The sound of the schoolmaster's fulminating voice, combined with the

proximity of Françoise in her death-agony, again revived the farmer's

anguish of heart. The soil which he loved so dearly, loved with a

sentimental passion, nay, almost with an intellectual one, had well

nigh completed his ruin this last harvest. His fortune had all been

drained away, and soon La Borderie would not even provide him with bare

sustenance. Nothing seemed to do any good there--neither hard work,

nor new systems, nor manures, nor machines. He habitually ascribed his

failure to insufficient capital; but in his own mind he had some doubts

about this, for ruin seemed to be general. The Robiquets had just been

ejected by the bailiffs from La Chamade, and the Coquarts had been

compelled to sell their farm of Saint-Juste. He himself could see no

way of breaking his bonds; he had never more completely felt himself

the prisoner of his land, and every day the money he spent and the

labour he bestowed seemed to chain him more tightly to it. The final

catastrophe, which would put an end to the antagonism of centuries

between the small landowners and the large ones by annihilating them

both, was now rapidly approaching. This was the advent of the predicted

time; corn had fallen below fifty-six francs the quarter, so that it

was being sold at a loss; and social transformations, stronger than the

will of men, were bringing about the bankruptcy of the soil.

Stung with the consciousness of his ruin, Hourdequin now suddenly

expressed approval of what Lequeu was saying.

"Deuce take it all, he's right! Let everything go to smash and all of

us perish, and the whole soil be covered with weeds and brambles, since

our race is decayed and the land exhausted!"

Then, referring to Jacqueline, he added:

"However, thank God, there is another complaint that will make an end

of me before all that comes off!"

Inside the house La Grande and La Frimat could be heard walking about

and muttering to each other. Jean, who was still leaning against the

wall, shivered as he heard them. Then he returned into the house, and

found that all was over. Françoise was dead; she had probably passed

away some time previously. She had never opened her eyes again; and

had kept her lips sealed, carrying away with her the secret she was so

anxious to conceal. La Grande had only just discovered that she was

dead by touching her. With her white shrunken face, on which there

rested a resolute expression, she looked as though she were sleeping.

Jean stood at the foot of the bed and stared at her, dazed and

stupefied with confused thoughts, with the grief he felt at losing her,

with the surprise caused him by the fact that she had refused to make a

will, and with a vague sensation that a part of his existence was now

shivered to pieces, and gone for ever.

Just at that moment, as Hourdequin, still gloomy and down-hearted, took

his leave with a silent grasp of the hand, Jean saw a shadowy form flit

away from the window and dart hastily along the road into the darkness.

He fancied it was some prowling dog; but in reality it was Buteau, who

had been spying through the window, to watch for Françoise's death, and

who was now hastening to announce the news to Lise.

CHAPTER V.

Early the next day, as Françoise's body was being placed in the coffin,

which was resting upon two chairs in the middle of the bedroom, Jean

was overcome with surprise and indignation at seeing Lise and Buteau

enter the house, one behind the other. His first impulse was to

summarily eject these stony-hearted relatives, who had not come to give

Françoise a last kiss ere she died, but who lost no time in coming as

soon as the coffin-lid had been screwed down over her, as though they

now felt free from all fear of finding themselves face to face with

her. However, the other members of the family who were present, Fanny

and La Grande, restrained him. It would bring bad luck, they said, to

begin quarrelling round a corpse. Besides, what good would it do? Lise

could not be prevented from atoning for her previous vindictiveness by

keeping watch over her sister's remains.

The Buteaus had reckoned upon the respect due to the presence of a dead

body in the house, and they took advantage of it to install themselves

in their old home once more. They made no actual profession of taking

possession of the place, but still they did take possession of it, in a

quiet easy way, and as though it were quite a matter of course that, as

Françoise was no longer there, they themselves should return. True, her

body was there, but it was packed ready for its final departure, and

was really of no more account than a piece of furniture. Lise, after

sitting down for some time with the others, so far forgot all sense of

decency as to get up and examine the drawers and cupboards to satisfy

herself that their contents had not been removed during her absence.

Buteau had gone off to look at the stable and cow-house, as though he

were already quite at home, and were just giving a glance round to see

that everything was all right. By evening they both appeared quite

settled again on the premises, and the only thing that caused them

any inconvenience was the coffin, which still blocked up the bedroom.

However, there was merely another night to wait; the room would be

quite at their disposal early the next day.

Jean kept wandering restlessly up and down, looking dazed and

confused, and seemingly quite at a loss as to what to do with himself.

At first the house, and the furniture, and Françoise's body had seemed

to belong to him; but, as the time glided by, they appeared to sever

their connection with him and to pass away to others. By the time night

closed in, every one had ceased to speak to him, and his presence

in the place was merely just tolerated. Never before had he felt so

painfully conscious of being a stranger in the village, of being quite

alone, of not having a single kindred fellow-creature among all these

folks, who were related to each other and fully agreed on the question

of his own expulsion. Even his poor dead wife no longer seemed to

belong to him; in fact, Fanny sent him away from the bedroom, where

he wished to stay and watch over the body, saying that there were

quite sufficient people for that purpose already. He had for some time

refused to go, and finally, annoyed at Fanny's persistence, he had

resolved to take possession of the money in the drawer--the hundred and

twenty-seven francs--so as to make sure that they wouldn't fly away.

Lise had seen them on opening the drawer, together with the sheet of

stamped paper which had never been used, and the sight of the latter

had led to her holding a whispered conversation with La Grande. The

result of this chat had been to make her feel quite easy in mind, for

she had definitely learnt that there was no will, and that the house

was really her own again. Jean, however, had made up his mind that, at

any rate, she should not have the money; amid his vague apprehensions

as regards the morrow, he determined that he would at least keep that

for himself; and after taking possession of it, he passed the night on

a chair.

The funeral took place on the following morning, at nine o'clock. The

Abbé Madeline, who was leaving Rognes that same evening, was just

able to say the mass and accompany the body to the grave; but when

he reached it he fainted, and they were obliged to carry him away.

Monsieur and Madame Charles were present, together with Delhomme and

Nénesse. It was a very respectable funeral, though nothing out of the

way. Jean shed tears, and Buteau also wiped his eyes, but they were

quite dry. At the last moment Lise had declared that her legs felt as

though they were giving way beneath her, and that she was too weak to

accompany her sister's body to the grave. She had consequently remained

alone in the house, while La Grande, Fanny, La Frimat, Madame Bécu,

and other female friends attended the funeral. On returning from the

graveyard all the company lingered in the open square in front of the

church, in anticipation of a scene which they had been expecting since

the previous evening.

So far the two men, Jean and Buteau, had avoided even glancing at each

other, fearing lest some violent outbreak might ensue in presence of

the corpse ere it was barely cold. They, however, now both directed

their steps towards the house with the same resolute gait; and they

kept glancing aside at each other. Jean had at once understood why Lise

had not come to the funeral. She had stayed away in order to get her

effects into the house again--in a rough sort of fashion, at any rate.

An hour had sufficed for the purpose, for she had been hard at work

tossing her bundles over La Frimat's wall, and wheeling round anything

that was breakable. Finally, she had dragged Laure and Jules into the

yard, administering a cuff a-piece to them, and there they were already

fighting, while old Fouan, whom she had also hustled inside, sat

panting on the stone bench. The house was reconquered.

"Where are you going?" Buteau suddenly asked, stopping Jean in front of

the gate.

"I'm going home."

"Home! home, indeed! Where is your home? It certainly isn't here! This

is my house."

Lise had rushed up, and resting her hands upon her hips, she now began

to yell, exhibiting even more offensive insolence than her husband.

"Eh? what? What does he want, the rotten blackguard? He's been

poisoning my poor sister long enough; that's quite clear, or she would

never have died of her accident. And she showed pretty plainly what she

thought of him by not leaving him anything. Knock him over, Buteau!

Don't let him come inside, or he'll give us all some beastly illness!"

Jean, although he was boiling over with indignation at this virulent

attack, still attempted to reason with her.

"I know very well," he said, "that the house and land revert to you;

but half of the furniture and live stock belong to me."

"Half, indeed! You've got a lot of cheek, you have!" cried Lise,

interrupting him. "You foul stink-pot, how dare you claim half of

anything, you who didn't even bring a broken comb into the place? You

merely came here with the shirt on your back! So you want to fatten

yourself and get rich by preying on women, eh? That's a dirty, swinish

game."

Buteau backed her up, and, with a sweeping gesture across the

threshold, he cried out:

"She's telling the truth! Look sharp! You came with your jacket and

breeches, and you've got them on, so take yourself off with 'em! Nobody

wants to deprive you of them!"

The other members of the family, especially the women, Fanny and La

Grande, who were standing in a group some thirty yards away, seemed

by their silence to approve of Buteau's conduct. Jean, turning pale

at the insults which were offered him, and stung to the quick by the

accusation of mercenary scheming, now broke out into an angry retort:

"Very well, so you are bent upon making a disturbance, eh? I insist

upon entering, for I have still the right of possession, as the formal

partition has not yet been made. Then I shall at once go and fetch

Monsieur Baillehache, who will put everything under seal, and appoint

me guardian. The house is mine for the present, and it is for you to

take yourselves off."

He now stepped up to Lise with such a threatening air that she

retreated from the doorway. Buteau, however, rushed upon him, and

a struggle ensued, the two men reeling into the middle of the

kitchen. There another violent discussion followed as to which of

the two parties should be ejected--the husband, or the sister and

brother-in-law.

"Show me the document which makes the house yours!" cried Jean.

"Documents, indeed! It's quite sufficient that we have the right to it!"

"Very well, then, if you've the right to it, why don't you come and

enforce your right with the bailiff and the gendarmes, as we did?"

"We want no bailiffs and gendarmes! It's only swindling scoundrels who

have to go to them for help. An honest man can manage his affairs for

himself."

Jean was bending over the table and clinging to it. He had resolved

not to leave, bent on proving that he was the stronger of the two, and

determined not to part with the house where his wife had just died,

and where, it seemed to him, the only happy part of his life had been

spent. Buteau, at the other side of the table, was also determined not

to give up the house which he had just reconquered, and he resolved to

bring the matter to a speedy issue.

"The long and the short of it," he cried, "is that we've had enough of

you."

Then he rushed round the table at Jean, but the latter, catching hold

of a chair and hurling it at his adversary's legs, tripped him up;

then, as he was about to take refuge in the adjoining room, meaning to

barricade himself inside it, Lise suddenly bethought herself of the

money, the hundred and twenty-seven francs which she had observed in

the drawer. Fancying that Jean was hastening to secure them, she rushed

on before him and pulled the drawer open. At once she burst into a howl

of angry disappointment.

"The money's gone! The cursed scamp has stolen the money during the

night!"

It was all over with Jean now that the onslaught was directed against

his pockets. He cried out that the money belonged to him, and that he

would go into a full account of everything, and that they would owe

him money in addition to this cash. But the Buteaus would not listen

to him, and Lise rushed upon him, pummelling him even more violently

than her husband. He was dislodged from the room by a furious onset,

and hustled back into the kitchen, round which the three of them wildly

revolved, writhing and struggling together in confusion, and dashing

against the furniture in their gyrations. By dint of kicking, Jean

managed to rid himself of Lise. She soon fell upon him again, however,

and dug her nails into his neck, while Buteau, making a vigorous

spring, threw him flat on the road outside. Then blocking up the door,

the husband and wife bellowed out:

"You thief! you've stolen our money! You thief! you thief!"

