by Emile Zola
‘You see, Monsieur Baillehache, one's got to face facts, my legs aren't much good now and my arms aren't much better and blast it, it's the land that suffers… It might have been all right if we could have come to an arrangement with our children.’
He cast a glance towards Buteau and Jesus Christ, who were sitting quite still, staring into the distance, as though miles away from what he was saying.
‘So what could I do? Take on help, strangers who would just strip us of everything? No, farm-hands cost too much, they eat up all your profit, these days… So I just can't go on. Take this last season: out of my twenty acres I hadn't the strength to farm more than a quarter of them, just enough to provide food, wheat for us and grass for our two cows. And it breaks my heart to see all that good land going to waste. Yes, I'd sooner pack it in than see something like that happen.’
His voice broke and he made a violent gesture of grief and resignation. Sitting beside him, crushed by half a century of obedience and work, his wife was listening humbly.
‘The other day,’ he went on, ‘while Rose was making her cheese, she pitched headlong into it. As for me, it takes all my strength just to come into market with my cart. And what's more, you can't take the land with you when your time comes. You have to give it up, give it up. And anyway, we've done enough work, we want to die in peace… Isn't that right, Rose?’
‘That's it, that's God's truth!’ the old woman replied.
Once more silence fell, a long silence. The notary had nearly finished paring his nails. Finally he put his penknife down on the desk and said:
‘Yes, those are sensible reasons, people often have to decide to give their land away… I should add that this represents a saving for a family because taxes on legacies are higher than those on gifts.’
Despite his pretence of indifference, Buteau could not help exclaiming:
‘So that's true, Monsieur Baillehache?’
‘Certainly it is. You stand to gain some hundreds of francs.’
The other stirred and even Delhomme's face lit up, while their mother and father joined in their satisfaction. Everything was all right; now that money would be saved, the deal could go through.
‘All that remains is for me to make the usual comments,’ the notary went on. ‘Many right-thinking people condemn this way of disposing of property as being immoral because they feel that it destroys the bonds of the family. Indeed, it would be possible to cite most unfortunate situations; children sometimes behave very badly once their parents have divested themselves of their property.’
The two sons and the daughter were listening open-mouthed, blinking their eyes, their cheeks quivering with emotion.
‘Then Father can keep the lot if he thinks like that about it,’ Fanny snapped touchily.
‘We've always done our duty,’ said Buteau.
‘And we're not afraid of hard work,’ added Jesus Christ.
Maître Baillehache silenced them with a gesture.
‘Do let me finish! I know that you're good children and decent workers, and that with you there's certainly no danger that your parents may live to regret what they have done!’
There was no irony in his remark; he was merely repeating the kindly formula that twenty years' exercise of his profession had brought smoothly to his lips. But even though she did not seem to have understood, their mother was looking from her daughter to her sons through her half-closed eyes. She had shown no tenderness to any of the three in their upbringing, treating them with the cold indifference of a housewife who blames her young ones for consuming so much of what she herself was scrimping to save. She bore a grudge against the youngest because he had left home just when he was beginning to earn; she had never been able to see eye to eye with her daughter, irked at having to deal with someone of her own sort, a lively, active girl in whom her father's intelligence had taken the form of pride: and her glance softened only when it settled on her first-born, that rogue who took neither after her nor her husband, a thorough bad lot. He had turned up from God knows where and, perhaps for that very reason, he was her favourite whom she always forgave.
Fouan had also looked at his children one after the other, dimly worried at what they might do with his property. The drunkard's laziness caused him less concern than the greedy love of pleasure of the other two. He shook his trembling head: what was the point of fretting, since it had to be done!
‘Now that the decision's been taken to share out the land,’ the notary went on, ‘we must settle the terms. Are you agreed as to what annuity to pay?’
At this, everybody suddenly sat still and silent again. Their weather-beaten faces took on the fixed expression and gravity of poker-faced diplomats about to discuss matters involving the fate of an empire. Then they cast a questioning glance at each other; but nobody was ready to speak. Once more it was the old man who explained the situation.
