The wedding took place in the middle of December. It was simple, the
bridal pair not being rich. Cesaire, attired in new clothes, was ready
since eight o'clock in the morning to go and fetch his betrothed and
bring her to the mayor's office, but it was too early. He seated himself
before the kitchen table and waited for the members of the family and
the friends who were to accompany him.
For the last eight days it had been snowing, and the brown earth, the
earth already fertilized by the autumn sowing, had become a dead white,
sleeping under a great sheet of ice.
It was cold in the thatched houses adorned with white caps, and the
round apples in the trees of the enclosures seemed to be flowering,
covered with white as they had been in the pleasant month of their
blossoming.
This day the big clouds to the north, the big great snow clouds, had
disappeared and the blue sky showed itself above the white earth on
which the rising sun cast silvery reflections.
Cesaire looked straight before him through the window, thinking of
nothing, quite happy.
The door opened, two women entered, peasant women in their Sunday
clothes, the aunt and the cousin of the bridegroom; then three men, his
cousins; then a woman who was a neighbor. They sat down on chairs and
remained, motionless and silent, the women on one side of the kitchen,
the men on the other, suddenly seized with timidity, with that
embarrassed sadness which takes possession of people assembled for a
ceremony. One of the cousins soon asked:
“Is it not the hour?”
Cesaire replied:
“I am much afraid it is.”
“Come on! Let us start,” said another.
Those rose up. Then Cesaire, whom a feeling of uneasiness had taken
possession of, climbed up the ladder of the loft to see whether his
father was ready. The old man, always as a rule an early riser, had not
yet made his appearance. His son found him on his bed of straw, wrapped
up in his blanket, with his eyes open and a malicious gleam in them.
He bawled into his ear: “Come, daddy, get up. It's time for the
wedding.”
The deaf man murmured-in a doleful tone:
“I can't get up. I have a sort of chill over me that freezes my back. I
can't stir.”
The young man, dumbfounded, stared at him, guessing that this was a
dodge.
“Come, daddy; you must make an effort.”
“I can't do it.”
“Look here! I'll help you.”
And he stooped toward the old man, pulled off his blanket, caught him
by the arm and lifted him up. But old Amable began to whine, “Ooh! ooh!
ooh! What suffering! Ooh! I can't. My back is stiffened up. The cold
wind must have rushed in through this cursed roof.”
“Well, you'll get no dinner, as I'm having a spread at Polyte's inn.
This will teach you what comes of acting mulishly.”
And he hurried down the ladder and started out, accompanied by his
relatives and guests.
The men had turned up the bottoms of their trousers so as not to get
them wet in the snow. The women held up their petticoats and showed
their lean ankles with gray woollen stockings and their bony shanks
resembling broomsticks. And they all moved forward with a swinging gait,
one behind the other, without uttering a word, moving cautiously, for
fear of losing the road which was-hidden beneath the flat, uniform,
uninterrupted stretch of snow.
As they approached the farmhouses they saw one or two persons waiting to
join them, and the procession went on without stopping and wound its
way forward, following the invisible outlines of the road, so that it
resembled a living chaplet of black beads undulating through the white
countryside.
In front of the bride's door a large group was stamping up and down the
open space awaiting the bridegroom. When he appeared they gave him a
loud greeting, and presently Celeste came forth from her room, clad in
a blue dress, her shoulders covered with a small red shawl and her head
adorned with orange flowers.
But every one asked Cesaire:
“Where's your father?”
He replied with embarrassment:
“He couldn't move on account of the pains.”
And the farmers tossed their heads with a sly, incredulous air.
They directed their steps toward the mayor's office. Behind the pair
about to be wedded a peasant woman carried Victor's child, as if it were
going to be baptized; and the risen, in pairs now, with arms linked,
walked through the snow with the movements of a sloop at sea.
After having been united by the mayor in the little municipal house the
pair were made one by the cure, in his turn, in the modest house of God.
He blessed their union by promising them fruitfulness, then he preached
to them on the matrimonial virtues, the simple and healthful virtues of
the country, work, concord and fidelity, while the child, who was cold,
began to fret behind the bride.
As soon as the couple reappeared on the threshold of the church shots
were discharged from the ditch of the cemetery. Only the barrels of the
guns could be seen whence came forth rapid jets of smoke; then a head
could be seen gazing at the procession. It was Victor Lecoq celebrating
the marriage of his old sweetheart, wishing her happiness and sending
her his good wishes with explosions of powder. He had employed some
friends of his, five or six laboring men, for these salvos of musketry.
It was considered a nice attention.
The repast was given in Polyte Cacheprune's inn. Twenty covers were laid
in the great hall where people dined on market days, and the big leg of
mutton turning before the spit, the fowls browned under their own gravy,
the chitterlings sputtering over the bright, clear fire filled the house
with a thick odor of live coal sprinkled with fat--the powerful, heavy
odor of rustic fare.
They sat down to table at midday and the soup was poured at once into
the plates. All faces had already brightened up; mouths opened to utter
loud jokes and eyes were laughing with knowing winks. They were going to
amuse themselves and no mistake.
