Françoise, who was still holding her flail, dropped it in amazement. She ought to have expected this; but she had not imagined that Jean would venture to propose for her in such a fashion all at once. Why had he not spoken to her about it first? It flurried her; she could not have told whether she was trembling with hope or fear. Vibrating from her recent toil, her bosom heaving under her unfastened bodice, she remained there between the two men, glowing with such a rush of blood that they felt the heat radiate even to where they stood.
Buteau did not allow Fouan time to answer. He went on in growing fury:
"What? You dare ask that. An old man of thirty-three marry a child of eighteen. Merely fifteen years difference! Isn't it monstrous? Fancy giving young chickens to a fellow with a dirty hide like yours!"
Jean was beginning to lose his temper.
"What's it got to do with you," he replied, "if she likes me and I like her?"
And he turned towards Françoise for her to pronounce. But she stood there startled and rigid, without seeming to understand. She could not say no, but she did not say yes. Buteau, moreover, was glaring at her so murderously as to make the yes stick in her throat. If she married, he would lose her and the land as well. The sudden thought of this result put a finishing touch to his wrath.
"Come, papa; come, Delhomme. Doesn't it revolt you; this child to that old brute, who doesn't even belong to our part of the country, and who comes from God knows where, after traipsing about here, there, and everywhere? A carpenter who failed in his calling and turned peasant, because he had some disgraceful affair to keep secret, of course."
All his hatred of the town artisan burst forth.
"And what then? If I like her and she likes me!" repeated Jean, restraining himself, and resolving, out of courtesy, to let her be the first to relate their story. "Come, Françoise, say something."
"Why, that's true!" cried Lise, carried away by the desire to see her sister married, and thus get rid of her: "what have you to do with it, Buteau, if they agree? She doesn't need your consent, and it's very good of her not to send you about your business. You're getting a perfect nuisance!"
Buteau clearly realised that the matter would be arranged, if the girl were to speak. He especially dreaded that the marriage would be considered reasonable if the past connection were made public. Just then La Grande came into the yard, followed by Monsieur and Madame Charles, who were returning with Elodie. Buteau beckoned them to approach without yet knowing what he would say. Then an idea struck him, and with his face swollen and shaking his fist at his wife and sister-in-law, he yelled out:
"You cursed cows! Yes, cows, trolls, both of you! If you want to know the truth, I sleep with the pair of them! and that's why they think they can make a fool of me! With the pair of them, I tell you! Strumpets that they are!"
These words came in a volley full in the faces of Monsieur and Madame Charles, who both stood there open-mouthed. Madame Charles made a rush as if to shield the listening Elodie. Then, pushing her towards the kitchen garden, she cried in a very loud voice:
"Come and see the salads, come and see the cabbages! Oh, such fine cabbages!"
Buteau invented fresh details as he went on, relating that when one had had her share it was the other one's turn; using the coarsest terms, and venting a flood of sewerage in unutterably beastly words. Lise, in sheer astonishment at this sudden fit, simply shrugged her shoulders, repeating:
"He's mad! It isn't possible otherwise. He's mad!"
"Tell him he lies!" cried Jean to Françoise.
"Most certainly he lies!" said the girl, composedly.
"Oh, I lie?" resumed Buteau. "Oh! And it isn't true what happened between us at harvest-time? I'll pretty soon bring you under, the two of you, strumpets that you are!"
This rabid audacity paralysed and astounded Jean. Could he now explain what had happened between himself and Françoise? It seemed to him that it would be foul to do so, particularly as she did not give him any assistance. The others—the Delhommes, Fouan, and La Grande—remained reserved. They had not seemed surprised; and they evidently thought that, if the fellow did sleep with the two of them, he could dispose of them as he chose. When a man has his rights, he asserts them.
From that moment, Buteau felt himself victorious in the might of his undisputed possession. He turned towards Jean and cried:
"And you, just you come here again worrying me in my household. To begin with, you'll be off pretty sharp. Eh? you won't? Wait, wait a bit."
He picked up his flail, and whirled the flap round. Jean only just had time to catch up the other one—Françoise's—to defend himself with. There were shrieks, and some attempt to interpose; but the antagonists were so terrible, that everyone recoiled. With the long handles of the flails, blows could be dealt at several yards; so that the yard was soon left clear. Jean and Buteau remained alone in the middle, at a distance from one another, enlarging the circle of their twirls. They no longer spoke but kept their teeth clenched. No sound was heard but the sharp smack of the pieces of wood at each exchange of blows.
Buteau had launched the first one, and Jean, still stooping, would have had his head split open, had he not leapt backwards. By a quick contraction of his muscles, he at once raised his flail, and brought it down in the same style as a thresher crushing grain. But the other was also striking; and the two flaps met, and swung back upon their straps like wounded birds swooping wildly. Thrice there was the same shock. Each time the flaps whirled and whizzed through the air, and they all but fell and split the skulls they threatened. The contest could not be of long duration, for the first blow must be a mortal one.
Delhomme and Fouan, however, were rushing forward, when the women shrieked. Jean had rolled over in the straw, Buteau having treacherously aimed a whip-like blow, which swept along the ground, and, although fortunately deadened, reached his opponent's legs. Jean got up again without letting go of his flail, which he brandished with a fury increased tenfold by pain. The flap made a wide sweep and fell on the right, while the other was expecting it on the left. A fraction of an inch nearer and Buteau's brains would have been dashed out. As it was, his ear was grazed, and the blow coming down obliquely fell full on his arm, which was sharply broken atwain. The bone was heard to snap as if it had been breaking glass. Buteau's hand fell limply down, dropping the flail it was holding.