Jean picked himself up, and stammering from pain and anger replied:

"All right, I shall go to the magistrate at Châteaudun, and he will see

that I am reinstated in my home. And I shall bring an action against

you for damages. You'll see me again soon!"

With a parting gesture of menace, he then took himself off, mounting

the hill towards the plain. When the other members of the family had

seen that matters were coming to blows, they had prudently retired,

feeling a wholesome fear of possible legal proceedings.

The Buteaus now broke out into a wild yell of victory. At last they

had succeeded in flinging the usurping alien into the street! And

they had regained possession of the house! Ah, they had often said

that they would have it back, and now they had got it again! The

thought that they were once more in possession of the old patrimonial

dwelling-place, built so long ago by an ancestor, filled them with such

mad delight that they rushed wildly through the rooms, yelling for the

mere pleasure of doing so. The children, Laure and Jules, rushed up,

and began tapping an old frying-pan. Old Fouan alone remained quiet;

he was still sitting on the stone bench, whence he gravely watched the

others, with troubled, mournful eyes.

However, Buteau suddenly checked his display of delight and exclaimed:

"God in heaven! he's sloped off up the hill! He may have gone to wreak

his spite on the land!"

It was an idiotic fear, but it quite upset him. The thought of the

soil returned to him; a sensation of uneasiness mingling with the

consciousness of ownership. The soil! Ah, his love for it was more

deeply rooted in his vitals even than his love of the house! That strip

of land on the hill would fill up the gap between his two mutilated

plots; and he would again have his field of seven acres, that fine

stretch of land, of which even Delhomme did not possess the equal!

Buteau trembled with emotion from head to foot. It was as though he had

just regained some dearly beloved mistress whom he had thought lost for

ever. With a mad fear that Jean might somehow have carried the land

off, wondering whether it might not have already disappeared, seized,

too, with an eager desire to view it again, he lost his head and set

off running, muttering that he could never feel easy till he knew for

certain.

Jean had indeed gone up the hill in order to avoid passing through the

village, and on reaching the plateau he had instinctively followed the

road towards La Borderie. When Buteau caught sight of him, he was just

passing the plot of plough-land, but he did not stop, he merely gave it

a glance of mingled sadness and distrust, as though he were mentally

accusing it of having brought him into misfortune; for a memory of

the past, of the day when he had first spoken to Françoise, had just

brought the tears to his eyes. Was it not here, while she was still

a romping girl, that La Coliche had dragged her into the lucern? He

strode on with downcast head and slackened steps, and Buteau, who was

anxiously watching him, suspecting that he was bent upon some malicious

piece of revenge, now walked up to the field. For a long time he stood

gazing at it. Yes, it was still there, and it seemed just the same as

usual, quite unharmed. His heart heaved wildly, and yearned towards it

in the delight he felt at again possessing it--this time for ever. He

squatted down on his knees, and took up a clod in his hands, crushing

it, sniffing it, and then letting it filter through his fingers. Yes,

it was his own now! Then he turned homewards again, singing, as though

the scent of the soil had intoxicated him.

Jean still tramped on with downcast eyes, without being conscious as

to whether his feet were carrying him. His first impulse had been to

run to Cloyes to see Monsieur Baillehache, and take steps for getting

reinstated in the house. Then his feeling of anger had calmed down.

Even if he went back to-day, he would have to leave again to-morrow;

so why shouldn't he make up his mind to swallow his wrathful grief and

acquiesce in the inevitable? Those wretches, too, had really spoken

the truth. He had gone to the house as a poor man, and as a poor man

he was leaving it. But what sent a pang through his heart more than

aught else, and finally decided him to submit, was the reflection that

Françoise's last wish must have been to let things follow this course,

since she had not bequeathed her property to him. So he abandoned

the idea of taking immediate steps; and by-and-bye as he walked on,

whenever his anger rekindled afresh, he merely swore to himself that

he would drag the Buteaus into court to recover his half-share of the

personal property to which he was entitled as the dead woman's husband.

They should see that he wouldn't let himself be fleeced like a sheep!

As he raised his eyes, he was surprised to find himself opposite

La Borderie. Prompted by an instinct of which he had been scarcely

conscious in his grief, he had made his way to the farm as to a place

of refuge. Indeed, if he remained in the neighbourhood, this was the

place to find work and food and lodging. Hourdequin had always held him

in esteem, and he was sure of being well received.

However, the sight of La Cognette in the distance, flying wildly

across the yard, thrilled him with an uneasy feeling of disquietude.

Eleven o'clock was striking as he arrived, and some hours earlier a

frightful catastrophe had happened. That morning, on coming down before

the servant-girl, La Cognette had found the cellar trap-door--that

trap-door situated so dangerously near the staircase--open, and

Hourdequin lying below quite dead, with his back broken against the

edge of a step. The young woman shrieked, the servants rushed up, and

the whole place was overwhelmed with panic. The farmer's body was now

lying on a mattress in the dining-room, while Jacqueline was in the

kitchen fairly off her nut, with her face distorted but tearless.

As soon as Jean entered, she broke out, relieving herself in a choking

voice:

"I said it would be so! and I tried to get the trap altered! But who

could it be that left it open? I'm positive it was closed last night

when I went upstairs to bed. I've been racking my head all the morning

in trying to make it out."

"The master came down before you did, then?" asked Jean, quite

stupefied by the accident.

"Yes, it was scarcely light, and I was asleep; I fancied I heard some

one calling from downstairs, but I may have dreamt it. He frequently

got up in this way and went downstairs without a light to see the

servants as soon as they turned out. He could not see that the trap was

open, and he fell. But who can have left it open? Oh, this will be the

death of me, it will!"

Jean had felt a passing suspicion, but he at once thrust it away from

him. Jacqueline could have no possible interest in Hourdequin's death,

and her grief was evidently sincere.

"It is a terrible misfortune," he murmured.

"Yes, indeed; a terrible misfortune for me, a terrible one!"

Then she fell down on a chair, completely overcome, as though the very

walls were toppling over upon her. The master, whose legitimate wife

she had so confidently reckoned on becoming! The master, who had sworn

to leave her everything in his will! And now he was dead, dead before

he had had time to sign a single paper! She would not even get any

wages; the son would come back and kick her out of the house as he had

threatened to do! She would have nothing but the few ornaments and the

clothes she wore! It was ruin, disastrous and complete!

But what Jacqueline omitted to mention, the matter, indeed, having

entirely slipped from her mind in her present trouble, was the

dismissal of Soulas, the shepherd, which she had succeeded in effecting

on the previous evening. Exasperated at finding him always at her

elbow, playing the spy upon her, she accused him of being too old, and

no longer competent to perform his duties. The farmer, although he

did not agree with this statement, yielded to her wishes; for he was

now completely under her domination, content to purchase her goodwill

by slave-like submission. Soulas looked his master keenly in the face

with his pale eyes as he was dismissed with kindly words and promises

for the future, and then he slowly began to relieve his mind anent the

hussy who had brought about his discharge. He accused her of dissolute

behaviour with Tron and a score of others. He gave full particulars,

mentioning the places where she and Tron had met, and declaring that

their shameless amours were matter of common notoriety--to such a

degree, indeed, that folks said that the master was content to take

the servant's leavings, as it was impossible he could be so blind as

not to see what was going on. The farmer, overwhelmed with distress

and consternation at what he heard, vainly attempted to stop the old

man, preferring to remain in ignorance, and fearful of being compelled

to turn the young woman out of the house; but Soulas persisted in

finishing his indictment, and did not stop until he had specified each

separate occasion upon which he had found the two together. Then he

felt somewhat soothed and easier in his mind, having at last unburdened

himself of his long pent up wrath and spite. Jacqueline knew nothing of

this, for Hourdequin had at once rushed into the fields, fearing lest

he should strangle her if he came across her in his present mood. When

he returned to the house he quietly dismissed Tron, upon the pretext

that the young fellow left the yard in a filthily dirty condition. Upon

hearing of this, Jacqueline certainly had some suspicions; but she

did not venture to plead in the cowherd's favour, contenting herself

by obtaining permission that he should remain another night on the

premises, and trusting that she would be able to arrange matters in

the morning, so that he might stay on. At present the thought of all

this had faded away in the presence of that stroke of fate which had

shattered the castle in the air so laboriously erected during the last

ten years.

Jean was quite alone with her in the kitchen when Tron came in. She had

not seen the latter since the previous evening. The other servants,

unoccupied and anxious, were wandering about the farm. When she now

perceived the big, strapping fellow, with his pinky face, she broke out

into a cry--occasioned by the suspicious sort of way in which he came

in.

"It is you who opened the trap!" she screamed, and then she suddenly

understood the whole matter; Tron meanwhile standing by, with pale

face, staring eyes, and open, trembling lips.

"It was you who opened the trap, and then called to him to come down,

so that he might break his neck!"

Jean started back, quite overcome by what he had just heard. In the

violence of their passionate agitation neither of the others seemed to

notice his presence. With his head lowered Tron sullenly confessed the

crime.

"Yes," he said, "I did it. He had dismissed me, and I should never

have seen you again, and that was more than I could bear. And then I

thought that if he were to die we should be free."

Jacqueline listened to him, erect and rigid, her whole body in a state

of acute nervous tension. He went on complacently, revealing the

thoughts that had sprung up in his savage breast, the fierce jealousy

of a servant against his master, and the treacherous plan which he had

formed to secure unshared possession of the woman he loved.

"I felt sure that you would be pleased when it was over," said he; "I

didn't mention it to you beforehand, because I didn't want to cause you

any worry. But now that he's out of the way, I've come to take you off.

We'll go away together and get married."

Jacqueline, wild with anger, now broke out in a harsh voice:

"Marry you! But I don't love you! I won't have you! Ah! so you killed

him to get me? You must be even a greater fool than I thought you were!

To act so stupidly before he had married me, before he had made his

will! You have ruined me! You have taken the bread out of my mouth. It

is my back, mine, that you have broken! Can you understand that much,

now, you idiotic brute? And you imagine that I will go away with you?

Why, you must take me for an arrant fool!"

Tron heard her in gaping amazement, quite stupefied by this unexpected

reception.

"Just because I've joked with you," she continued, "and we've had a

little amusement, you imagine that I'm going to let myself be bored by

you all the days of my life? Marry you, indeed! No, no, if ever I take

a husband, I'll choose a sharper fellow than you are! Come, get out of

my sight! It makes me ill to look at you! I detest you, and I won't

have you! Be off!"

Tron quivered with rage. What! So he had committed murder for nothing?

No, no, she belonged to him, and he would seize her by the throat and

carry her off.

"You are a stuck-up, conceited drab!" he growled; "but you'll come with

me all the same. If you don't, I shall settle your hash as I settled

his!"

La Cognette stepped towards him, clenching her fists.

"Try it on, you murderer!"

Tron was very strong and broad and tall, while Jacqueline was weak and

slight and delicately made. However, it was he who started back, so

threatening did she look, with her teeth ready to bite and her eyes

gleaming like daggers.