‘No, we haven't talked it over yet, Monsieur Baillehache, we've been waiting until we were all gathered together here… But it's quite straightforward, isn't it? I've got twenty-five acres, or ten hectares they call it now. So if I let it out, that would be just one thousand francs at forty francs an acre.’
Buteau, the least patient of the three, jerked upright on his chair.
‘What did you say? A hundred francs a hectare? Are you trying to have us on, Father?’
And they launched into the first argument, over figures. There was an acre and a half of vines: all right, you could get sixty francs for that. But would anyone ever give that amount for the fifteen acres of arable land and above all for the eight and a half acres of permanent meadow along the bank of the Aigre which produced such poor hay? The arable itself wasn't much to write home about, particularly one bit of it which ran along the edge of the plateau, because the soil was shallower the nearer you came to the valley.
‘Really, Father,’ said Fanny reproachfully, ‘you mustn't try to take advantage of us.’
‘It's worth forty francs an acre,’ the old man kept repeating stubbornly, slapping his thigh with his hand. ‘I can let it for forty francs tomorrow if I want to… And what do you think it's worth then, to you? Let's hear what you say it's worth.’
‘It's worth twenty-five francs,’ said Buteau.
Beside himself with fury, Fouan was insisting on his price and launching into an extravagant eulogy of his land, such good land that it produced wheat without needing any cultivation at all, when Delhomme, who had hitherto said nothing, spoke up, in his honest way:
‘It's worth thirty francs, not a penny more or less.’
The old man immediately calmed down.
‘All right! Let's say thirty francs, I'm prepared to make a sacrifice for my children.’
But Rose had tugged her husband's smock and now spoke up herself, to say just one word summing up all her natural meanness:
‘No!’
Jesus Christ had lost interest. Ever since his five years spent in Africa, he was no longer concerned about the land. He was keen on one thing only, getting hold of his share and turning it into cash. So he continued to sit swaying gently, with a superior, mocking air.
‘I said thirty francs,’ Fouan was shouting, ‘and I mean thirty francs. My word's always been my bond. Twenty-five acres, let's see, that makes seven hundred and fifty francs, let's say eight hundred in round figures… eight hundred francs, that's fair.’
Buteau burst into a loud guffaw while Fanny was shaking her head in protest, as though unable to believe her ears. And Monsieur Baillehache, who had been staring vaguely into the garden since the beginning of the argument, now returned to his clients and seemed to be listening to them as he tugged away obsessively at his whiskers and sleepily digested his excellent luncheon.
However, this time the old man was right: it was a fair price. But by now feelings were running high; it was terrifying to see how the children, carried away by their passionate urge to strike the best possible bargain, went on haggling and swearing like crafty peasants buying a pig.
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‘Eight hundred francs,’ sneered Buteau. ‘So you want to live like a fine gentleman? Eight hundred francs! It's enough for a family of four! Why don't you admit straight away that you want to eat yourself to death?’
Fouan was still able to control his temper. He considered haggling quite a natural thing and so merely stood firm against this attack, which he had anticipated; his own blood was up as well, and he now spelt out bluntly all his own demands:
‘Just a second. That's not everything. We shall keep the house and garden until we die, of course… And as we shan't be harvesting any more crops, we want a barrel of wine every year, a hundred logs of firewood as well as three gallons of milk, a dozen eggs and three cheeses every week.’
‘Oh, Father!’ Fanny moaned in tones of shocked anguish, ‘oh, Father!’
As for Buteau, he considered the discussion over. He had sprung to his feet and was walking up and down gesticulating wildly; he had even jammed his cap onto his head, all ready to leave. Jesus Christ had also stood up, anxious in case all this arguing might prevent the deal from going through. Only Delhomme remained quite unmoved, resting his finger against his nose in an attitude of deep thought and quiet exasperation.
At this point Monsieur Baillehache felt it was necessary to hasten things along a little. He shook off his torpor and, rummaging even more vigorously in his whiskers, said:
‘You know, don't you, that wine and firewood as well as the cheese and eggs are customary?’
But he was cut short by a battery of acid comment:
‘Do we drink our own wine? We sell it!’