"The murderer!" yelled Buteau, "he's killed me!"
Jean, with a haggard face and blood-shot eyes, also dropped his weapon. He glanced round at them all for a moment, as if stupefied by the sudden turn that things had taken, and then limped away with a wild gesture of despair.
When he had turned the corner of the house, going towards the plain, he espied La Trouille, who had witnessed the fight over the garden hedge. She was still chuckling over it, having come there to prowl around the christening party, to which neither she nor her father had been invited. What fun it would all be for Hyacinthe—this little family fête and his brother's broken arm! She was wriggling as if she were being tickled, and nearly fell over backwards, so highly was she amused.
"Oh, Corporal, what a whack!" she cried. "The bone gave such a crack! It was fun!"
He made no answer, but slackened his pace with a dejected air. She followed him, whistling to her geese, which she had taken with her, so as to have a pretext for eavesdropping behind the walls. Jean returned mechanically to the threshing-machine, which was still in action, though the day was waning. He thought to himself that it was all over; that he could never go back to the Buteaus, that they would never give him Françoise. What folly it was! Ten minutes had sufficed: an unsought quarrel, and so unlucky a blow, just when everything was in such trim! And now, never, never more! The snorting of the machine amid the twilight was prolonged like a great cry of distress.
Another encounter just then occurred. At the corner of a cross road La Trouille's geese, which she was taking back home, found themselves face to face with old Saucisse's geese on their way down to the village, unaccompanied. The two ganders, in the van, pulled up short, resting on one leg, with their large yellow beaks turned towards each other. All the beaks of each flock turned simultaneously in the same direction as the leaders', and the geese's bodies were inclined to the same side. For an instant perfect immobility was preserved. It was like an armed reconnaissance; two patrols exchanging watch-words. Then one of the ganders, with round, contented eyes, went straight on, while the other bore to the left; and each troop filed off behind its own leader, going about its business with the same uniform waddling gait.
PART IV.
CHAPTER I.
After the shearing and the sale of the lambs in May, Soulas, the shepherd, had removed the sheep from La Borderie. Nearly four hundred head there were, which he led away without any other assistance than that of the little swine-herd Firmin, and his two formidable dogs, Emperor and Massacre. Until August the flocks grazed in the fallows amongst the clover and lucern, or in the waste-lands along the roads; and barely three weeks had now elapsed since he had turned them out into the stubble, immediately after the harvest, in the last blazing days of September.
This was the terrible season of the year. The fields of La Beauce lay stripped and desolate and bare, without a single fleck of green about them. The torrid summer, and the complete absence of all moisture, had dried up the splitting soil, and almost all signs of vegetation had disappeared. There was nothing left save a tangle of dead grass, and the hard bristles of the stubble-fields, which stretched out their mournful, bare nudity as far as the eye could reach, making all the plain look as though some giant conflagration had swept from horizon to horizon. The soil still seemed to be giving out a yellowish glow, a weird, threatening light, livid like that of a storm. Everything looked yellow, a frightfully mournful yellow; the baked earth, the stubble, and the high-roads and by-paths, rutted and torn up by passing wheels. The slightest breeze set clouds of dust flying, and covering the banks and hedges as with cinders. The blue sky and the blazing sun only seemed to render the scene of desolation still more mournful.
Upon that particular day there was a high wind, blowing in quick, warm puffs, which brought along heavy, scudding clouds; and when the sun shone fully out, his rays seemed to burn the skin like red-hot iron. Ever since early morning, Soulas had been expecting a supply of water for himself and his flock—water which was to be brought to him from the farm—for the stubble lands where he found himself lay to the north of Rognes, far away from any pond. In the grazing ground, between the light, movable hurdles secured with staves the sheep were lying on their bellies, panting and breathing only with difficulty; while the two dogs, stretched at full length outside the hurdles, were also panting, with their tongues lolling out of their mouths. The shepherd, to protect himself from the wind and to procure a little shade, was seated, leaning against a little hut raised on two wheels—a narrow box which served him for bed, and wardrobe, and pantry—and which he pushed along at every change of the grazing ground.
At noon, however, when the sun shone down perpendicularly, Soulas rose to his feet again, and scanned the distance to ascertain if he could see Firmin returning from the farm, where he had sent him to find out why the water did not come.
At last the little swine-herd made his appearance.
"They'll be here soon," he cried. "They had no horses this morning."
"You silly little fool, haven't you brought a bottle of water for us to drink ourselves?"
"Oh, dear, I never thought about it."
Soulas struck out a swinging blow with his closed fist, which the lad avoided by jumping aside. Then the shepherd began to swear, but he decided that he would eat without drinking, although he was almost choked with thirst. By his orders, Firmin warily took out of the hut some bread a week old, some shrivelled walnuts, and some dry cheese. Then they both sat down to eat, intently watched by the two dogs, who came and sat down in front of them, getting a crust tossed to them now and then, so hard that it cracked between their teeth as if it had been a bone. In spite of his seventy years, the old man got as quickly through his food with his gums as the youngster did with his teeth. Soulas was still straight and upright, flexible and tough like a thornwood stick. Time seemed merely to have scored furrows in his face, which was gnarled like a tree trunk beneath a tangle of faded hair, now the colour of earth.
The little swine-herd did not manage to escape his cuffing, for just as he was about to stow the remains of the bread and cheese inside the hut, and was no longer suspecting an attack, Soulas gave him a thumping whack which sent him rolling into the shelter-place.
"There, you silly little fool," cried the old man; "take and drink that, till the water comes!"