"It's all over," she resumed; "take yourself off! I would rather never

see a man again than allow you to touch me now. Be off--be off--be off!"

Then Tron went out, stepping backwards like some wild beast giving way

to fear, and deferring vengeance.

"Dead or alive, I'll have you!" he blurted out threateningly.

Jacqueline watched him leave the farm, heaving a sigh of relief. Then

as she turned round, quivering all over, she did not seem at all

surprised to see Jean; but, in an outburst of frankness, exclaimed:

"Ah, the villain! I would have him marched off by the gendarmes, if I

weren't afraid that they would lock me up with him."

Jean was frozen with horror by what he had just heard, and could not

find a word to say. The young woman, too, now underwent a nervous

reaction. She seemed to be suffocating, and fell into Jean's arms,

sobbing and wailing that she was very wretched--oh, so very wretched

and miserable! Her tears continued to flow in streams down her face;

she seemed craving for sympathy and love, and clung to Jean as though

she were yearning for him to take her away and protect her. The young

man was beginning to feel very uncomfortable, when the dead farmer's

brother-in-law, Monsieur Baillehache, who had been fetched by one of

the farm-servants, sprang out of his gig in the yard. Jacqueline at

once rushed off to him and paraded her despair.

Jean, making his escape from the kitchen, presently found himself again

on the bare plain beneath a rainy March sky. But he scarcely knew where

he was, being completely upset by the tragedy of Hourdequin's death,

which added another pang to all his troubles. However, he had his own

load of worry to bear, and, despite his sorrow for his old master's

fate, he quickened his steps, thinking of his own interests. It was no

business of his to hand La Cognette and her lover over to justice. The

authorities ought to open their eyes. Twice he turned round, fancying

he heard some one shouting after him, and vaguely feeling as though

he were an accomplice in the murder. It was only when he reached the

outskirts of Rognes that he again breathed freely; he said to himself

that the farmer's death was the result of his own sin; and he pondered

anent that great truth that men would be much happier if there were

no women in the world. His mind reverted to Françoise, and a big lump

seemed to rise in his throat and nearly choke him.

When he found himself in the village again he recollected that he had

gone to the farm to seek work. He now began to feel very uneasy, and

racked his brains as to whom he could next apply to. Then it struck him

that Monsieur Charles had been looking out for a gardener recently.

Why should he not go and offer his services? He was still, in a way,

somewhat of the family, and perhaps that might be a recommendation. So

he hastened off in the direction of Roseblanche.

It was one o'clock, and Monsieur and Madame Charles were just finishing

their late breakfast as the servant introduced him. Elodie was pouring

out the black coffee, and Monsieur Charles, making his cousin sit down,

asked him to take a cup. Jean accepted it; he had eaten nothing since

the previous evening, and his stomach felt very drawn. The coffee

would do him good. Now that he found himself sitting at table with

this well-to-do family, he could not bring himself to ask point-blank

for the gardener's place. He must wait for an opportunity. As Madame

Charles began to sympathise with him and to bewail poor Françoise's

death, he felt very melancholy and depressed again. The family

evidently believed that he had come to say good-bye to them.

The servant soon came into the room again to say that the Delhommes,

father and son, had called; and Jean was quite forgotten.

"Show them in here, and bring two more cups," said Monsieur Charles.

It had been a somewhat exciting morning altogether for the Charleses.

Nénesse had accompanied them to Roseblanche after the funeral, and,

while Madame Charles and Elodie went into the house, he had detained

the husband and openly proposed to purchase Number 19, providing they

could agree as to terms. According to his account, the house, which he

knew very well, would only fetch a miserable price if it went into the

market. Vaucogne, he said, would not get five thousand francs for it,

so greatly had it depreciated in value under his management. A complete

change would have to be made in every particular. The furniture was

shabby and rickety, and the staff had been so badly chosen and was so

unsatisfactory that even the soldiers were deserting the place. He

went on for a whole hour running down the house in this fashion, quite

bewildering his uncle, and amazing him by his acute shrewdness and

bargaining powers, and by the extraordinary business talent he showed

for one so young. Ah, here was a capital young fellow! thought Monsieur

Charles; one with a sharp eye and a ready hand. Nénesse concluded by

saying that he would come again after breakfast with his father, so

that they might talk the matter over seriously.

On getting indoors, Monsieur Charles informed his wife of what had

occurred, and she expressed great astonishment at the young man's

ability. If only their son-in-law, Vaucogne, had had but half his

capacity! They would have to be careful as to what they were about, if

they wished to avoid getting the worst of the bargain with this young

fellow. It was Elodie's dowry that was at stake. Mingled, however,

with the fear they felt, there was a strong sympathy with Nénesse, and

a keen desire to see Number 19 in the hands of a clever, energetic

master, who would restore it to its old position, even although this

entailed a loss upon themselves. And so, when the Delhommes made their

appearance, both Monsieur and Madame Charles greeted them in the most

cordial fashion.

"You'll have some coffee won't you? Elodie, pass the sugar."

Jean had pushed his chair back, and they were now all seated round the

table. Delhomme, with his expressionless, freshly-shaven, tanned face,

sat perfectly silent, maintaining a diplomatic reserve; while Nénesse

in his smartest clothes, his patent leather boots, gold-flowered

waistcoat and mauve neckerchief, seemed quite at his ease, and

smiled in his most winning way. As the blushing Elodie handed him

the sugar-basin, he looked into her eyes and sought for some pretty

compliment to pay her.

"Your lumps of sugar are very large, cousin," he said.

The girl's blushes deepened, and she could not find anything to reply,

being utterly confused by the amiable young fellow's words.

Nénesse, like the artful scamp he was, had only disclosed one-half of

his scheme in the morning. Since he had seen Elodie at the funeral, he

had suddenly widened his plans. He would not only obtain Number 19,

he wanted the girl as well; that would simplify matters. In the first

place, he would get the business for nothing, for he would only take

Elodie with the house as her dowry; and, then, even allowing that this

declining business was the only dowry he got with her in the immediate

present, she would later on inherit all Monsieur and Madame Charles's

property, a fortune in itself. It was for these reasons that he had

brought his father with him, resolved to make his proposal without

delay.

For a moment or two they talked about the weather, which was very mild

for that time of year. The pear-trees were looking well, but would the

bloom set? As they finished their coffee, the conversation began to

flag.

"My dear," Monsieur Charles now said abruptly to Elodie, "suppose you

go and take a turn in the garden."

He was anxious to get her out of the room, so that he might make his

bargain with the Delhommes.

However Nénesse interposed: "Excuse me, uncle," said he, "but I should

be much obliged if you would kindly allow my cousin to remain. There is

a matter which interests me deeply that I want to speak to you about;

and it's always better--don't you think so?--to settle matters at once

than to return to them two or three times."

Then rising from his seat, he proceeded to make his proposal like a

well-mannered young man.

"I wish to tell you that it would make me very happy to have my cousin

for my wife, if you would consent to it, and if she would also."

This declaration caused great surprise. Elodie was so overwhelmed with

confusion that she sprang up from her seat and threw herself on Madame

Charles's breast, in such a thrill of speechless bashfulness that she

blushed to her very ears. Her grandmother exerted herself to calm her.

"Come, come, my little puss, this is really foolish of you!" said she.

"Be reasonable, my dear. Your cousin won't eat you because he wants to

marry you. I'm sure he said nothing that wasn't very nice and proper.

Come, look at him, and don't be foolish."

Nothing, however, that her grandmother said could induce Elodie to show

her face again.

"Upon my word, my lad," Monsieur Charles now said, "your proposal has

taken me altogether by surprise. Perhaps it would have been better if

you had spoken to me privately about it, for you see how very sensitive

our darling is. But, whatever happens, you may satisfy yourself that

you possess my esteem and respect, for you seem to me a good and

industrious young fellow."

Delhomme, whose face had hitherto remained a perfect blank, now allowed

three words to escape him:

"That he is!"

Then Jean felt called upon to say something polite, and so he added:

"Ah! yes, indeed!"

Monsieur Charles was recovering his composure, and he had already

come to the conclusion that Nénesse would be no bad match for his

grand-daughter. He was young, well mannered, active, and the only son

of comfortably-situated parents. Thus Elodie could hardly do better.

And so, after exchanging a glance with Madame Charles, he continued:

"You will understand, of course, that my wife and I say neither yes

nor no. We shall leave it entirely with Elodie. We shall not in any

way constrain her. We shall leave her perfectly at liberty to please

herself."

Then Nénesse gallantly renewed his proposal to his cousin.

"My dear cousin," he began, "will you confer upon me the happiness and

the honour----"

The girl's face was still buried in her grandmother's bosom, but she

did not allow her cousin to complete his sentence; she accepted him at

once by an energetic nod of her head, which she repeated three times,

burying her face still more deeply out of sight. She seemed to gain

courage by not looking at anything. The company sat in silence, quite

astonished by the girl's hurry to consent. Could she be in love with

this young man whom she had so seldom seen? Or was it that she was

anxious for a husband, no matter whom, so long as he was a good-looking

fellow?

Madame Charles smiled, and kissed the girl's hair.

"My poor little darling!" she said; "my poor little darling!"

"Very well," exclaimed Monsieur Charles, "since she is satisfied, we

are."

Then a sudden reflection saddened him. His heavy eyelids drooped, and

an expression of regret passed over his countenance.

"Of course, my good lad," he said, "we shall now abandon the other

scheme which you proposed to me this morning."

Nénesse seemed overcome with astonishment.

"Why?" said he.

"What? Why? Why, because--because--well, you surely know why! You

may be sure that we didn't leave the child with the Sisters of the

Visitation till twenty years of age to--well, in short, it is quite

impossible!"

He winked his eyes and twisted his mouth in his attempts to make

himself understood without saying too much. To think of the girl being

in the Rue aux Juifs! a young lady who had received such an education!

a maiden of such absolute purity, brought up in complete ignorance of

evil, and carefully screened from its slightest breath!

"Excuse me," exclaimed Nénesse, bluntly, "but that won't suit me at

all. I am taking a wife because I wish to settle down to work, and I

want both my cousin and the business----"

"The confectionery business!" exclaimed Madame Charles.

She then began to discuss the question more openly, though they

continued to call the establishment the confectionery shop. For

instance, was it reasonable that the confectionery business should be

given up? The young man and his father persisted in claiming it as

Elodie's dowry. They could not allow it to be relinquished, they said;

it would certainly prove a handsome fortune in the future; and they

called upon Jean to support them in their assertions, which he did by

wagging his chin. At last they all spoke at once, and they were quickly

forgetting all their previous caution, going into details and calling

things by their real names, then suddenly an unexpected incident

reduced them to silence.

Elodie had at last gradually raised her head from her grandmother's

bosom; and she was now standing up, looking like some tall lily that

had grown in a shady corner, with her chlorotic white face, her pale

eyes and colourless hair. She gazed at the others for a moment, and

then said very quietly:

"My cousin is right; the business ought not to be given up."

"Oh! my darling, if you only knew----" Madame Charles began to stammer

in confusion.

"I do know," Elodie interrupted. "Victorine, the maid whom you sent

away on account of the men, told me all about it long ago. Yes, I know

all about it, and I have thought it well over, and I am quite convinced

that it must not be given up."

