Complete Works of Emile Zola (964 page)

“You great simpleton, you! You’re as foolish and gullible as she’s cunning! Oh, yes, she’ll swear hard enough to her virginity! Why, I tell you that all the country-side has had to deal with her! She was scarcely fourteen when she and old Mathias, a hunch-back who’s dead now, came together in the stable; then later on, as she was kneading the dough, she had to do with that little scamp Guillaume, the swine-herd, who’s in the army now, and who found her alone in the kitchen; and she’s been with every farm-labourer that’s ever come into the neighbourhood, in every sort of place imaginable, in every hole and corner, as is very well known all over the place. Oh! you haven’t far to seek, if you want to tax her with it, I myself saw a fellow belonging to these parts with her in the hay-loft one morning not long ago.”

He broke out into a fresh giggle, and the sidelong glance which he cast at Jean seemed to make the latter very uneasy. He had been fidgetting about in silence ever since the con­versation had turned upon Jacqueline.

“It’ll be bad for any one whom I find touching her now,” growled Tron, as angry as a dog who has had its bone snatched from it. “I’ll spoil his appetite for him!”

Soulas gazed at the fellow for a moment, surprised by this show of brutish jealousy.

“Well, that’s your own affair, my lad,” he drily said in conclusion, and then he relapsed into one of his fits of con­templative silence.

Tron finally returned to the cart which he was driving to the mill, while Jean remained for a few minutes longer with the shepherd to help him to hammer down some of the hurdle stakes. The old man, noticing his silence and gloomy appear­ance, began to question him.

“I trust it isn’t La Cognette that’s upsetting your heart?” he said.

The young fellow shook his head energetically in sign of denial.

“Is it some other wench, then? Who is it, for I don’t remember having seen you with any one?”

Jean glanced at old Soulas, and bethought himself that the counsel of old men was often valuable in matters of this sort. He also felt a longing to unbosom himself, and so he told him the whole story, how he had possessed Françoise, and how he was hopeless of ever seeing her again since the fight with Buteau. He had even been afraid for a time, he said, that the latter would prosecute him on account of his broken arm, which still prevented his doing any work, though it was now half­way well again. Buteau, however, had probably thought it more prudent to keep the law from spying into his concerns.

“You have had to do with Françoise, then?” said the old shepherd.

“Yes, once.”

The old man reflected with a grave look, and finally con­tinued:

“You had better tell old Fouan all about it; perhaps he will give her to you.”

Jean heard this with astonishment. He had never thought of such a simple plan. The fold was now complete, and he went away, saying that he would go and see old Fouan that very evening. As he plodded along behind his empty cart, Soulas resumed his everlasting watch, his thin, erect figure standing out like a greyish bar against the flat expanse of the plain. The little swine-herd was lying down between the two dogs in the shadow of the movable hut. The wind had suddenly dropped, and the storm clouds had rolled away towards the east. It was as hot as ever, and the sun was blazing in a sky of unflecked blue.

That evening Jean left his work an hour earlier than usual, and went to the Delhommes’ to see old Fouan before dinner. As he was going down the hill-side, he caught sight of the Delhommes amongst their vines, where they were stripping off the leaves, so as to expose the fruit to the sun. There had been some heavy rains during the closing quarter of the moon, and the grapes were ripening badly, so that it was necessary to take every advantage of the late sunshine. As the old man was not there with his children, Jean quickened his steps, in the hope of being able to speak to him alone — a course which he much preferred. The Delhommes’ house was at the other end of Rognes, across the bridge; it was a little farm, which had recently received various additions in the shape of barns and out-houses, and the buildings now formed three irregular blocks, enclosing a fairly large yard. The latter was swept every morning, and even the dunghills were kept in a state of the greatest neatness.

“Good day, Father Fouan!” Jean shouted to the old man from the road, in a somewhat tremulous voice.

Fouan was sitting in the yard with his stick between his legs. His head was bent down, and he was so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not hear Jean’s greeting. A second shout, however, made him raise his eyes, and presently he recognised who was addressing him.

