircase to his bed, on which he threw
himself without undressing. Somnolence seemed to descend on him like
a thunderbolt. He was sound asleep in a moment, wrapped in a leaden
slumber. Lise, who stepped up to look at him, came back and told her
husband that he looked as though he were dead. Buteau, however, after
going to see him, shrugged his shoulders. Dead, indeed! did fellows
like him die like that? Only he must have knocked about to be in
such a state. When they came to look at him the next morning, he did
not appear to have moved, and he slept on throughout the day and the
following night, and only awoke once more the second morning, after
remaining annihilated, as it were, for thirty-six hours.
"Ah, there you are again at last!" cried Buteau with a snigger. "I was
beginning to think that you meant to go on sleeping for ever, and would
never want anything more to eat."
The old man neither looked at him nor spoke to him, but went out and
sat down on the road to breathe the fresh air.
From this time forth Fouan isolated himself in moody silence. He
seemed to have forgotten all about the papers which Buteau had refused
to restore to him. At any rate, he never spoke about them and never
attempted to discover where they were; perhaps feeling indifferent
about them, but certainly resigned. His rupture with the Buteaus seemed
complete, and he persisted in maintaining his dogged silence, as though
he were a creature cut off from all others, and entombed. Nowhere,
under no circumstances, no matter what might be his need, did he ever
speak a word to the Buteaus. He shared in the common existence of the
household; he slept there, ate there, saw his son and daughter-in-law,
and elbowed them from morning till night, but he never gave them a look
or a word; it was as if he had been blind and dumb, as if he were a
ghost abiding amongst living beings. Buteau and Lise soon grew tired
of worrying him without getting even a sigh in answer, and they left
him alone in his obstinate silence. They both ceased to speak to him
and to look at him. They began to consider him merely as a piece of
peripatetic furniture, and at last they grew perfectly unconscious of
his presence. The horse and the two cows were of more account than he
was.
In the whole house Fouan had but one friend, little Jules, who was
now completing his ninth year. Laure, who was four years old, looked
at him with the same harsh gaze as her parents did, and wriggled out
of his arms, conducting herself, indeed, as though she were full of
bitter indignation against one who ate but did no work. Jules, however,
delighted in being with the old man, and got on wonderfully well with
him. He was, as it were, the last link uniting Fouan to the others,
and he became his messenger and mouthpiece. Whenever a definite yes or
no became absolutely necessary Lise sent the lad to the old man, who,
for him alone, consented to break his silence. Fouan being neglected,
the lad played the part of a little servant-maid, helped him to make
his bed of a morning, and carried him his allowance of soup, which the
old man ate near the window, resting the plate upon his knees, for
he had refused to resume his place at the table. Then the two played
together, and the old man, delighted when he met the lad out-of-doors,
took hold of his hand and went off with him for a long ramble. Upon
occasions like these Fouan made up for his long silences, and poured
forth so much chatter that he almost dazed his little companion, though
he could no longer speak without difficulty. He seemed to be losing the
use of his tongue, now that he had ceased to employ it. But the aged
grandfather who stammered, and the lad who had no ideas beyond birds'
nests and blackberries, got on remarkably well together. The old man
taught his grandson how to lime twigs, and made him a little cage to
keep crickets in. The lad's frail hand was now his only support along
the roads of La Beauce, where he no longer had either land or relatives
left him; and thanks to Jules he felt some pleasure in living a little
longer.
In point of fact, however, it was as if Fouan had been struck out of
the list of the living. Buteau took his place and acted in his name,
received his money and gave receipts for it, upon the pretext that his
father no longer possessed his wits. The interest on the money derived
from the sale of the old man's house, amounting to a hundred and fifty
francs a year, was paid by Monsieur Baillehache direct to Buteau, whose
only difficulty had been with Delhomme, the latter refusing to pay the
annuity of two hundred francs to any one excepting his father-in-law,
and insisting upon the old man's presence to receive it. As soon,
however, as Delhomme's back was turned, Buteau took possession of the
cash. He thus received three hundred and fifty francs a year, but he
used to say in a whining voice that he had to add as much more to it,
and even more than that, to defray the expense of his father's keep.
He never referred to the scrip he had appropriated. That was quite
safe, and they could all settle about it later on. He alleged that the
dividends were exhausted in keeping up the payments to old Saucisse,
fifteen sous every day, for the purchase of the acre and a quarter of
land. He protested that it would never do to let this agreement break
through, now that so much money had been paid under it. There was a
report, however, that old Saucisse, under the pressure of some violent
threat, had consented to annul the agreement, and to hand Buteau half
the money he had received under it, a thousand francs out of two
thousand; and the fact that the old scamp held his tongue was accounted
for by his fear of letting his neighbours know too much of his affairs,
and by his unwillingness to confess that he, also, had been worsted
in his turn. Buteau had, indeed, realised that Fouan would die the
first, for he was now so infirm that he could scarcely stand upright;
had he received a cuffing he would probably have fallen to the ground
powerless ever to rise again.
A year passed away, and yet Fouan was still alive, although he was
growing weaker every day. He was no longer the neat old peasant of
yore, with a clean-shaven face, and dressed in a clean new blouse and
black trousers. His big bony nose, which appeared to be stretching
forward towards the ground, seemed to be the only feature left in his
withered, fleshless face. His stoop had increased slightly every year,
and by this time he was almost bent double; he now only had to take the
final somersault which would land him in his grave. He dragged himself
along by the aid of two thick sticks, his face half covered by a long,
dirty white beard, his body clad in the soiled and ragged cast-off
clothes of his son; and he was in such an unpleasantly neglected
condition that he looked quite repugnant in the full light of day,
resembling one of those tattered old tramps to whom passers-by give a
wide berth. In the wreck only the animal part of his nature survived,
with the mere instinct of living. A feeling of ravenous hunger always
made him fall keenly on his soup, and he was never satisfied; he
stuffed himself with bread when he happened to be alone in the house,
and he even stole Jules's bread and butter from him, unless the lad
resisted. In consequence of his predatory habits, the Buteaus reduced
his quantity of food at meal-times, and they even took advantage of the
situation to under-feed him, pretending that he stuffed himself till he
nearly burst.
Buteau accused him of having ruined himself during his stay at the
Château with Hyacinthe, and this accusation was well founded, for this
whilom sober, self-stinting peasant, who had once lived upon bread and
water, had there fallen into ways of dissipation, contracting a taste
for meat and brandy, so that he now suffered at being deprived of them.
Vicious habits quickly take hold of a man, even when it is a son who
debauches his father. The wine disappeared so rapidly that Lise was
obliged to lock it up; and, on the days when any meat soup was being
cooked, little Laure was set to mount guard over it. Since the old man
had run into debt with Lengaigne for a cup of coffee, both Lengaigne
and the Macquerons had been warned by Buteau that he would not pay them
if they supplied his father on credit. The old man still maintained his
tragic silence, but sometimes when his plate was not quite full, or
when the wine was removed without any being given to him, he fixed his
bleared eyes upon his son in a prolonged stare, in the impotent rage of
his ravenous craving. Did they want him to die of starvation? he seemed
to be asking.