Monsieur and Madame Charles were perfectly stupefied They opened their

eyes, and sat staring at the girl in a state of amazement. What! She

knew all about Number 19, what was done there, and what was sold

there; she knew all about it, and yet spoke of it in this calm, placid

fashion! Ah, blessed innocence! it is too pure to see harm in anything!

"It must certainly not be given up," she repeated with increasing

decision. "It is too good and profitable a business for that. And then,

too, a house which you established yourselves, and where you worked so

hard, could you think of allowing it to go out of the family?"

Monsieur Charles was completely bewildered. An indescribable thrill

shot up from his heart and seemed to choke him. He rose up from his

seat, reeled and tottered, and then supported himself upon Madame

Charles, who was also standing trembling and feeling suffocated. They

both of them seemed to look upon the girl's offer as a sacrifice, and

called, out in distracted tones:

"Oh darling, darling, it cannot be; it really cannot be."

Elodie's eyes were growing moist, and she kissed her mother's old

wedding-ring which she wore upon her finger, that wedding-ring which

had grown so thin owing to hard work.

"Yes, yes," she resumed, "let me follow my own inclination. I want

to follow in my mother's steps. What she did, I can do. There is no

dishonour in it, for you did it yourselves. The idea affords me great

pleasure, I assure you. And you will see how I'll help my cousin, and

how we will raise the house between us. Ah! you don't know me, but I

will show you what I can do!"

This outburst carried the day. Monsieur and Madame Charles, overwhelmed

with deep emotion, burst into tears, and sobbed like a couple of

children. Although they had certainly brought Elodie up with very

different intentions, still what was to be done when the instinct of

her blood spoke out like that? They recognised in it the accents of

a genuine vocation. It had been the same with Estelle. She, too, had

led a secluded life with the Sisters of the Visitation, had been kept

in perfect ignorance of the world, and instructed in the principles

of the most rigid morality; but in spite of everything she had become

an excellent woman of business. It was clear that education went for

naught; it was natural sentiment which settled everything. However, the

Charles's emotion deepened, and the tears which fell from their eyes

streamed yet more copiously at the glorious thought that Number 19,

their own creation, their very flesh, so to say, was about to be saved

from ruin. Their work would still be continued there by Elodie and

Nénesse with all the fresh energy of youth. They already saw the house

restored to its former glory, established once more in public favour,

with the same brilliant reputation as it had possessed in the palmiest

days of their own reign.

As soon as Monsieur Charles was able to speak, he clasped his

grand-daughter in his arms. "Your father has been the cause of much

anxiety to us," he said, "but you, my angel, will console us for

everything!"

Madame Charles also strained the girl to her breast, and they all three

of them stood in one another's arms, mingling their tears.

"Then we may consider everything settled now?" asked Nénesse, who was

anxious to have matters definitely decided.

"Yes, quite settled."

Delhomme was now radiant, like a father delighted at having set his

son up in life in an unhoped-for manner. He began to shuffle about as

though he felt called upon to make some observation, and, indeed, at

last he delivered himself in these words:

"Well, if there's never any regret on your side, I'm sure there'll

never be any on ours. There's no need to wish the young people good

luck. That always attends honest hard work."

Then they all sat down again in view of quietly talking over details.

Jean now felt conscious that he was in the way. He had been greatly

embarrassed at finding himself amid the previous emotional, tearful

outbursts, and he would have made his escape much sooner had he known

how to do so. He now summoned up his courage to take Monsieur Charles

aside, and speak to him about the gardener's place. But Monsieur

Charles's dignified face assumed a severe expression. A relation of his

own holding a situation in his service! No, no, that would never do!

A relation was never a profitable servant; it was impossible to treat

him with necessary severity. Besides, the situation had been promised

to another person on the previous day. Jean, therefore, took his leave,

while Elodie was saying, in her soft voice, that if her father made

himself disagreeable she would undertake to bring him to reason.

When Jean got outside the house he walked on slowly, quite at a loss

as to where he should now turn in search of work. Out of the hundred

and twenty-seven francs he had already paid for his wife's funeral,

for the cross at the head of the grave, and for the railings round it,

barely half of the money was left, but this would still keep him some

time, and then he would see what happened. He was not afraid of poverty

and hard work; his only anxiety arose from his unwillingness to leave

Rognes on account of the legal proceedings he was contemplating. Three

o'clock struck, then four, and then five. For a long time he continued

wandering about the country, his brain full of confused ideas, his

thoughts now dwelling upon La Borderie, and now upon the Charles

family. Everywhere it was the same story, money and women; they seemed

to over-ride everything else. Consequently there was little to wonder

at in the fact that his own misfortunes arose from the same sources.

At last he began to feel weak and faint, and bethought himself that as

yet he had not had anything to eat; so he set off in the direction of

the village, resolving to take up his quarters with the Lengaignes, who

let lodgings. However, as he crossed the open square in front of the

church, the sight of the house from which he had been expelled in the

morning rekindled an angry glow in his veins. Why should he let those

knavish wretches keep his frock-coat and two pairs of trousers? They

were his own, and he would have them, even at the risk of coming to

blows again.

It was growing dark when Jean entered the yard, and he was scarcely

able to distinguish old Fouan, who was sitting on the stone bench.

However, as he reached the door leading to the kitchen, in which a

candle was burning, Buteau caught sight of him and sprang forward to

bar his passage.

"God in heaven! you here again! What do you want?"

"I want my two pairs of trousers and my frock-coat."

A frightful quarrel now ensued. Jean doggedly insisted on getting his

things out of the drawer; while Buteau, who had seized a bill-hook,

swore that he would cut his throat if he crossed the threshold. At last

Lise's voice sounded from inside.

"Let him have his rags!" she cried. "You'd never think of touching the

rotten fellow's clothes yourself."

The two men now relapsed into silence, and Jean was standing waiting,

when all at once old Fouan, who was still sitting on the stone bench

behind his back, gave utterance to the alarm which was troubling his

dazed brain.

"Make your escape," he stammered in his husky voice, "or they'll bleed

you as they bled the little one."

This was a terrible revelation. Jean understood everything now--both

the cause of Françoise's death and that of her obstinate silence.

He had had his suspicions before, but now he no longer doubted but

what she had remained silent in order to save her relatives from the

guillotine. An icy chill froze him; he felt terrified, and he was

incapable of either speech or motion when Lise, through the open

doorway, hurled his trousers and coat in his face.

"There, take your filthy things! They stink so vilely that they'd have

given us all some disease if they'd stayed any longer in the house!"

Jean picked them up and went off. However, when he got out of the yard,

and once more found himself on the high-road, he turned round and shook

his fists at the house, shouting out a single word which reverberated

in the surrounding silence: "Murderers!"

Then he disappeared in the black darkness.

Buteau was standing in a state of terrified consternation, for he had

heard what old Fouan had growled out, and Jean's word had penetrated

his heart like a bullet. What was in store for him? Would the gendarmes

be down upon him, now when he had just fancied that the secret of

Françoise's death would be buried for ever with her in her coffin?

When he had seen her lowered into her grave in the morning he had

begun to breathe freely again, and yet now it was evident that the

old fellow knew everything! Was it possible that he had been shamming

idiocy for the sake of playing the spy upon them? This last thought

completed Buteau's terrified alarm, and he was so completely upset when

he went back into the house that he left half of his plateful of soup

untouched. Lise, to whom he had told what had happened, shivered and

trembled, and could eat no more than he did.

They had looked forward to keeping high festival upon this their first

night in the reconquered house, but it was a night of abominable

unhappiness. They had put Laure and Jules to bed on a mattress in

front of the chest of drawers, pending an opportunity to arrange

other accommodation; and the children were still wide awake when they

themselves got into bed, after blowing out the candle. But they could

not sleep, they tossed about as though they were on a red-hot gridiron.

At last they began to talk to each other in muttered tones. Oh, what a

burden the old man had become, now that he had fallen into his dotage!

It was really more than they could bear, such an expense he was! No one

could believe the quantity of bread he swallowed! And then, too, he was

so greedy, seizing the meat in his fingers, and spilling the wine on

his beard, and making such a dirty mess of himself that one felt ill

merely on looking at him. Besides all that, he was constantly going

about with his trousers disarranged; a sad ending for a man who had

once been as cleanly and as respectable as any of his fellows. Really,

since he seemed determined not to go off of his own accord, it made one

feel inclined to make an end of him with a pick-axe.

"When one thinks that a breath would blow him over!" muttered Buteau.

"Ah! I really believe that he sticks on just for the sake of annoying

us! Those gibbering old idiots, the less good they are the more closely

they hug on to life! I don't believe he will ever die, ever!"

Then Lise, lying on her back, replied:

"It's a pity he came here. He'll feel too comfortable, and be inclined

to take a fresh lease of life. If I had been a praying woman I should

have prayed that he might not be allowed to pass a single night in the

house."

Neither of them spoke of the real source of their anxiety, of the old

man's knowledge of their secret, and the possibility of his betraying

them, even without meaning to do so. That was the bother. Although he

was an expense and a nuisance, and prevented them from enjoying the

dividends of the stolen scrip at their ease, they had still put up

with his presence for a long time. But now that a word from him might

endanger their necks, all limits of toleration were past. Something

definite would have to de done.

"I'll go and see if he's asleep," said Lise abruptly.

She lighted the candle, and then, making sure that Laure and Jules were

soundly slumbering, she glided in her night-dress into the room where

the beet-root was stored, and where the old man's iron bed had again

been placed. When she came back she was shivering with cold, her feet

half frozen by passing over the tiled floor. She buried herself beneath

the bed-clothes, and pressed closely against her husband, who clasped

her in his arms to warm her.

"Well?"

"Yes, he's asleep; but his breath's very faint, and his mouth is gaping

open like a fish's."

They now both remained quiet for a time, but, in spite of their

silence, they could read each other's thoughts. The old man seemed

constantly on the point of choking, so it would be an easy matter to

suffocate him altogether. A handkerchief, or even a hand, held over his

mouth, and then they would be freed from him. And really it would be a

kindness to the old man himself. He would be better off quietly asleep

in the graveyard, than living on, a source of pain and discomfort to

himself as well as others.

Buteau's and Lise's blood was flowing hotly, as though some burning

desire had just thrilled them. Suddenly the former sprang out of the

bed on to the tiled floor.

"I'll go and have a look at him, too," he said.

He then went off with the candle, which had been left standing on the

edge of the chest of drawers, while Lise held her breath and listened,

her eyes staring widely open in the dark. The minutes glided by, and no

sound came from the adjoining room. After a time, however, she heard

Buteau's feet pattering gently back again; he had left the light in

the old man's room, and was so overcome with excitement that he could

not prevent himself from panting. He stepped up to the bed, felt about

in the dark for his wife, and then whispered in her ear:

"You come too! I daren't do it alone!"