The door opened, and old Amable appeared. He seemed in a bad humor
and his face wore a scowl as he dragged himself forward on his sticks,
whining at every step to indicate his suffering. As soon as they saw him
they stopped talking, but suddenly his neighbor, Daddy Malivoire, a big
joker, who knew all the little tricks and ways of people, began to yell,
just as Cesaire used to do, by making a speaking-trumpet of his hands.
“Hallo, my cute old boy, you have a good nose on you to be able to smell
Polyte's cookery from your own house!”
A roar of laughter burst forth from the throats of those present.
Malivoire, excited by his success, went on:
“There's nothing for the rheumatics like a chitterling poultice! It
keeps your belly warm, along with a glass of three-six!”
The men uttered shouts, banged the table with their fists, laughed,
bending on one side and raising up their bodies again as if they
were working a pump. The women clucked like hens, while the servants
wriggled, standing against the walls. Old Amable was the only one that
did not laugh, and, without making any reply, waited till they made room
for him.
They found a place for him in the middle of the table, facing his
daughter-in-law, and, as soon as he was seated, he began to eat. It
was his son who was paying, after all; it was right he should take his
share. With each ladleful of soup that went into his stomach, with each
mouthful of bread or meat crushed between his gums, with each glass of
cider or wine that flowed through his gullet he thought he was regaining
something of his own property, getting back a little of his money which
all those gluttons were devouring, saving in fact a portion of his own
means. And he ate in silence with the obstinacy of a miser who hides
his coppers, with the same gloomy persistence with which he formerly
performed his daily labors.
But all of a sudden he noticed at the end of the table Celeste's child
on a woman's lap, and his eye remained fixed on the little boy. He went
on eating, with his glance riveted on the youngster, into whose mouth
the woman who minded him every now and then put a little morsel which he
nibbled at. And the old man suffered more from the few mouthfuls sucked
by this little chap than from all that the others swallowed.
The meal lasted till evening. Then every one went back home.
Cesaire raised up old Amable.
“Come, daddy, we must go home,” said he.
And he put the old man's two sticks in his hands.
Celeste took her child in her arms, and they went on slowly through the
pale night whitened by the snow. The deaf old man, three-fourths tipsy,
and even more malicious under the influence of drink, refused to go
forward. Several times he even sat down with the object of making his
daughter-in-law catch cold, and he kept whining, without uttering a
word, giving vent to a sort of continuous groaning as if he were in
pain.
When they reached home he at once climbed up to his loft, while Cesaire
made a bed for the child near the deep niche where he was going to
lie down with his wife. But as the newly wedded pair could not sleep
immediately, they heard the old man for a long time moving about on his
bed of straw, and he even talked aloud several times, whether it was
that he was dreaming or that he let his thoughts escape through his
mouth, in spite of himself, not being able to keep them back, under the
obsession of a fixed idea.
When he came down his ladder next morning he saw his daughter-in-law
looking after the housekeeping.
She cried out to him:
“Come, daddy, hurry on! Here's some good soup.”
And she placed at the end of the table the round black earthen bowl
filled with steaming liquid. He sat down without giving any answer,
seized the hot bowl, warmed his hands with it in his customary fashion,
and, as it was very cold, even pressed it against his breast to try to
make a little of the living heat of the boiling liquid enter into him,
into his old body stiffened by so many winters.
Then he took his sticks and went out into the fields, covered with ice,
till it was time for dinner, for he had seen Celeste's youngster still
asleep in a big soap-box.
He did not take his place in the household. He lived in the thatched
house, as in bygone days, but he seemed not to belong to it any longer,
to be no longer interested in anything, to look upon those people, his
son, the wife and the child as strangers whom he did not know, to whom
he never spoke.
The winter glided by. It was long and severe.
Then the early spring made the seeds sprout forth again, and the
peasants once more, like laborious ants, passed their days in the
fields, toiling from morning till night, under the wind and under the
rain, along the furrows of brown earth which brought forth the bread of
men.
The year promised well for the newly married pair. The crops grew thick
and strong. There were no late frosts, and the apples bursting into
bloom scattered on the grass their rosy white snow which promised a hail
of fruit for the autumn.
Cesaire toiled hard, rose early and left off work late, in order to save
the expense of a hired man.
His wife said to him sometimes:
“You'll make yourself ill in the long run.”
He replied:
“Certainly not. I'm a good judge.”
Nevertheless one evening he came home so fatigued that he had to get to
bed without supper. He rose up next morning at the usual hour, but he
could not eat, in spite of his fast on the previous night, and he had to
come back to the house in the middle of the afternoon in order to go to
bed again. In the course of the night he began to cough; he turned round
on his straw couch, feverish, with his forehead burning, his tongue dry
and his throat parched by a burning thirst.
However, at daybreak he went toward his grounds, but next morning the
doctor had to be sent for and pronounced him very ill with inflammation
of the lungs.