“Ah, is it you, Corporal?” said he. “Are you coming to see us?”

His greeting was so pleasant and so destitute of spite that the young man went into the yard. He did not, however, dare to speak immediately on the subject which had brought him there. His courage failed him at the thought of openly confessing his intercourse with Françoise. They talked to­gether of the fine weather, and the good it would do the grapes. If they only had another week of sunshine the wine would be excellent.

“What a happy man you must be!” said Jean, wishing to make himself agreeable. “There isn’t such another fortunate fellow in the whole country side.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“And such children, too, as you’ve got! You’d have a long way to go before you found better!”

“Yes, yes, indeed; but every one has his troubles, you know.”

The old man seemed to have grown gloomy. Since he had taken up his abode with the Delhommes, Buteau had no longer paid him his share of the allowance, saying that he did not want his sister to profit by his money. Hyacinthe had never given him a copper from the outset, and Delhomme, now that he boarded and lodged with him, had discontinued all payments. It was not, however, the want of pocket-money that troubled the old man, for he received from Monsieur Baillehache a hundred and fifty francs a year, just twelve francs and a-half per month, the interest on the sum realised by the sale of his house. With this he was quite able to pay for all his little luxuries, his daily allowance of tobacco, his drop of brandy at Lengaigne’s, and his cup of coffee at the Macquerons’. Fanny, who was a very careful house-wife, never took any coffee or brandy out of her cupboard unless some one were ill. How­ever, despite the fact that he had the means of taking his pleasure away from home, and wanted for nothing in his daughter’s house, the old man felt aggrieved and seemed to live in a constant state of discontent.

“Ah, yes, indeed,” said Jean, unwittingly putting his finger on Fouan’s sore place, “when one lives with other folks, it isn’t quite the same as being in one’s own house.”

“You’re quite right there. Quite right!” replied the old man in a grumpy voice.

Then he rose from his seat, as though he felt a yearning impulse to assert his independence.

“Let us go and have a glass together,” he said. “I dare say that I may offer that much to a friend!”

As he was entering the house, however, his courage began to ebb.

“Wipe your feet, Corporal,” he said, “for they prate so much, you know, about their cleanliness and tidiness.”

Jean went inside with an awkward gait, intending to make a clean breast of what he had to say before the others came back. He was surprised by the trim order of the kitchen. The pans were gleaming brightly, and there was not a speck of dust on the furniture, while the flooring was quite worn with the amount of scrubbing it had received. Some cabbage-soup of the day before stood warming by the side of a cinder-piled fire.

“Here’s your good health!” said the old man, who had taken a couple of glasses and a partially emptied bottle from the side-board.

His hand trembled slightly as he drained his glass, as if he felt an uneasy alarm about what he was doing. As he put the glass down with the air of a man who has risked everything, he abruptly exclaimed:

“Would you believe, now, that Fanny has never once spoken to me since the day before yesterday, just because I spat? Spat, indeed, just as though every one didn’t spit! I spit, of course, when I feel so inclined! One had better have done with it altogether than be worried in this way!”

Then filling his glass a second time, and delighted at having found some one to whom he could pour out his com­plaints, he eased his mind, never giving Jean an opportunity to get in a word. His troubles, however, did not appear to be very grievous ones, and were born chiefly of the angry indig­nation of an old man, to whose feelings and faults but little toleration was accorded, and upon whom his children were trying to force a mode of life different from what he had been accustomed to. However, he was as much affected by his grievances, slight though they were, as he could have been by actual cruelty and harsh treatment. A remark repeated in too loud a tone was as hard for him to bear as a blow would have been; and his daughter made matters still worse by her ex­cessive touchiness, which seemed to find an offence and in­sulting intention in every little sentence which she could twist into an equivocal meaning. The result of all this was that the relations between father and daughter were becoming more and more strained and embittered every day. She who for­merly, prior to the division of the property, had certainly been the kindlier hearted of the children, was now degenerating into a cross-grained shrew, subjecting the old man to perfect persecution, constantly following him about with her broom and duster, and finding fault with him both for what he did and for what he omitted to do. Without being subjected to actual cruelty, Fouan was kept in moral torture, over which he silently moaned in any quiet corner he could find.