Lise got up and followed her husband; both of them groping their

way forwards with their hands to avoid coming into collision with

anything. They no longer felt cold; even their night-dresses were

too hot for them. The candle was standing on the floor, in a corner

of the old man's room, but it afforded sufficient light for them to

see him lying on his back. His head had fallen off the pillow, and he

was lying there so rigidly, and looked so emaciated with age, that

one might have thought he was already dead, had it not been for the

struggling, painful breathing from his gaping mouth. His teeth had all

gone, and his lips were turned inwards, round what merely looked like

a black hole, a hole over which the husband and wife now stooped, as

though they were trying to ascertain how much life still remained at

the bottom of it. For a long time they stood looking at it, side by

side, with their hips touching one another. Their arms felt limp and

nerveless. It was such an easy and yet such a perilous matter to take

something and stop up that black hole with it. They went away and then

came back again. Their parched tongues could not have pronounced a

single word; it was only their eyes that spoke. Lise pointed out the

pillow to her husband with a glance. That would do. What was he waiting

for? But Buteau's eyes blinked nervously, and he thrust his wife into

his place. Then Lise, in her impatient irritation, suddenly seized the

pillow, and clapped it down on the old man's face.

"You miserable coward! Must you always leave everything for your wife

to do?" she gasped.

Buteau now sprang forward and pressed upon the pillow with the whole

weight of his body, while Lise, mounting on to the bed, sat on it,

forcing down her huge swollen buttocks. They were both pressing and

sprawling over Fouan's body, crushing it beneath their fists and

shoulders and legs. At first the old man had started violently, and

when his legs were flattened down there came a sound like that of the

snapping of springs. Now he was wriggling about like a fish on dry

land; but all this was soon over. As they pressed him down they could

feel his struggles ceasing and his life ebbing away. Eventually there

came a prolonged quiver, then the last spasm, and finally it was all

over; he lay there as inert as a log, as limp as an old rag.

"There, I think we've done it now," muttered Buteau, quite out of

breath.

Lise, who was still squatting all of a heap on the bed, ceased

pressing, and remained quite still to ascertain if the old man stirred.

"Yes, it's done," she soon said. "There isn't a sign of life about him."

Then she slipped off the bed and removed the pillow. But at the sight

presented to their view they both broke out into a groan of terror.

"God in heaven! he's quite black! We shall be found out!"

It would, indeed, be impossible to assert that the old man had put

himself into such a condition. In their impetuosity the Buteaus had

pressed so violently that his nose was jammed into his mouth, and his

face was as black as a negro's. At this sight it seemed to them as if

the ground were giving way beneath them, and they already fancied they

could hear the foot-falls of the gendarmes, the clanking of manacles,

and the descent of the blade of the guillotine. They were filled with

terrible regret as they gazed upon their clumsy piece of work. What

could be done? It was of no use washing the old man's face; that would

not whiten it. Presently the terror with which his sooty appearance

inspired them gave them an idea.

"Suppose we set him alight," murmured Lise.

Buteau felt relieved at this suggestion, and drew a heavy breath.

"Capital! and we'll say he did it himself."

Then, as the thought of the scrip flashed through his mind, he clapped

his hands, and his face brightened up with a triumphant smile.

"God in heaven!" he cried, "we'll make them believe that he burnt the

papers as well as himself, and then we shan't have to give any account

of them."

He now turned to take up the candle; but Lise, who was afraid of

incurring too much danger, would not let him set the bed on fire with

it. There were some straw-bands behind some beet-root in a corner of

the room, and she took one of these, lighted it, and then applied it

to the old man's long white hair and beard. There was a strong smell

and sputtering like that of burning grease. Suddenly Lise and Buteau

recoiled in terrified stupefaction, as though some cold, ghostly hand

had seized them by the hair. Tortured into life by the frightful agony

of burning, the old man, who had not been effectually suffocated,

had just opened his eyes; and now, as he lay there with his hideous

blackened face, his great nose battered and broken, and his hair and

beard burnt away, he gazed at them with a fearful look of mingled pain

and hatred. Then all his face seemed to fall into utter blankness, and

he died.

Quite wild with terror, Buteau had just burst out into an awful

groan when he heard some screams at the door. They came from the

two children, Laure and Jules, who had been awakened by the noise.

Attracted by the light of the burning straw, they had hurried along in

their night-dresses to the open door, whence they had seen all. They

shrieked with terror.

"You cursed little vermin!" roared Buteau, dashing at them; "if you say

a word to anybody, I'll murder you! Take that to remind you of what I

say."

With these words he gave them each such a violent cuff that they rolled

over on the floor. They picked themselves up, however, without shedding

a tear, and rushed off to their mattress, where they remained without

daring to move.

Buteau, who was determined to make an end of the matter, now set fire

to the palliasse in spite of his wife's protestations. Fortunately the

room was so damp that the straw burnt very slowly, giving out, however,

such a dense and copious smoke, that they were nearly suffocated, and

had to open the window. Then the flames shot up higher and licked the

ceiling. The old man's body began to crackle amid the blaze, and the

room was filled with an intolerable stench of burning flesh. The old

house would certainly have taken fire, and burnt away like a stack,

if the straw had not begun to smoke again owing to the melting of the

body. Nothing now remained on the cross-ribs of the iron bedstead save

the half-calcined, disfigured, unrecognisable corpse. Only a small

corner of the palliasse had remained unburnt, and a mere scrap of

sheeting hung over the edge of the bed.

"Let us be off!" said Lise, who had begun to shiver again, despite the

excessive heat.

"Wait a moment," replied Buteau; "we must arrange things properly."

He then placed a chair by the bedside, and upset the old man's

candlestick at the foot of it, to make it appear as though it had

fallen upon the palliasse. Then he was crafty enough to throw some

scraps of lighted paper on the floor. When the ashes were discovered,

he intended to say that the old man had found his papers again on the

previous evening, and had secured possession of them.

"There, that will do!" repeated Lise. "Now let us go to bed."

They then hurried away, jostling each other in their haste, and

plunged into their bed, which was now quite cold. Daylight began to

dawn, but still they lay awake, unable to get to sleep. They did not

speak to each other, but kept starting and quivering, and could hear

their hearts beating wildly. They had left the door of the adjoining

room open, and the thought of it disturbed them greatly; however, the

idea of getting up and shutting it was still more distasteful and

disquieting. At last they dozed off, still clinging closely to each

other.

A few hours later the neighbours rushed up on hearing Buteau's wild

calls. La Frimat and the other woman noticed the fallen candle, the

charred remains of the palliasse, and the ashes of the scraps of paper.

Then they all exclaimed that they had always felt sure that this would

happen some day or other. They declared they had prophesied a score of

times that the old man would do it in his dotage! The Buteaus might be

very thankful that the whole house hadn't been burnt down at the same

time!

CHAPTER VI.

Two days afterwards, on the very morning on which old Fouan was to

be buried, Jean, tired from having remained in bed for hours without

being able to sleep, woke up very late in the little room which he

occupied at Lengaigne's. He had not yet been to Châteaudun to initiate

proceedings against the Buteaus, though his intention to do so was the

only thing that still kept him at Rognes. Each evening, however, he

deferred the matter till the next day, feeling increasing hesitation

about it, as his anger gradually calmed down. It was a prolonged

mental struggle which had just kept him awake half the night, tossing

feverishly about in his bed, and full of doubt as to what course he had

best take.

Oh! those Buteaus, he thought, what murderous brutes, what abominable

assassins they were! Some honest man ought to have their heads lopped

off. As soon as he heard of old Fouan's death, he guessed how it had

been brought about. The villains, he felt sure of it, had burnt the old

man alive to prevent him from blabbing. Françoise! Fouan! the murder

of the one had forced them to murder the other. Whose turn would it be

next? Most likely his own, he thought; for they knew that he possessed

their secret, and they would certainly send a bullet into him from

some quiet corner of the road if he persisted in remaining in the

neighbourhood. Had he not better denounce them at once? He made up his

mind that he would. He would lay an information against them as soon

as he got up. Then he began to hesitate again, feeling considerable

timidity as to embarking upon a serious proceeding like this. He would

be called as a witness, and he felt afraid lest he might be made to

suffer as much as the very criminals themselves. Why should he create

fresh troubles and anxieties for himself? This, as he acknowledged,

was a cowardly way of looking at matters, but he found an excuse for

his silence in the reflection that by holding his tongue he would

be obeying Françoise's last wishes. A score of times that night he

came to a decision, and then a score of times he cast that decision

aside, till he felt quite ill from thinking of this duty from which he

recoiled.

It was nearly nine o'clock when he sprang out of bed, and plunged his

head into a basin of cold water. He now suddenly came to a resolution.

He would neither lay an information, nor would he take any steps to

initiate proceedings for the recovery of his share of the furniture.

The game was not worth the candle. A feeling of proud independence had

restored his mind to perfect calmness; he would claim nothing from

those swindling wretches; henceforth he would have nothing to do with

them. He had no further concern in them, and he would leave them to

prey upon themselves. If they would only contrive to make an end of

one another all round, it would be a good riddance for everybody. He

flushed with anger as he thought of what he had suffered and endured

during the ten years he had spent in Rognes; and yet he had been so

happy in the thought of leaving the army, after the Italian war; so

happy in ceasing to handle the sabre and slay his fellow-men! Still,

ever since his discharge, he had been living amid filth, surrounded

by savages. At the period of his marriage he had had troubles enough,

but he had fallen upon even worse times now; the villains had taken to

robbery and murder. Ah, they were savage wolves, let loose over that

peaceful, far-reaching plain. For his own part, he had had quite enough

of it! These devouring wild beasts had spoilt the country for him! What

would be the good of hunting down just a couple of them--a male and his

female--when the whole pack ought to be destroyed? No; he preferred to

go away.

At that moment his eyes happened to light upon a newspaper which he had

brought up with him from the public room on the previous evening. He

had been interested in an article on the approaching war, for alarming

rumours had been in circulation for several days past, and the martial

feeling, which he thought extinct within him, had suddenly sprung up

into fresh glowing life at the report of a coming call to arms. His

last lingering hesitation to leave Rognes, his doubts as to where he

should go, were all utterly and entirely swept away as by a rushing

blast of wind. Yes, he would go and fight; he would enlist! He had

certainly paid the debt he owed his country; but when a man has no

occupation left, when life is full of wearisome cares, and when one is

angered by the persecution of one's enemies, the best plan is still

to fall upon them boldly. This determination eased his feelings and

thrilled him with stern joy. As he dressed himself, he whistled the

bugle-march that had resounded when they advanced to battle in Italy.

Mankind was really too hateful and abominable, and he found a great

consolation in the thought of demolishing some of the Prussians. Since

he had not found peace in this country nook, where the peasant folk

drank each other's blood, he might just as well return to the carnage

of the battlefield. The more of the foe he slew, the redder would the

soil be, and the more would he feel avenged for all the hardship and

trouble with which men had visited him.

When he came downstairs he ate the two eggs and the rasher of bacon

which Flore served him. Then he called Lengaigne and paid his score.

"Are you going to leave us, Corporal?" asked the landlord.

"Yes."

"But you'll be coming back again, won't you?"

"No."

Lengaigne looked at him in amazement, but he kept his reflections to

himself. So the great booby was going to give up all his rights!

"What are you thinking of doing now? Do you mean to turn carpenter

again?"

"No; soldier."

Upon hearing this, Lengaigne opened his eyes in still greater

amazement, and could no longer restrain a smile of contempt. What a

fool the man must be!

Jean had already started on his way to Cloyes, when a last thrill of

feeling made him check his steps and turn up the hill. He felt that he

could not leave Rognes without saying good-bye to Françoise's grave.