And he no longer left the dark recess in which he slept. He could be
heard coughing, gasping and tossing about in this hole. In order to see
him, to give his medicine and to apply cupping-glasses they had to-bring
a candle to the entrance. Then one could see his narrow head with his
long matted beard underneath a thick lacework of spiders' webs, which
hung and floated when stirred by the air. And the hands of the sick man
seemed dead under the dingy sheets.
Celeste watched him with restless activity, made him take physic,
applied blisters to him, went back and forth in the house, while old
Amable remained at the edge of his loft, watching at a distance the
gloomy cavern where his son lay dying. He did not come near him, through
hatred of the wife, sulking like an ill-tempered dog.
Six more days passed, then one morning, as Celeste, who now slept on the
ground on two loose bundles of straw, was going to see whether her man
was better, she no longer heard his rapid breathing from the interior of
his recess. Terror stricken, she asked:
“Well Cesaire, what sort of a night had you?”
He did not answer. She put out her hand to touch him, and the flesh on
his face felt cold as ice. She uttered a great cry, the long cry of a
woman overpowered with fright. He was dead.
At this cry the deaf old man appeared at the top of his ladder, and when
he saw Celeste rushing to call for help, he quickly descended, placed
his hand on his son's face, and suddenly realizing what had happened,
went to shut the door from the inside, to prevent the wife from
re-entering and resuming possession of the dwelling, since his son was
no longer living.
Then he sat down on a chair by the dead man's side.
Some of the neighbors arrived, called out and knocked. He did not hear
them. One of them broke the glass of the window and jumped into the
room. Others followed. The door was opened again and Celeste reappeared,
all in tears, with swollen face and bloodshot eyes. Then old Amable,
vanquished, without uttering a word, climbed back to his loft.
The funeral took place next morning. Then, after the ceremony, the
father-in-law and the daughter-in-law found themselves alone in the
farmhouse with the child.
It was the usual dinner hour. She lighted the fire, made some soup
and placed the plates on the table, while the old man sat on the chair
waiting without appearing to look at her. When the meal was ready she
bawled in his ear--
“Come, daddy, you must eat.” He rose up, took his seat at the end of the
table, emptied his soup bowl, masticated his bread and butter, drank his
two glasses of cider and then took himself off.
It was one of those warm days, one of those enjoyable days when life
ferments, pulsates, blooms all over the surface of the soil.
Old Amable pursued a little path across the fields. He looked at the
young wheat and the young oats, thinking that his son was now under the
earth, his poor boy! He walked along wearily, dragging his legs after
him in a limping fashion. And, as he was all alone in the plain, all
alone under the blue sky, in the midst of the growing crops, all alone
with the larks which he saw hovering above his head, without hearing
their light song, he began to weep as he proceeded on his way.
Then he sat down beside a pond and remained there till evening, gazing
at the little birds that came there to drink. Then, as the night was
falling, he returned to the house, supped without saying a word and
climbed up to his loft. And his life went on as in the past. Nothing was
changed, except that his son Cesaire slept in the cemetery.
What could he, an old man, do? He could work no longer; he was now good
for nothing except to swallow the soup prepared by his daughter-in-law.
And he ate it in silence, morning and evening, watching with an eye of
rage the little boy also taking soup, right opposite him, at the other
side of the table. Then he would go out, prowl about the fields after
the fashion of a vagabond, hiding behind the barns where he would sleep
for an hour or two as if he were afraid of being seen and then come back
at the approach of night.
But Celeste's mind began to be occupied by graver anxieties. The farm
needed a man to look after it and cultivate it. Somebody should be there
always to go through the fields, not a mere hired laborer, but a regular
farmer, a master who understood the business and would take an interest
in the farm. A lone woman could not manage the farming, watch the price
of corn and direct the sale and purchase of cattle. Then ideas came into
her head, simple practical ideas, which she had turned over in her head
at night. She could not marry again before the end of the year, and
it was necessary at once to take care of pressing interests, immediate
interests.
Only one man could help her out of her difficulties, Victor Lecoq, the
father of her child. He was strong and understood farming; with a little
money in his pocket he would make an excellent cultivator. She was aware
of his skill, having known him while he was working on her parents'
farm.
So one morning, seeing him passing along the road with a cart of manure,
she went out to meet him. When he perceived her, he drew up his horses
and she said to him as if she had met him the night before:
“Good-morrow, Victor--are you quite well, the same as ever?”
He replied:
“I'm quite well, the same as ever--and how are you?”
“Oh, I'd be all right, only that I'm alone in the house, which bothers
me on account of the farm.”
Then they remained chatting for a long time, leaning against the wheel
of the heavy cart. The man every now and then lifted up his cap to
scratch his forehead and began thinking, while she, with flushed
cheeks, went on talking warmly, told him about her views, her plans; her
projects for the future. At last he said in a low tone:
“Yes, it can be done.”
She opened her hand like a countryman clinching a bargain and asked:
“Is it agreed?”
He pressed her outstretched hand.
“'Tis agreed.”
“It's settled, then, for next Sunday?”
“It's settled for next Sunday”
“Well, good-morning, Victor.”
“Good-morning, Madame Houlbreque.”