Two o'clock arrived without there being a sign of anybody coming. The heat had gone on increasing, and was well-nigh intolerable amid the complete calms which suddenly set in. Then, every now and again the breeze would rise and sweep up the powdery soil in little wheeling whirlwinds which seemed composed of blinding, suffocating smoke, and terribly enhanced the pangs of thirst.
At last the shepherd, who bore his sufferings with stoical, uncomplaining patience, gave a grunt of satisfaction.
"Thank heaven!" he exclaimed; "they've come none too soon."
Two carts, which in the distance looked scarcely bigger than a man's fist, had now at length made their appearance on the line where the plain intersected the horizon. In the first one, which was driven by Jean, Soulas had distinctly recognised the barrel of water. The second one, which Tron was in charge of, was loaded with sacks of corn, which were being taken to the mill, whose lofty wooden carcass could be seen some five hundred yards away. This second cart came to a standstill on the road, and Tron accompanied Jean through the stubble-fields up to the sheep-fold, under pretence of lending him a hand with the water, but really for the sake of idling and indulging in a few minutes' gossip.
"Do they want us all to die of thirst?" cried the shepherd.
The sheep, also having sniffed the water, had sprung up in eager tumult, and were now pressing against the hurdles, craning out their heads, and bleating plaintively.
"Patience! patience!" replied Jean; "there's something here to make you tipsy."
The men now quickly put the trough into position, and filled it by the aid of a wooden spout. Some of the water ran over, and the two dogs lapped it up eagerly, while the shepherd and the little swine-herd, too thirsty to wait any longer, drank greedily out of the trough. Then the whole flock swarmed up to it, and the air was filled with the flowing murmur of refreshing water, and the gurgling sound of animals and men swallowing it, and splashing and drenching themselves with it in delight.
"Now," said Soulas, who had become quite cheery again, "you would be doing me a kindness if you would help me to move the pens."
Jean and Tron both helped him. The hurdles were constantly moved over the surface of the far-spreading stubble, never being kept for more than two or three days in the same position, just sufficient time to enable the sheep to crop down the stray vegetation. This system, moreover, had the advantage of gradually manuring the land, patch by patch. While the shepherd, assisted by his dogs, looked after the sheep, the two men and the little swine-herd pulled up the stakes and carried the hurdles some fifty yards further on. Then they again fixed them so as to enclose a vast square, into which the animals rushed of their own accord before it was quite completed.
Despite his great age, Soulas was already propelling his wheeled hut towards the fold.
"What's the matter with Jean?" he presently asked. "One would say he was burying God Almighty!"
Jean only shook his head sadly. He had been very gloomy ever since he believed that he had lost Françoise.
"Ah! there's some woman in the matter, I expect," continued the old man. "The confounded hussies, they ought all to have their necks wrung!"
Thereupon the giant-limbed Tron began to laugh with an innocent air.
"Ah!" he said, "it's only those who are past everything that say that."
"Do you mean to say that I am past everything?" exclaimed the shepherd, contemptuously. "When did you find that out? But there's one wench, my lad, whom it's best for you not to touch, or you may be sure that matters will have a bad ending."
This allusion to Tron's connection with Madame Jacqueline made the farm-hand blush up to his ears. Soulas had caught them together one morning in the barn behind some sacks of oats; and in his detestation of the ex-scullerymaid, who was now so stern and harsh towards her old pals, he had, after much deliberation, determined to open his master's eyes as to her conduct. However, at his first word, the farmer had looked at him with so angry an expression that he had said no more, resolving to remain silent, unless La Cognette forced him to extreme measures by bringing about his dismissal. The consequence was that they were now living together in a state of hostility: Soulas dreading that he might be turned away like a broken-down old beast of burden, and Jacqueline biding her time till her influence became sufficiently consolidated to induce Hourdequin, who was attached to his shepherd, to dismiss him. Throughout La Beauce nobody understood the art of sheep-grazing better than Soulas did. His flocks were well-fed and there was neither loss nor waste, the fields being clean shaved from one end to the other, without a blade of grass being left behind.
The old man, possessed by the propensity for talking which often leads those who live solitary lives to take any opportunity of unbosoming themselves, now continued:
"Ah, if my jade of a wife, before she managed to kill herself, hadn't put all my brass down her throat as fast as I earned it, I'd have taken myself off the farm of my own accord before now, so as to get away from the sight of so much beastliness. That Cognette has made a lot more money by her face than with her hands, and it's her looks, not her deserts, that have gained her her present position! Just to think of the master letting her lie in his dead wife's bed, and being so infatuated with her that he has ended by taking his meals alone with her, just as though she were his lawful wife! She'll turn us all out of the place, neck and crop, at the first opportunity, and the master himself into the bargain. A filthy sow who has wallowed with every dirty hog!"
At every sentence spoken by the old man, Tron clenched his fists more tightly. He was brimming over with suppressed rage, which was rendered the more terrible by his giant-like strength.
"There that will do!" he cried; "you'd better just shut up. If you hadn't got into your dotage, I'd have knocked you down before now. There's more decency in her little finger than there is in the whole of your old carcass."
Soulas, however, only shrugged his shoulders jeeringly at the other's threat; and, though he scarcely ever laughed, he now broke out into a sharp grating giggle, which seemed to come from some mechanism rusted by disuse.
"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 side-long glance which he cast at Jean seemed to make the latter very uneasy. He had been fidgeting 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 half-way 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.
"Oh! it's Delphin. Come in, my lad."
Delphin ventured into the room, excusing himself as he made his greetings. He was wearing a blue blouse and heavy field-boots. He had no tie round his neck, and his face was brown from exposure to the hot sun.