There was also another desire which he wished to satisfy: to gaze once

more upon the mighty plain, that mournful La Beauce, which he had

learned to love during his long solitary hours of toil.

The graveyard stretched behind the church, enclosed by a crumbling

wall so low that, when one stood amid the tombs, a clear view could be

obtained from horizon to horizon. A pale March sun was shining coldly

in the sky, which was veiled by a soft, white, fleecy haze, scarcely

showing a patch of blue. Beneath the softly smiling heavens, La Beauce,

still torpid from the winter frosts, seemed to lie half-dozing and

half-awake, basking in sweet indolence. The distant fields, bathed in

a suffused light, were already green with the wheat, oats, and rye

sown during the autumn. In those plough-lands that remained bare, the

spring sowing had recently been commenced. All around men could be

seen striding over the rich soil scattering their seed with the same

uniform gesture. The grains could be distinctly perceived falling like

a flashing gilded stream from the hands of the nearer sowers. Then with

the increasing distance the figures of the sowers seemed to dwindle in

size till they were altogether lost to sight, and as the seed streamed

around them it looked like some mere vibration of light. For leagues

around, in every direction, the life-germs of the coming summer were

raining down amid the sunshine.

Jean stood in front of Françoise's grave. It was half-way along a row

of other graves, and an open one beside it was waiting to receive old

Fouan's body. The graveyard was over-run with a rank growth of weeds,

for the municipal council had never consented to grant the rural

constable fifty francs to make it neat and trim. Wooden crosses and

railings were rotting away, and only a few mouldering stones still

stood in position. The charm of this lonely nook, however, lay in its

very condition of neglect, in its profound tranquillity, which was only

broken by the croaking of the ancient crows which wheeled around the

church steeple. Here the villagers slept their last sleep in perfect

peace and oblivion. Jean, amid the death-like stillness, dropped

into a reverie, gazing at the vast expanse of La Beauce and the seed

grains which permeated it as with a thrill of life. But at last he was

aroused, hearing the bell toll slowly, first three times, then twice

more, and finally break into a continuous clanging. The bearers were

lifting Fouan's coffin, and were bringing it towards the graveyard.

The bandy-legged gravedigger came limping along to see that the grave

was all right.

"Isn't it too small?" asked Jean, who still tarried, his heart

softening with a desire to see the last of the old man.

"Not it," replied the bandy-legged sexton. "They could get four like

him into it. That roasting has brought down his size."

On the evening following upon Fouan's death, the Buteaus had awaited

the arrival of Doctor Finet with great trepidation. But the surgeon

had signed the burial certificate at once, his only thought being to

get away again as soon as possible, he came, looked at the body, and

then angrily railed at the stupidity of country-folks in leaving an

addle-pated old man with a lighted candle. If he felt any suspicions,

he wisely kept them to himself. This father had been so obstinate in

living on, that maybe he had deserved to be roasted a bit. Besides, he

(Finet) had seen so many strange things that a matter like this seemed

of no great account. In his callous indifference, born of mingled

contempt and bitterness, he merely shrugged his shoulders--a scampish,

bad lot those peasants! thought he.

Relieved upon this point, the Buteaus then had to prepare themselves

to meet their relatives and allay any possible suspicions. As soon as

La Grande presented herself they burst into tears, thinking that this

would have a good effect. The old woman looked at them with surprise,

and thought to herself that they were really over-acting their part in

crying so much. However, she had merely come for the sake of something

to do, for she had no claim upon any of the old man's property. The

real danger began when Fanny and Delhomme arrived. The latter had

just been nominated mayor in place of Macqueron, and his wife was

almost bursting with pride. She had kept her oath, and her father had

died without any reconciliation on her part. Indeed, with her extreme

susceptibility, she even yet felt hurt by his conduct, and she showed

this by standing with dry eyes in front of the corpse. However, if

_she_ shed no tears, there was withal a sound of loud sobbing. This

arose when Hyacinthe arrived, very drunk, and overflowing with the

tender emotion which he found at the bottom of his bottle. He quite

saturated the corpse with his tears, and bellowed out that he had

received a blow from which he would never recover.

In the kitchen Lise had set out a row of glasses and bottles of wine;

and a general discussion ensued. It was at once agreed that the

hundred and fifty francs a year arising from the sale of the house

were outside the debate, for it had always been understood that this

sum should be retained by those who looked after the old man during

his last days. But then there was the secret hoard, the three hundred

francs a year that were derived from the scrip of which they had all

now heard. Buteau thereupon related his story, stating how his father

had discovered the papers underneath the marble slab on the top of the

chest of drawers, and how, while examining them at night, he must have

set his hair on fire. The ashes of the papers had been found lying on

the floor, as La Frimat and La Bécu could testify. As he told his story

the others scrutinised him keenly, but this in no way confused him,

and he smote his breast with his hands and swore by the light of day

that he was speaking the truth. He could see that the family had their

suspicions, but he cared nothing about that so long as they did not

worry him, and he kept the money. Fanny, however, with her impetuous

outspokenness, unbosomed herself of her surmises, and angrily assailed

Buteau and Lise as thieves and murderers. Yes, they had burned her

father and robbed him! That was plain to everybody's eyes! The Buteaus

replied with a flood of abuse and equally abominable accusations

against herself. She and her husband, they cried, had plotted to

destroy the old man, who had nearly perished from taking some poisoned

soup that had been given him in his daughter's house. They, the

Buteaus, would be able to tell a great deal if anything was said about

them!

Hyacinthe had again begun to cry and bellow lugubriously on hearing

that such awful crimes were possible. God in heaven! his poor father!

Could it be possible that there were sons wicked enough to roast their

father? La Grande, whose eyes were glistening brightly, let a few words

drop whenever the contending parties seemed getting out of breath,

and her remarks at once set them going at each other again. Delhomme,

feeling uneasy at the aspect of affairs, at last went and closed the

doors and windows. He had his official position to think of; and,

besides, he was always in favour of settling matters quietly. He now

protested that such accusations were most unseemly. A pretty reputation

the family would get if the neighbours should hear what was going on!

The law would poke its nose into the matter, and possibly the good ones

would lose more than the bad ones. No, when there were scamps in a

family, the best plan was to leave them to their villany, in the hope

that it would end by destroying them. All the others sat in silence.

Delhomme was right. There was nothing to be got by washing their dirty

linen before the magistrates. Moreover, Buteau terrified the others.

This scoundrel was quite capable of ruining them. At the bottom of

their silent acquiescence in the murder and robbery there lay that

feeling which makes the peasantry the accomplices of poachers, of the

men who kill gamekeepers; in fact, of all that class of lawless rustics

who are saved from being given up to justice by the fear they inspire

in those who are fully cognisant of their crimes.

La Grande remained to have some coffee and to spend the evening with

the Buteaus, while the others trooped off in a blunt, unceremonious

fashion, expressive of their contempt. The Buteaus, however, did not

care a straw about that, so long as they kept the money and had the

certainty of not being worried any further. Lise raised her voice again

to its wonted pitch, and Buteau, resolving to do things properly,

ordered the coffin, and went to the churchyard to examine the place

where the grave was to be dug.

The peasants of Rognes felt a great dislike to resting after their

death by the side of those whom they had hated while alive; but, as the

graves were dug in regular rows, it was altogether a matter of luck

where each one was buried; and whenever, as chance had it, two enemies

died immediately one after the other, the authorities experienced great

embarrassment, for the family of the one who had died the latest often

talked quite seriously of keeping his body above ground rather than let

it lie by the side of a person whom he had detested. Now, it happened

that when Macqueron was mayor he had abused his official position to

purchase for his grave a plot of ground which would certainly not have

been assigned to him in the regular course of affairs. Unfortunately,

too, this strip of ground adjoined the grave in which Lengaigne's

father was buried, and in which Lengaigne had reserved room for

himself. Ever since Macqueron had purchased his plot, his rival's

indignation had known no end, his long-standing enmity becoming more

rancorous than ever. The thought that his body would lie rotting beside

that scoundrel's would embitter the rest of his existence.

Buteau was filled with the same angry feeling when he went to inspect

the grave which chance had allotted to his father. Françoise would

lie on old Fouan's left-hand, which was right and proper enough; but,

as ill-luck would have it, in the adjoining row of graves, and just

in front of the one where Fouan was to be buried, there was the grave

of old Saucisse's deceased wife, in which Saucisse had reserved room

for himself also. The result was that, whenever the old scamp died,

he would lie with his feet close to Fouan's skull. Could this idea be

tolerated for a moment? Here were two old men, who had detested each

other ever since that dishonourable business about the daily payments

of fifteen sous for the reversion of an acre of ground, and the greater

rascal of the two--the one who had tricked the other--was to go dancing

on his head through all eternity! Why, if the family were so unfeeling

as to submit to such an arrangement, old Fouan's bones would turn in

their coffin and struggle with those of old Saucisse! Boiling over with

rebellious indignation, Buteau now angrily rushed off to the municipal

offices and attacked Delhomme, trying to force him to take advantage

of his official position to assign another grave to old Fouan. But his

brother-in-law refused to depart from the established usage, dwelling

upon the deplorable example of Macqueron and Lengaigne. Buteau then

called him a coward, accused him of being bribed, and finally roared

out in the middle of the road that he himself was the only dutiful and

affectionate son, since the rest of the family didn't care a straw

whether the old man rested peacefully in his grave or not. Drawing the

whole village to the door-steps in his progress, he went off home in a

state of furious indignation.

Another matter, and one of more importance than this question of the

grave, had just been causing Delhomme great embarrassment. The Abbé

Madeline had gone away a couple of days previously, and Rognes was

once more without a priest. The experiment of keeping one of their own

within the village had, on the whole, turned out so unsatisfactorily

that the municipal council had voted in favour of withdrawing the

grant, and returning to the previous state of affairs, the services

being performed by the priest of Bazoches-le-Doyen. The Abbé Godard,

however, despite the bishop's remonstrances, had sworn that he

would never celebrate the blessed sacrament in the place, and, in

his exasperation at the departure of his colleague, he accused the

villagers of having half-murdered the poor fellow for the sole purpose

of forcing him--Godard--to return among them. He had already declared

that, although Bécu might ring the bell for mass from morning till

night, he would not come, when Fouan's sudden death complicated

matters, and brought the situation to a crisis. A funeral is not

like a mass, and cannot be indefinitely postponed. With some little

mischievous satisfaction at the turn affairs had taken, Delhomme

now went to see the priest at Bazoches. As soon as the Abbé Godard

perceived him his face assumed a wrathful expression, and, without

giving the mayor time to open his mouth, he cried out that nothing

would make him come, he would rather lose his place! When he learnt

that his presence was required for a funeral, he lost the power of

articulation through very rage. Those pagans died on purpose. They

fancied that by doing so they would force him to come to them! Well,

they might bury themselves, for he didn't mean to help them up to

heaven!

Delhomme quietly waited till the priest's first ebullition of anger

was exhausted, and then began to argue with him. The Church, he said,

did not refuse the last sprinkling of holy water to any one; and a

corpse could not be kept indefinitely in the house. Then he tried

more personal arguments; the dead man was his father-in-law, the

father-in-law of the mayor of Rognes. Come, now, shouldn't they say

to-morrow at ten o'clock? No! no! no! cried the Abbé Godard, blustering

and almost choking in his wrath, and Delhomme had to go away without

being able to make him yield, though he hoped that he would think

better of it before morning.