“You must try to take it easily,” repeated Jean, at each of the old man’s complaints. “An understanding can always be arrived at with a little patience.”

Fouan, however, who had just lighted a candle, now became angrily excited.

“No, no, I’ve had quite enough of it!” he cried. “Ah, if I’d only known what was in store for me here! It would have been better for me if I had died when I sold my house! But they are very much mistaken if they think they’re going to keep me here! I’d rather go and break stones on the road.”

He was almost choking with emotion, and he was obliged to sit down. Jean profited by the opportunity to speak out:

“I say, I wanted to see you,” he began, “about what took place the other day. I have regretted it very much, but I was obliged to defend myself — wasn’t I? — since an attack was made upon me. All the same, it was agreed between me and Françoise. But at present you are the only person who can put things straight. If you would go to Buteau’s, you could explain matters to them.”

The old man became very grave. He wagged his chin, and seemed embarrassed as to what he should say; however, the return of Fanny and her husband spared him the necessity of replying. The Delhommes showed no surprise at find­ing Jean in their house; they gave him their customary cordial welcome. Fanny, however, had immediately caught sight of the bottle and the two glasses on the table. She removed them, and went to get a duster. Then she spoke to her father for the first time for forty-eight hours. “Father,” she said, “you know that I won’t have that kind of thing.”

Fouan rose up, trembling with indignation at this public rebuke.

“At me again! Am I not even at liberty to offer a glass of wine to a friend? Go and lock your precious wine up! I’ll drink water for the future!”

Fanny was now dreadfully put out by being thus charged with avarice.

“You can drink the house dry and burst yourself, if it gives you any pleasure to do so,” she exclaimed, quite pale with anger; “but I won’t have my table marked with your sticky glasses, just as though the place were a tavern.”

The tears sprang to the old man’s eyes.

“A little less anxiety about appearances, and a little more affection, would become you better, my daughter,” he said.

Then, while Fanny was vigorously wiping the table, he went and stood in front of the window, and painfully overcome by his bitter thoughts, looked out into the dark night, which had now fallen.

Delhomme had avoided openly taking any part in the incident, but he had, by his silence, supported his wife’s firm attitude. He would not allow Jean to go away before he had finished the bottle of wine with him, pouring the remaining contents into some glasses which Fanny brought to them on plates. She now began, in low tones, to defend her conduct.

“You’ve no idea of the trouble that old folks are. They’re full of all sorts of whims and bad habits, and would rather die than be corrected. There’s nothing really bad about my father; he’s not strong enough for anything of that kind now; but I’d rather have to look after four cows than one old man.”

Jean and Delhomme nodded their heads in acquiescence. However, Fanny’s further remarks were interrupted by the sudden entrance of Nénesse, dressed in town-fashion in a fancy-patterned coat and trousers, bought ready-made at Lambourdieu’s, and with a little hard-felt hat on his head. His long hairless neck, his blue eyes, and his pretty soft face, gave him a rather girlish look, as he stood there swaying from side to side. He had always had a horror of the soil, and he was leaving the next morning for Chartres, where he was going to take service in a restaurant where public balls were given. His parents had for a long time offered a strenuous opposition to his desertion of agriculture, but at last the mother on being coaxed had persuaded the father to consent. Since the morning Nénesse had been larking with his friends in the village, by way of bidding them good-bye.

He seemed surprised for a moment at finding a stranger in the room; but throwing off his hesitation, he exclaimed:

“I say, mother, I’m going to stand them a dinner at Macqueron’s. I shall want some money.’’

Fanny looked at him keenly, and opened her lips to refuse his request. But she was so vain that Jean’s presence checked her words. Their son might surely spend a score of francs without ruining them! And thereupon she left the room, stiffly and silently.

“Have you got any one with you?” Nénesse’s father asked.

He had caught sight of a shadow by the door; and on taking a step forward, he recognised the young man who had remained outside.