"Well," continued Delhomme, who had a high opinion of the lad, "will you be setting off for Chartres one of these days?"
Delphin opened his eyes widely, and then energetically exclaimed:
"Oh! Curse it all! No, I should be suffocated in the place."
The father cast a side-long glance at his son, and then Delphin, coming to the rescue of his friend, continued:
"It's all very well for Nénesse to go there, as he looks so well when he's dressed up, and can play the cornet."
Delhomme smiled, for he was very proud of his son's skill with the cornet. Fanny now returned with a handful of two-franc pieces. She slowly counted out ten of them into Nénesse's palm. All the coins were quite white from having been kept beneath a heap of corn. She never trusted her money to her wardrobe, but hid it away in small sums in odd corners all over the house, underneath the corn, or the coals, or the sand; the consequence being that when she paid the coins away they were sometimes one colour, and sometimes another, white, black, or yellow.
"It will do, all the same," said Nénesse, by way of thanks. "Now, Delphin, are you coming?"
Then the two young fellows went off together, and their merry laughter could be heard dying away in the distance.
Jean now emptied his glass, seeing that old Fouan, who had kept aloof during the whole of the last scene, had left the window to go out into the yard. Then he said good-bye to the Delhommes, and went out in his turn, finding the old man standing alone in the black night.
"Now, Fouan," said Jean, "will you go to Buteau's and arrange about my having Françoise? You are the master, and you have only got to say the word."
"I cannot, I cannot," replied the old man in the darkness, with a jerky voice.
Then he broke out excitedly, and unbosomed himself of his brooding wrath. He had done with the Delhommes, he declared, and in the morning he would go to live with Buteau, who had offered to give him a home. Even if his son beat him, he would prefer that to being gradually tortured to death by his daughter's pin-thrusts.
This new obstacle exasperated Jean, and he spoke out bluntly:
"I must tell you, Monsieur Fouan, that Françoise and I have been together."
The old peasant uttered a simple exclamation: "Ah!" Then, after a moment's reflection, he added: "We had better wait. By-and-bye we'll see what can be done."
Fanny now appeared at the door, and called to her father to come in, as the soup was ready.
"Stick your soup behind!" shouted the old man, turning round to her. "I'm going to bed."
And, indeed, he went upstairs to bed, with an empty stomach, and boiling over with anger.
Jean walked slowly away from the farm, so absorbed in his vexation that he found himself in the level plain again without being conscious of the road he was taking. The blue-black sky gleamed with stars, and the night was close and hot. The immobility of the atmosphere told of the approach of a storm now passing afar, and the reflection of lightning could be seen towards the east. As Jean raised his head he caught sight on his left hand of hundreds of phosphorescent eyes gleaming like candles, and turning towards him at the sound of his steps. It was the sheep in the pen, alongside of which he was now passing. Then he heard Soulas ask in his drawling voice: "Well, my lad?"
The dogs, who were lying on the ground, had not stirred, for they had scented that Jean belonged to the farm. The little swine-herd, driven from the wheeled hut by the excessive heat, was sleeping in a furrow; the shepherd standing quite alone on the cropped plain, which was now enveloped in night.
"Well, my lad, have you settled it?"
"He says," replied Jean, without even stopping, "that if she's in the family-way he'll see."
He had already stridden past the pen, when old Soulas's response reached him, sounding solemnly in the deep silence.
"That's true. You must wait."
Jean continued on his way. La Beauce lay stretched around him, buried in a leaden sleep; and there was an overwhelming sense of the silent desolation of the scorched stubble and the baked, parched soil in the burnt smell that floated in the air, and in the chirrup of the crickets which sounded like the cracking of embers among ashes. Nothing but the dim forms of the ricks rose above the melancholy nakedness of the plain; but every twenty seconds or so, low on the horizon, the lightning flashed in violet streaks of mournful aspect, which swiftly disappeared.
CHAPTER II.
The next morning Fouan took up his abode with the Buteaus. The removal of his belongings did not give him any trouble, as they merely consisted of a couple of bundles of clothes, which he carried himself in two journeys. It was in vain that the Delhommes tried to bring about an explanation; he went off without replying to them.
At Buteau's house he was given the big room on the ground-floor—behind the kitchen—which had hitherto merely been used for the storage of potatoes and beet-root for the cows. This room, unfortunately, was only lighted by a small window, some six or seven feet from the ground, and it was always as dim as a cellar. Then, too, the floor of hardened soil, the heaps of vegetables, and the rubbish that had been tossed into the corners gave rise to a copious moisture, which trickled down the bare plaster of the walls. The Buteaus, besides, left everything just as it was, and merely cleared out a corner for an iron bed, a chair, and a deal table. The old man, however, seemed quite delighted.
Buteau now felt very triumphant. Ever since Fouan had been living with the Delhommes he had been mad with jealousy, for he knew very well what would be said in Rognes. It would be reported from mouth to mouth that it made no difference to the Delhommes having to keep their father; but the Buteaus, poor folks, had barely sufficient for themselves. So now, during the earlier time of Fouan's stay with him, he plied him with food in the hope of fattening him, and thus proving to the neighbourhood that there was no scarcity in his house. Then, too, there were the hundred and fifty francs a year, the proceeds of the sale of the house, which he felt sure the old man would leave to the one who looked after him and took care of him. Moreover, he reflected, now that Delhomme had no longer to support his father, he would doubtless begin to pay his share of the allowance again, two hundred francs a year, and in this expectation he was not disappointed. Buteau had reckoned upon getting these two hundred francs, he had calculated everything, and he flattered himself that he would get the credit of being a good and dutiful son without it costing him anything, besides having the prospect of reaping a substantial reward later on; to say nothing of the secret hoard which, so he still suspected, the old man must possess, though he had never been able to make certain on the point.