"I tell you that I won't come," the priest shouted at him for the last

time from his door. "Don't ring the bell, for I tell you I won't come;

no, a thousand times no!"

The next morning, however, Bécu received the mayor's orders to ring the

bell at ten o'clock. They would see what would happen. Everything was

ready at the Buteaus' for the funeral; the body had been placed in the

coffin on the previous evening under the experienced eyes of La Grande.

The room, too, had been washed, and the only trace left of the fire was

the old man's corpse screwed down ready for interment.

The bell was tolling, and the family had met together in front of the

house, waiting for the removal of the body, when the Abbé Godard was

seen hurrying along up the street, quite out of breath from running,

and so flushed and furious that he held his hat in his hand, half

afraid lest he should fall down in a fit. Without looking at any one he

dashed into the church, immediately re-appearing again in his surplice,

followed by two choir-boys, one of whom carried the cross, and the

other the vessel of holy water. Then he rapidly proceeded to mutter

over the corpse, and, without troubling himself as to whether the

bearers were following him with the coffin, he returned to the church,

where he began to say mass at a furious pace. Clou and his trombone and

the two choristers quite lost their breath in their attempts to keep

up with him. In the front row were the members of the family, Buteau

and Lise, Fanny and Delhomme, Hyacinthe and La Grande. Monsieur Charles

also honoured the funeral with his presence, but Madame Charles had

been at Chartres for the last two days with Elodie and Nénesse. As for

La Trouille, just as she was on the point of starting for the ceremony,

she discovered that three of her geese were missing, and she rushed

off to search for them. Behind Lise stood the two children, Laure and

Jules, comporting themselves very decorously, with their arms crossed,

and an expression of deep gravity on their widely-opened eyes. The

other seats were crowded with acquaintances, women for the most part,

including La Frimat, La Bécu, Cœlina, Flore, and many others, making

up such a gathering as the family might well be proud of. As the priest

turned to the congregation, he threw his arms open with such a terribly

threatening expression that it looked as though he were going to cuff

them all. Bécu, who was very drunk, was still tugging at the bell.

Altogether it was a very satisfactory mass, though solemnised somewhat

hurriedly. The congregation, however, showed no signs of vexation,

and they even smiled secretly at the Abbé's anger, which they quite

excused, for it was only natural that he should be a little sulky over

his defeat, just as they themselves felt elated at the victory of

their village. An expression of sly satisfaction beamed on all their

countenances. They had forced him to celebrate the blessed sacrament

amongst them, though in reality they cared nothing at all about it.

When the mass was over, the aspersorium was passed from hand to

hand, and then the procession reformed. First came the cross and the

chanters, then Clou and his trombone, then the priest, choking from

his breathless haste, next the body carried by four peasants, then the

family, and finally the crowd of acquaintances. Bécu had now commenced

to tug so energetically at the bell that the crows flew off from the

steeple, croaking in distress. The funeral party reached the graveyard

at once; they had only to turn the corner of the church. The chants

and music broke out into fuller sound amid the hushed silence, beneath

the vapoury sun which imparted warmth to the quivering peacefulness

of the weeds and grass. When the coffin appeared in the open air, it

seemed so small that every one looked at it in surprise. Jean, who

was still standing by the grave, was painfully affected by the sight.

Ah, poor old man! to be so emaciated by age, so shrunken owing to the

wretchedness of his life, that he had room enough to lie completely

in that mere toy-box! that mere pretence of a coffin! But little room

would he want for his grave, and but a very slight incumbrance would he

be to the soil, that mighty mother earth, whom he had so passionately

loved.

As the coffin was laid down by the edge of the yawning grave, Jean's

eyes followed it, and then strayed further away, over the little

wall, sweeping La Beauce from end to end. Again he beheld the sowers

stretching away into the far distance ceaselessly swinging their arms,

while the seed streamed over the gaping furrows.

When the Buteaus caught sight of Jean, they exchanged an uneasy glance.

Could the scoundrel be waiting there with the intention of creating

some disturbance? They would never be able to sleep at ease as long as

he remained in Rognes! The boy who carried the cross had just planted

it at the foot of the grave, and now the Abbé Godard, standing in

front of the coffin which was lying on the grass, hurriedly repeated

the last prayers. The spectators' attention was, however, diverted

on noticing that Macqueron and Lengaigne, who had arrived late, were

gazing intently towards the plain. Every one now turned to look in the

same direction, and noticed a thick cloud of smoke rolling up into the

sky. It seemed to come from La Borderie; probably some stacks behind

the farm had caught fire.

"_Ego sum_--" exclaimed the priest in a tone of fury: and then the

funeral-party again turned towards him, fixing their eyes once more

upon the coffin; Monsieur Charles alone was inattentive, continuing

a whispered conversation with Delhomme. He had that morning received

from Madame Charles a letter which filled him with delight. During

the four-and-twenty hours she had been in Chartres, Elodie had shown

herself in the most surprising light, displaying as much energy and

shrewdness as even Nénesse himself. She had got the better of her

father, and was already in possession of the house. Ah, she had the

proper gifts, a ready hand and a sharp eye! Monsieur Charles was

quite overcome with emotion as he thought of the happy old age that

was now in store for him at Roseblanche, where his rose-trees and his

carnations had never looked better than they were doing now; and it

seemed to him, too, that his birds had quite recovered their health

during the last few days, for they sang again so sweetly as to stir his

very soul.

"_Amen_!" now cried the boy who was carrying the vessel of holy water.

Then the Abbé Godard, in his angry voice, immediately commenced the

psalm:

"_De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine_----"

And as he continued, Hyacinthe, who had taken Fanny aside, began to

abuse the Buteaus again.

"If only I hadn't been so drunk the other day," he began. "But really

it isn't possible, you know; we can't submit to be robbed in this way."

"Yes, there's no doubt but what we are being robbed," murmured Fanny.

"Those two wretches have got the scrip, that's quite certain," her

brother continued. "They've been enjoying the dividends for a long

time past; they settled it all with old Saucisse, I know that for a

fact. God in heaven! aren't we going to take proceedings against them?"

On hearing this Fanny started back, and shook her head energetically.

"No, no," she said; "I certainly sha'n't. I've got quite enough on my

hands as it is. But you can, if you like."

Hyacinthe, in his turn, now made a gesture of alarm and refusal. As he

couldn't get his sister to interfere, he didn't care to come into close

contact with the law; his own antecedents worried him.

"Oh, no, no! I can't do anything," said he. "People have a spite

against me. Never mind, even if we don't send them to gaol, we at least

have the satisfaction of knowing that we can carry our heads erect."

La Grande, who was listening, watched him as he drew himself up with an

air of unsullied integrity. She had always considered him a simpleton,

blackguard though he was, and she felt quite vexed that such a great

big fellow didn't go and smash everything in his brother's house to

compel him to give him his share. Then, with a desire to make game of

the brother and sister, she abruptly launched out into her customary

statement, without any preliminaries.

"Ah, well, you'll never find me wronging any one. My will's been made

a long time past, and every one will get a fair share. I couldn't die

with an easy mind if I had shown an unfair preference for any one.

Hyacinthe is down in it, and you, too, Fanny. I'm ninety years old now,

and the day will soon come. Yes, it will come indeed."

However, she did not believe a word of it; she had made up her mind

that she would never die, such was her obstinate determination to stick

to her property. She would see all her relations buried. Here was

another one, her brother, whom she was seeing being put away. The whole

affair, the carrying of the corpse, the open grave, the final ceremony,

all seemed matters which concerned her neighbours, and not herself.

Tall and fleshless, with her stick under her arm, she stood firmly

erect amid the graves, without showing the slightest sign of emotion,

merely exhibiting a feeling of curiosity in her neighbours' shrinking

from death.

The priest was now sputtering out the last verse of the psalm.

"_Et ipse redimet Israel ex omnibus iniquitatibus ejus._"

Then he took the sprinkler out of the holy water vessel and shook it

over the coffin, exclaiming in a louder tone:

"_Requiescat in pace._"

"_Amen,_" responded the two boys.

Then the coffin was let down into the grave. The gravedigger had

already slipped the ropes under it, and a couple of men amply sufficed

to lower it, for the old man's corpse didn't weigh more that that of a

little child. The funeral party now passed in procession in front of

the grave, and the sprinkler again passed from hand to hand, every one

shaking it crossways over the coffin.

Jean, who now stepped up, received the aspersorium from the hands of

Monsieur Charles, and his eyes sought the bottom of the grave. He

was rather dazzled, as he had gazed so long upon the far-stretching

plain of La Beauce, watching the sowers as they sowed the bread of the

future, from one end of the expanse to the other, and dwindled away in

the suffused light of the vaporous horizon. However, down in the depths

of the soil Jean could distinguish the coffin, looking still smaller

than before, with its narrow lid of pale corn-yellow pinewood. The

clods of rich earth were falling over it and gradually concealing it

from view; and now there was only a pale glimmering patch to be seen,

looking like a handful of the corn which the sowers were scattering in

the furrows over yonder. He shook the sprinkler, and then handed it to

Hyacinthe.

"Your reverence! your reverence!" Delhomme now called, running after

the priest, who, as the service was over, was striding off with a

furious gait, forgetting all about the boys.

"Well, what is it now?" asked the priest.

"I only wanted to thank you for your kindness in coming. I suppose we

may have the bell rung for mass at ten o'clock on Sunday, as usual, eh?"

The priest looked at him keenly without making any reply, and Delhomme

hastily added:

"By the way, there's a poor old woman who is very ill, and absolutely

alone, and she hasn't got a farthing either--Rosalie, the chair-mender;

you know her, don't you? I have sent her some food, but I can't do

everything."

The Abbé Godard's features lost their stern expression, and a thrill

of charity swept away his wrath. He began fumbling in his pockets, but

could only find seven coppers.

"Lend me ten francs," said he. "I'll give you them back on Sunday.

Good-bye till Sunday, then."

Then he rushed on again, in a fresh burst of haste. Although it was

quite certain that the good God whom they had forced him to bring

amongst them would send all these cursed villagers to roast in hell,

still, that was no reason why they should be left in too great

suffering and tribulation in this life.

When Delhomme joined the others, he found himself in the midst of a

violent quarrel. For some time the funeral party had stood quietly

watching the sexton shovelling the soil on to the coffin. Presently,

however, chance having brought Macqueron and Lengaigne close together

beside the grave, the latter began to abuse the former on the subject

of the plots. The family group, which had just been going away,

thereupon remained to listen, and soon took an excited interest in

the war of words, to which the sound of the falling soil furnished a

muffled, regular accompaniment.

"You had no right to do it!" cried Lengaigne. "Your being mayor made

no difference at all! You ought to have followed the row! You only

shove yourself close up to my father to annoy me. Confound it all! You

haven't gained your ends yet, I can tell you!"

"Aren't you going to shut up!" replied Macqueron. "I have paid for the

plot, and it's my own property. And when my time comes, it won't be a

foul swine like you who will prevent me from being laid there."