For Fouan the change was a perfect honeymoon. He was feasted and shown to the neighbours. Didn't he look plump and well? the Buteaus asked. There were no signs of wasting or decline about him, were there? The little ones, Laure and Jules, were always playing with him, keeping him amused and delighted. But what, perhaps, pleased him most was the liberty to indulge himself in his elderly whims and ways, and to comport himself as he liked in the greater freedom of this household. Though Lise was a good and cleanly house-wife, she lacked Fanny's precise tendencies and susceptibilities, and the old man was allowed to spit wherever he liked, to go out and come in as the fancy seized him, and to eat every minute if he chose, prompted by that spirit of the peasant who cannot pass a loaf without cutting a thick slice off it. Three months passed away in this pleasant fashion. It was now December; and although the severe frosts froze the water in the old man's jug at the foot of his bed, still he made no complaints. When it thawed, the moisture soaked through the walls of his room, and ran down them in dripping streams; but he seemed to take all this as a matter of course; he had been brought up in the midst of similar discomforts. So long as he had his tobacco and coffee, and was not badgered and worried, he declared he needed nothing more.
Matters began to cloud over, however. One fine, sunny morning, Fouan, on going back to his bedroom to get his pipe—the others imagined that he had already left the house—found Buteau there struggling to get the better of Françoise. The girl, who was strenuously resisting him, without, however, saying a word, pulled herself together and left the room, after taking the beet-root which she had come to get for the cows. The old man, on being left face to face with his son, became angry.
"You filthy swine, to be going after that girl, with your wife only a yard or two away!" he cried. "And it wasn't she who wanted you either; I could see her wrestling with you!"
Buteau, however, who was still panting and flushed, received the old man's remonstrances very badly.
"Why do you come poking your nose into everything?" he retorted. "You'd better shut your eyes and hold your jaw, or you'll find it the worse for you."
Since Lise's confinement, and the fight with Jean, Buteau had been hotly pursuing Françoise again. He had waited till his arm was strong, and now all over the house he systematically made onslaughts on the girl, feeling sure that if he could but once overcome her she would belong to him in future as much as he wished. Was not this the best way of preventing the marriage, and of keeping both the girl and her land? His passion for the two became intermingled, as it were; his resolute determination to retain the land, and not to part with what was in his possession, being blended with his unsated sexual lust, now exasperated by resistance. His wife was becoming enormously stout, a perfect heap of flesh, and she was still suckling, with Laure constantly hanging at her breasts; whereas the other one, the little sister-in-law, exhaled a most appetising odour; her bosom, moreover, being firm and elastic like the udder of a young heifer. He didn't turn up his nose at either of them, by the way; in fact, he wanted to have them both, the one soft and flabby, and the other firmly built; both of them were attractive in their different styles. He considered himself quite a good enough cock to have two hens, and he dreamt of leading a pasha-like life, petted, caressed, and glutted with enjoyment. Why shouldn't he marry both sisters, if he could get them to consent to his doing so? It seemed to him to be the best way of keeping things pleasant, and of avoiding a division of the property, which he dreaded as much as though he were threatened with having one of his limbs wrenched off.
Now, whenever he and Françoise found themselves alone for a moment, whether in the stable or the kitchen or anywhere else, it mattered not where, there was a sudden attack and defence; Buteau rushing upon the girl, and the girl striking him. It was always the same short, sharp struggle; the man seizing Françoise firmly round the waist, and the girl, with clenched teeth and savage eyes, forcing him to let go his hold by striking him with full force with her clenched fist. Not a word was spoken by either; there was no sound but that of their hot breath, a sort of stifled panting, the deadened stir of a struggle. Then Buteau would with difficulty restrain a cry of pain, while the girl straightened her clothes and limped away, feeling bruised and sore. These scenes took place when Lise was in the next room, and sometimes even when she was in the same room, with her back turned to them while she arranged some linen in the wardrobe. It was as though the wife's presence excited the husband; he being at the same time certain of the girl's proud and resolute silence.
Quarrels, however, had broken out since old Fouan had seen them among the potatoes. He had bluntly told Lise everything that he had seen, so that she might prevent her husband from making any further attempt upon his sister-in-law. Then Lise, after shouting to her father to mind his own business, angrily attacked her younger sister. She had only herself to blame, she cried, for enticing the men on, and what had happened to her was only what was to be expected; all the men were swine. In the evening, however, Lise made such a scene with Buteau that she came out of her room the next morning with her eye bunged up and blackened by a heavy blow which he had dealt her with his fist during the discussion. After that there was constant quarrelling going on. There were always two of the inmates of the house trying to bite each other's heads off, the husband and wife, or the husband and his sister-in-law, or else the two sisters, even if they were not all three engaged in devouring one another.
Then it was that the slowly and unconsciously-developed hatred between Lise and Françoise became truly bitter. Their whilom tender affection for each other gave place to a savage feeling, which kept them irritated with one another from morning till night. The real and only cause of it all was this man, Buteau, who was like some poisonous leaven. Françoise, quite upset by his perpetual onslaughts, would have succumbed long previously if her will had not shielded her against desire each time he touched her. Her obstinate notions of abstract justice, her resolute determination neither to give up what was her own nor to take what was another's, brought her no little trouble. She was angry with herself for feeling jealous and execrating her sister for possessing this man, rather than have shared whom she herself would have died. When he pursued her, she angrily retaliated by spitting upon him, and sent him back, befouled with her saliva, to his wife. To do this seemed in some way to soothe her struggling desires: it was as though she had spat in her sister's face in her envious contempt, for the pleasure in which she had no share. Lise, on the other hand, was free from jealousy, feeling quite certain that Buteau had merely bragged in asserting that he enjoyed both of them—not that she believed him incapable of such a thing, but she was convinced that her sister was too proud to yield. The only grudge she felt against Françoise was that, owing to her persistent rejection of Buteau's advances, the whole house was becoming a hell upon earth. The fatter she grew, the more complacent she seemed to become, taking a lively delight in existence, and egotistically craving for pleasant, easy surroundings. It seemed to her the height of folly that her husband and sister should go on quarrelling like that, marring the sweetness of life, when they really had everything that was necessary for their happiness. The girl's perverse disposition was the sole cause of all the trouble.
Every night when she went to bed she exclaimed to Buteau:
"It's all my sister! But if she causes me any more annoyance, I'll have her turned out of the house!"
This course, however, would by no means have suited Buteau.
"A fine notion, indeed! Why, we should have all the country-side crying shame on us! What a plague you women are! I shall have to duck you both in the pond till you can live together in harmony."
Two months more passed away, and Lise, who was so upset, might have sugared her coffee twice, as she said, without finding it to her palate. She divined whenever her sister had repelled some fresh onslaught of her husband's, for she then had a further experience of his angry ill-temper, and she now lived in constant dread of these repeated repulses, feeling anxious whenever she caught sight of him creeping up slily behind Françoise's skirts, and making sure that when he came back again he would be in a violent temper, breaking everything that came in his way, and making the whole house wretched. These were hateful days to her, and she could not forgive the obstinate wench for not restoring tranquillity.
One day matters reached a terrible pitch. Buteau, who had gone down into the cellar with Françoise to draw some cider, came up again so harshly repulsed, and in a state of such raging anger, that for the merest trifle, just because his soup was too hot, he hurled his plate against the wall, and then rushed out of the room, after knocking Lise down with a blow that would almost have killed an ox.
Crying and bleeding, she struggled on to her feet again, with her cheek sadly swollen, and at once fell foul of her sister.
"You dirty drab!" she cried, "go to bed with him, and have done with it! I'm sick to death of it all; and if you persist in being obstinate, simply to make him beat me, I'll run away!"
Françoise listened to her, quite pale and horrified.
"As true as God hears me, I'd rather do that," continued Lise. "Perhaps he'd leave us in peace then!"
She fell down on a chair, and began to sob spasmodically. Her fat body, which had now begun to shrink, bespoke her recklessness, her one desire for quiet happiness, even at the cost of sharing her husband with another. She would still keep a share of him herself, and would have all that was necessary. People, she thought, had foolish ideas on these matters. A husband was not like a loaf, that was consumed at each bit one ate. Ought they not to agree amongst themselves, and live together in a friendly fashion?
"Come, now, why won't you?" she asked.
Choked with disgust, Françoise could only cry, angrily:
"You are more disgusting than he is!"
Then she, too, went away to sob in the cow-house, where La Coliche gazed at her with her big, sad eyes. What roused her indignation was not so much the thing itself as the complaisant part she herself was to play—to surrender herself just for the sake of securing peace and quietness in the house. If Buteau had been her own husband, she thought she would never have consented to give up the least bit of him. Her bitter feeling against her sister turned into one of scorn and contempt, and she vowed to herself that she would be flayed alive rather than give way.
Her life now became still more embittered than before. She became the general drudge of the house, the beast of burden that came in for everybody's kicks and buffetings. She was reduced to the level of a hired servant overburdened with work, and continually rated, and thumped, and ill-treated. Lise would not permit her a single hour's leisure; but made her rise before daylight, and kept her up so late at night that the poor girl often fell asleep without having enough strength left her to undress herself. Buteau took a malicious pleasure in torturing her by his familiarities, slapping her on the loins, pinching her thighs, and falling upon her with all sorts of savage caresses, which left her bleeding, and with her eyes full of tears, but as obstinately silent as ever. Buteau himself laughed, and derived some little satisfaction whenever he saw the girl growing faint, and with difficulty refraining from crying out from sheer pain. Her body was sadly discoloured and disfigured with bruises and scratches. In her sister's presence she especially forced herself to repress every sign of suffering, and to comport herself as though a man's hands were not actually fingering her flesh. Sometimes, however, she could not altogether control herself, but replied to Buteau's attacks by a swinging blow. Then there would be a general engagement. Buteau would belabour Françoise; while Lise, under the pretence of separating them, would assail them both with vigorous kicks from her heavy boots. Little Laure and her big brother Jules yelled at the top of their voices, and all the dogs about the premises began to bark, arousing the pity of the neighbours for Françoise. "Ah, poor girl!" they used to say; "she must have rare pluck to remain in such a place!"
Her remaining with the Buteaus was, indeed, the standing wonder of all Rognes. Why didn't she run away? the neighbours asked of each other. The knowing ones shook their heads; the girl was not of age, she still had another eighteen months to wait. To run away would be to her own disadvantage, for she could not take her property with her, and she showed her sense by remaining. Ah! if Fouan, her guardian, had only supported her cause? But he himself hadn't too easy a life with his son-in-law; he had his own peace and quietness to look after, and, for the sake of his own comforts, was obliged to stand aloof. The girl, moreover, with her independence and self-reliance, had forbidden him to interfere in her affairs.
Every outbreak now ended in the same way.
"Off you go at once! Clear out with you!"