The two men had stepped apart, and each was now standing by his own

plot, the few feet of earth where they would some day sleep their long

sleep.

"But, you confounded villain, can you stomach the thought that we shall

be lying there, shoulder to shoulder, like a couple of bosom friends?

As for me, it makes my blood boil to think of it! To think that, after

being enemies all our lives, we shall patch up a peace down there, and

lie quietly side by side! No, no, indeed! No patching up, no forgetting

for me!"

"Ah, well, I don't care a curse! You can blow yourself out with rage

till you burst, if you like, but I've too much contempt for you to

trouble myself about knowing whether your carcass will rot near mine or

not!"

This scornful reply capped Lengaigne's exasperation; and he blurted

out that if he lived the longer, he'd come in the night and dig up

Macqueron's bones and toss them outside the graveyard, rather than

submit to lie beside them. Macqueron sniggered, and said he should like

to see him do it; and then the women joined in the fray, that dark,

skinny wench, Cœlina, making an angry attack upon her husband.

"You are acting shamefully!" she cried. "I told you so before. You

don't seem to have any feelings! However, I can tell you this, unless

you make a change, you may lie in your hole by yourself. I shall have

myself taken somewhere else, for I'll never consent to let my bones be

poisoned by that drab there!"

As she spoke she jerked her chin in the direction of Flore; but the

latter was not going to submit to this abuse.

"You'd be no very pleasant neighbour yourself!" she retorted, in a

drawling, whining tone. "Make yourself quite easy, my dear; I don't

intend to let your bones give the disease to mine."

"Eh, what? What disease?"

"Oh, you know what disease very well!"

La Bécu and La Frimat were now obliged to interpose and separate the

two women.

"Come, come," urged the former, "you won't lie together since you are

both of the same way of thinking. Every one is at liberty to choose her

own company."

La Frimat expressed her acquiescence in this.

"It's only natural," she said. "I'm sure that when my old man's time

comes I'd rather keep him in the house with me than let him lie

alongside of old Couillot, with whom he had differences once on a time."

The tears welled to her eyes as she thought that her paralytic husband

would probably pass away before the week was over. She had fallen with

him on the previous evening as she was trying to put him to bed, and

whenever he departed she wouldn't be long in following him.

It was at this moment that Delhomme came up, and Lengaigne at once

appealed to him.

"Now, then," said he, "folks say you are a just man; well, will you

allow such injustice? Now that you are mayor, you can make this scamp

turn out of here and take his place in the regular order."

Macqueron shrugged his shoulders, and Delhomme proceeded to explain

that as he had paid his money the plot belonged to him. The matter

was settled now, and there was an end of it. Buteau, who had hitherto

quieted himself by force, then lost his head and rushed into the fray.

All the members of the family should have maintained a decorous bearing

as the clods of soil were still falling with heavy thuds upon the

old man's coffin; however, Buteau's indignation was too great to be

restrained.

"Ah! curse it, you're mightily mistaken if you expect to find any

proper feeling in that fellow!" he cried to Lengaigne, as he pointed

to Delhomme. "He let his own father be buried by the side of a thief!"

This remark caused a general explosion, the different members of the

family taking part in the row. Fanny supported her husband, saying that

the real mistake lay in not having purchased a plot for their father at

the time when their mother Rose died; he might have laid close to her.

Thereupon Hyacinthe and La Grande assailed Delhomme with abuse, also

expressing their disgust at old Fouan's proximity to Saucisse, a most

inhuman proceeding admitting of no excuse whatever. Monsieur Charles

was of the same opinion, but expressed himself more moderately.

They were now all wrangling and shouting at once. Buteau, however,

managed to make himself heard above the others, as he roared out: "Yes,

their very bones will struggle under the ground to attack each other

again!"

The whole company, relatives, friends, and acquaintances, eagerly

seized hold of this phrase. Yes, that was the truth! Their very bones

would continue the fight underground. When they were buried, the Fouans

would still pursue each other with that savage animosity which they had

mutually manifested during life. Lengaigne and Macqueron would go on

bickering and quarrelling till they had quite rotted; and the women,

Cœlina, Flore, and La Bécu, would still attack each other with their

tongues and claws. It was the universal opinion in Rognes that foes in

life could never rest peacefully together when they were buried. The

hatred between them never perished; it lasted beyond life right away to

the end of time. In this sunny graveyard, beneath the rank growth of

grass and weeds, a savage, timeless warfare was waging between coffin

and coffin, just such a warfare as was now being waged by these living

mortals who were grouped together amid the graves, clenching their

fists and reviling one another. However, a shout from Jean separated

the adversaries, and made them turn their heads: "La Borderie is on

fire!"

Doubt was no longer possible. The flames were leaping up from the roof,

quivering and paling in the light of day. A dense cloud of ruddy smoke

was gently rolling away towards the north. Then La Trouille came into

sight, running hastily from the direction of the farm. While hunting

for her geese she had noticed the first sparks, and she had stood

gloating over the spectacle till the idea of telling the others of the

sight occurred to her, whereupon she set off at a run. Jumping astride

the low wall, she cried out in her childish voice:

"Oh, isn't it just blazing? That big beast Tron came back and set it on

fire in three different places--in the barn, in the stables, and in the

kitchen. They caught him just as he was setting the straw alight, and

the waggoners nearly killed him. The horses and the cows and the sheep

are all roasting! Oh, you should hear the noise they're making! You

never heard such a row!"

Her green eyes glistened, and she laughed as she continued:

"Oh, and there's La Cognette! She's been ill, you know, ever since the

master died, and they had forgotten her in her bed. She was already

getting singed, and she'd only just time to cut and run in her shift.

Oh, it was a rare sight to see her prancing about in the open fields

with her bare legs. She hopped and skipped along, and the folks shouted

out, 'hou! hou!' as she passed them. They're not very fond of her, you

know, and one old man said: 'She's come out just as she went in, with

only a shift on her back!'"

At this point a fresh thrill of merriment made the girl wriggle with

laughter.

"_Do_ come! it's such a lark! I'm off back again."

Then she sprang down from the wall, and ran as fast as her legs could

carry her in the direction of the blazing farm.

Monsieur Charles, Delhomme, Macqueron, and nearly all the peasants

followed her; while the women, with La Grande at their head, also left

the graveyard for the road, so as to get a better view. Buteau and Lise

had stayed behind, and the latter detained Lengaigne, being anxious to

question him about Jean, without appearing to show too much interest

in him. Had he found some work, she asked, as he was lodging in the

neighbourhood? When the innkeeper replied that he was going away to

re-enlist, both Buteau and Lise, feeling vastly relieved, broke out

into the same exclamation:

"What a fool he must be!"

So this troublesome bother was at an end, and they would be able to

live happily again! They cast a last glance at Fouan's grave, which

the sexton had now almost filled up; and as the two children lingered

behind to watch, their mother called them.

"Come along, Jules and Laure, come along! Mind you're good children,

now, and do what you're told, or the man will come and put you in the

earth too."

The Buteaus then went off, pushing Laure and Jules in front of them.

The children, who knew the truth, looked very grave and earnest with

their big solemn black eyes.

Jean and Hyacinthe were now the only ones left in the graveyard. The

latter just watched the fire from a distance, disdaining to hurry off

like the others. As he stood, quite motionless between two graves, he

seemed to be absorbed in some visionary dream, and his sad, dissipated

face expressed the mournful melancholy that lies at the end of every

system of philosophy. Perhaps he was thinking that existence glides

away and vanishes like smoke! And as serious meditation always had an

exciting effect on him, he ended by giving vent to three detonations.

"God in heaven!" exclaimed the drunken Bécu, as he passed through the

graveyard on his way to the fire, "if this wind continues, we may

expect a downfall of dung!"

"Yes, indeed," replied Hyacinthe; and hurrying off he disappeared round

the wall.

Jean was now alone. Away in the distance some huge whirling clouds of

black smoke were rising from the ruins of La Borderie, casting shadows

over the fields and the scattered sowers, who were still plodding

backwards and forwards, making the same monotonous gestures. Then

Jean's eyes slowly wandered back to the ground at his feet, and he

gazed at the mounds of fresh soil beneath which Françoise and old Fouan

were sleeping. His anger of the morning and his disgust for people and

circumstances had vanished in a feeling of profound calm. In spite of

himself he felt full of restfulness and hope; maybe it was owing to the

warm sunshine.

Ah, yes, his master Hourdequin had had any amount of worry with all

those new inventions; he had never reaped much advantage from his

machines and artificial manures, and other scientific devices. And

then La Cognette had come to finish him off; he was now asleep in the

graveyard, and nothing remained of the farm, the very ashes of which

the wind was now sweeping away. But what did it matter after all? Walls

might be burned down, but the soil could not be burned. Earth, Mother

earth, would always be there ready to nourish all who cast their seed

upon her bosom. She had time enough before her, and space in plenty,

and even now she yielded corn, and would yield still more when men knew

how to treat her.

It was the same with the stories of the revolutionists--those political

cataclysms which were predicted. The soil, it was said, would pass into

other hands, and the harvests of other countries would swamp our own,

till our land was over-run with brambles. Well, and what then? Is it

within any one's power to harm the soil? It will always be there for

any one who may be obliged to till it to escape dying from hunger. And

even if weeds were to cover its surface for years together, that would

be a rest for it, and it would grow young and fertile again. The soil

cares nothing about our quarrels; this mighty toiler, ever absorbed in

her workings, troubles herself no more about man than about a swarm of

ants.

Jean had had his share of grief and trouble, pain and rebellion. And

now Françoise was slain, Fouan was slain, the wicked seemed triumphant,

the foul and sanguinary vermin of the villages were able to pollute and

prey upon the soil. Ah, but who can tell? The frost which sears the

crops, the hail which breaks them, the deluge which beats them down,

are all perhaps necessary, and so it may be that blood and tears are

equally essential to the world's progress. What does our unhappiness

weigh in the great system of the stars and the sun? We only gain our

bread by dint of a terrible daily struggle The soil alone remains fixed

and imperishable, the mother from whom we all spring, and to whom we

must all return; she whom her children love so keenly that they sin

for her sake; she who utilises everything, even our crimes and our

wretchedness, for purposes of creation, in view of attaining her own

secret, mysterious ends.

For a long time some such confused, ill-formulated reverie as this

rolled vaguely through Jean's mind as he lingered in the graveyard; but

suddenly a trumpet sounded in the distance, the trumpet of the firemen

of Bazoches-le-Doyen, who were arriving too late at the double-quick.

Then, hearing the clarion-call, Jean drew himself up. It was like

warfare passing by amid smoke; warfare with its horses, its cannons,

and its clamorous carnage! Ah! confound it, since he no longer had the

heart to till the old soil of France, he would defend it from invaders!

He was going off, when for a last time he turned his eyes from the two

grassless graves to the endless plough-lands of La Beauce filled with

sowers, all making the same ceaseless gesture. Mid corpses and seeds,

sustenance was springing from the soil.

THE END.

NOTES.

[1] The _canton_ is a subdivision of the _arrondissement_, which is

again a subdivision of the _département_, which is much the same as our

county.

[2] A _setier_ is about an acre and a quarter.

[3] Shameless slattern; troll.

[4] Miscreants who scorched the feet of their prisoners till the latter

revealed the whereabouts of their possessions.