"Oh, yes, that's just what you'd like! Once I was foolish, and wanted to go away; whereas now you may kill me if you choose, but you won't get me to go. I shall stop here, and wait for what belongs to me. I want the land and the house, and I mean to have them, too; every inch and every stone!"
For the first few months Buteau's great fear had been that Françoise might prove to be with child. He had counted the days since he had caught her and Jean together among the corn, and he kept casting anxious, side-long glances at the girl, for the arrival of a baby would have spoilt everything by necessitating his sister-in-law's marriage. The girl herself was quite easy about the matter; but when she noticed the manifest interest that Buteau showed in her figure, she took a pleasure in puffing herself out, in order to deceive him. And whenever he seized hold of her, she always imagined that he was measuring her with his big fingers, the consequence of which was that she ended by saying to him, with a defiant air:
"Ah, there's one coming, and growing fast enough!"
One day she even folded up some towels and wrapped them round her. But in the evening there was almost a massacre. A feeling of terror now seized her at the murderous glances which her brother-in-law cast at her; she felt quite sure that if she had really been with child the brutal fellow would have struck her some foul blow in the hope of killing her. So she discontinued her acting.
"Go and get yourself a baby!" said Buteau one day to her, with a leer.
"If I haven't got one, it's because I don't choose," she replied, angrily, turning pale.
This was quite true. She obstinately rejected Jean's advances. Buteau, however, was none the less noisily triumphant, and he now began to abuse the girl's lover. A fine sort of a man he must be! he cried. Why, he must be rotten! He might be able to break people's arms by cowardly tricks, but he hadn't backbone enough about him to put a girl in the family-way! After that he began to overwhelm Françoise with sarcastic allusions to Jean, and indulged in filthy jokes about her own person.
When Jean heard of Buteau's remarks about himself he threatened to go and break his jaw. He was constantly haunting Françoise, and beseeching her to yield again. He'd soon let them see, he said, if he couldn't get a child, and a big one, too! His lustful desire was now heightened by anger. But the girl was always ready with some fresh reason for putting him off. She had no great dislike for him, it is true, she simply had no desire for him, that was all; and, indeed, she must have been completely free from all desire whatever not to have given way and surrendered herself when she fell into his arms behind a hedge, still flushed and angered by one of Buteau's onslaughts. Oh, the filthy swine! She always spoke of him as a filthy swine, boiling over with passion and excitement; but growing suddenly cold and calm again when Jean tried to profit by the opportunity. "No, no!" she cried. She felt ashamed at the thought of it. One day, when he pressed her very closely, she told him that he must wait a little longer, till the evening of their wedding-day. This was the first time that she had said anything that could be interpreted into an engagement, for she had hitherto always avoided giving Jean a definite answer when he asked her to be his wife. After that it was taken for granted that he should marry her, but not until she was of age, and became entitled to her property, in a position to demand the rendering of accounts. This, Jean now felt, was the most prudent course: he advised the girl to be as patient as she could in the meantime, and he ceased to worry her with his importunities, except at times when the idea of a spree was strong within him. Françoise, feeling easy and tranquil at the thought of a promise which was not to be redeemed for a long time, contented herself by grasping his hands so as to make him desist, and gazing at him with her pretty, beseeching eyes, the look of which seemed to say that she did not wish to risk having a child unless its father was her husband.
Though Buteau had now satisfied himself that she was not in the family-way, he was seized with a fresh fear that she might become so if she saw anything more of Jean. He was still greatly bothered about the latter, for folks told him on all sides that Jean had vowed he would get Françoise with child. So Buteau now exercised unremitting surveillance over his sister-in-law from morning till night, forcing her to work every single minute of the day, keeping her near-by under threat of a hiding, just as though she had been some beast of burden which could not be trusted to itself for a moment. This was a great torture for the girl. Either her brother-in-law or her sister was continually behind her, and she could not so much as go to the yard without being followed by a spying eye. At night they locked her up in her bedroom; one evening, after a quarrel, she even found the shutter of her little window secured by a padlock. In spite of all their strict surveillance, however, she managed now and then to make her escape, and upon her return there were very violent scenes, the girl having to submit to the most disgusting questions, and sometimes even to examinations of her person, Buteau seizing hold of her by the shoulders while his wife partially undressed her and scrutinized her. All this brought her upon easier terms with Jean, and she made several appointments with him, taking a pleasure in thwarting her tormentors. She might even have yielded to her lover, if she had known that Buteau and Lise were hiding behind them watching. At all events, she again repeated her promise, that come what might, she would certainly be his in time; and she swore to him in the most solemn way that Buteau had lied when he boasted that he slept with both the sisters. He had said that, she continued, from mere braggartism, and in the hope of bringing about a state of affairs which did not exist. Jean, who had previously been much tormented on this score, was quite satisfied with Françoise's explanation, and felt much easier in mind. As they parted they kissed each other affectionately; and from this time forward the girl took the young man for her confidant and adviser, trying to see him as often as possible, and doing nothing without his sanction and approbation; while he, on his side, now made no further attempts upon her, but treated her like a comrade whose interests were identical with his own.
Every time now that she ran to meet him behind a wall, the conversation was of a similar kind. The girl excitedly tore open her bodice or pulled up her sleeves.
"See!" she exclaimed; "just look where that swine has been pinching me again!"
Then Jean would look at her flesh, remaining quite calm and unimpassioned.
"He shall be made to pay for it! You must show it to the women about here. But don't try to do anything to avenge yourself just at present. By-and-bye we will have justice, when we have got the power on our side."
"And that sister of mine," continued Françoise, "stands by and watches him. Only yesterday, when he sprang upon me, instead of throwing a pail of cold water over him, she never stirred."
"Your sister will have a bad time of it yet with this scoundrel. You needn't be afraid. He can't force you, so long as you refuse to let him have you, and you can get over all the rest. If we keep united, we shall beat him."
Although old Fouan did his best to steer clear of the quarrels, he was always made to suffer from them. If he remained in the house and tried to keep silent he was straightway forced into the row; and if he went out he found himself upon his return in the midst of a scene of confusion, his mere appearance often sufficing to rekindle the flame again. So far, he had never had any real physical suffering, but there now commenced a season of privations, of scantily-doled food, and a suppression of all his little indulgences. The old man was no longer stuffed with grub, as had been the case at first; every time that he cut too thick a slice of bread he was assailed with abuse. What a bottomless pit his belly was! they cried. The less he did, the more he stuffed and swilled! Every quarter, when he went to Cloyes to receive from Monsieur Baillehache the interest on the money realised by the sale of his house, he was strictly watched, and his pockets were emptied on his return. Françoise was reduced to pilfering her sister's coppers to buy him a little tobacco, for she herself was kept equally destitute of pocket-money. The old man also felt very uncomfortable in the damp room where he slept, now that he had broken one of the panes in the window, the aperture having merely been stuffed with straw to save the expense of a new piece of glass. Oh, those beastly children! he moaned; they were all equally barbarous! He growled and grumbled from morning till night, and bitterly regretted having left the Delhommes, sick at heart at now finding himself so much worse off than before. However, he concealed his feelings as far as possible, and it was only his involuntary exclamations that testified to their existence, for he knew that Fanny had asserted that he would return and ask her on his knees to take him back again. That remark made it impossible for him to return; it would sear his heart for ever, like a bar of iron that he could never remove. He would rather die of hunger and indignation with the Buteaus, so he told himself, than return and humble himself before the Delhommes.
One day as Fouan was returning from Cloyes, where he had been to receive his dividends from the notary, he sat down to rest on the slope of a dry ditch. Hyacinthe, who happened to be prowling about the neighbourhood examining the rabbit holes, observed the old man deeply absorbed in counting a number of five-franc pieces in his handkerchief. He immediately stooped down and crawled along in silence till he got close up to his father. As he lay there, concealed from sight, he was much surprised to see Fouan carefully knotting up a considerable sum of money, as much, probably, as eighty francs. Hyacinthe's eyes glistened at the sight, and his wolfish teeth were bared in a quiet smile. The idea of a secret hoard at once returned to his mind. The old man evidently had some secret investments, the dividends of which he received every quarter, taking advantage of his visits to Monsieur Baillehache to do so without any one being the wiser.
Hyacinthe's first impulse was to put on a piteous air and beg for twenty francs. On second thoughts, however, this seemed too paltry a scheme, and, thinking of a better plan, he glided away as noiselessly as he had come, with all the sinuous suppleness of a snake. Thus Fouan, who had now set off again, did not feel the least suspicion when, a hundred yards further on, he met his son, who seemed merely to be on his way back to Rognes. They walked on together and talked. The father fell foul of the Buteaus, who were destitute of all human feeling, and whom he accused of starving him to death. Then the son, with a filial, sympathetic air, his eyes damp with emotion, offered to rescue his father from these wretches by taking him to live in his own house. Why shouldn't he come? he asked. There was no worrying or hardship there; they led a merry life from morning till night. La Trouille cooked for two now, and she could just as easily cook for three. And fine cookery hers was whenever there was any money.
Astonished by his son's offer, and overcome with a feeling of vague uneasiness, Fouan shook his head in token of refusal. No, no, indeed. At his age a man could not flit about in that sort of way from one house to another, changing his mode of life every year.
"Very well, father; but think the matter over. I am quite sincere in my offer. My place will always be open to you. When you have had enough of those filthy scamps, come and live with me."
Hyacinthe then went off, perplexed and wondering, asking himself how his father spent his income, for he unquestionably had one. A heap of money like that coming in four times a year must amount to a nice sum—at least three hundred francs. If he did not spend the cash he must be hoarding it up somewhere. It was clearly a matter to be investigated. It must be a really magnificent hoard by this time!
That day—a mild, damp October day it was—when Fouan returned home, Buteau claimed the thirty-seven francs and a-half which the old man had received, as was usual, every quarter since the sale of his house. It had been agreed that Buteau should receive this money, as well as the two hundred francs paid yearly by the Delhommes, on account of the old man's board and lodging. That day, however, a couple of five-franc pieces had got mixed up with those which the old man had secured in his handkerchief; and when, after turning out his pockets, he only produced twenty-seven francs and a-half, his son burst into a violent fit of rage, treating him as though he were a thief, and accusing him of having frittered away the missing ten francs in drink and disgraceful dissipation. The old father, in a state of great consternation, and keeping his hand upon his handkerchief, full of alarm lest it should be examined, stammered out excuses, and swore that he must have lost the money in pulling out his handkerchief to blow his nose. Again the house was topsy-turvy until night.
What had put Buteau into such a savage temper was, that while bringing his harrow back he had seen Jean and Françoise hurrying away behind a wall. The girl, who had gone out on the pretence of getting some grass for her cows, had not yet returned, for she knew what kind of reception awaited her. The night was already falling, and Buteau, in a furious rage, went out every minute into the yard, and even on to the road, to see if the hussy were coming back. He swore at the top of his voice, and poured out a torrent of filthy language, without observing old Fouan, who was sitting on the stone bench, calming himself after the row, and enjoying the warm softness of the air, which made that sunny October like a spring month.