‘Doing damn all and sitting warm and cosy is all very well while your children are tearing their guts out!’
The notary, who had heard all this before, continued placidly:
‘All that has nothing to do with it… For God's sake, Jesus Christ, can't you sit down! You're blocking the light, it's getting on my nerves! So you're all agreed, then? You'll pay those items in kind, because otherwise people will think you're being mean… So the only thing that remains to be discussed is the amount of the annuity.’
Delhomme at last indicated that he had something to say. Everyone had sat down again and they all listened attentively as he slowly spoke:
‘Excuse me, but what Father is asking seems quite fair to me. We could let him have eight hundred francs since he'd be able to let his property for that amount… But we're not calculating like that. He's not letting his land to us, he's giving it to us, and the calculation we've got to make is how much he and Mother need to live on… That and nothing more, what they need to live on.’
‘That's it,’ the notary approved, ‘that's what they usually take as a basis.’
And another long squabble ensued. The old people's style of living was laid bare, scrutinized and discussed, item by item. They weighed up the bread, the vegetables and the meat; they worked out the clothing, cutting down on the linen and wool, they even probed into the little luxuries, such as their father's pipe tobacco; his daily ration of tuppence was reduced to a penny, after endless recrimination. If you're not going to be working any more, you'll have to learn to economize! And couldn't Mother manage to do without black coffee? It was like their dog, an aged animal, twelve years old, which ate a lot and did nothing in return: it ought to have been liquidated long ago. Having made their calculations once, they went back to revise them, looking for other things to eliminate; two shirts and six handkerchieves a year, a centime off what had been set aside for sugar per day. And by paring away again and again, they reached a figure of five hundred and fifty odd francs, which left them in a state of considerable agitation because they were determined not to go above five hundred francs, in round figures.
But Fanny was becoming tired of all this talk. She was not a bad sort of girl and more compassionate than the men because neither her heart nor her skin had yet been toughened by their hard life in the open air. So having resigned herself to making concessions, she suggested calling a halt to the discussion. Jesus Christ, for his part, shrugged his shoulders. He was very easy about money matters and now that he was feeling maudlin, was even ready to offer to make up the amount out of his own share – though he would never have paid it.
‘Well, then,’ the daughter asked. ‘Are we agreed on five hundred and fifty francs?’
‘All right, all right,’ he replied. ‘They've got to have their bit of fun, the old folk.’
His mother looked at her first-born with a smile, her eyes misty with affection; while his father continued his struggle with his younger son. He had given ground only inch by inch, contesting every reduction, digging in his heels at some of the figures. But beneath his cold and stubborn exterior, inwardly his wrath was rising in the face of the savage determination of his own flesh and blood to suck him dry while still alive. He was forgetting that he had devoured his own father in the same way. His hands were beginning to tremble; he snarled:
‘What a nasty lot you are! When I think that I brought you up, and you want to take the bread out of my mouth! It's disgusting. I'm sorry I'm not stiff and cold already. So you won't do the decent thing, you'll not go above five hundred and fifty?’
He was weakening when once again his wife tugged at his sleeve and whispered:
‘No, don't accept.’
‘That's not quite all,’ Buteau said after a moment's hesitation. ‘What about the money you've saved up? After all, if you've got some money of your own, surely you're not going to accept ours.’
He glared at his father. He had saved up this shot for the end. The old man had gone very pale.
‘What money?’ he asked.
‘The money you've invested, of course. All those securities you keep hidden away.’
Buteau only suspected the existence of this nest-egg and was trying to find out definitely. One evening he had thought he had seen his father pull out a little roll of papers from behind a mirror. Next day and on the days following, he had kept watch; but nothing had reappeared. there remained just an empty hole.
Fouan had gone very pale; but all at once his face turned bright red as his anger suddenly brimmed over. He rose to his feet with a furious gesture and screamed:
‘Christ Almighty! So you go through my pockets now, do you? I've not got one penny invested, not a single farthing! I had to spend too much on you, you miserable lot! But in any case, what business is that of yours, aren't I your father? Aren't I the master?’
In this sudden access of authority, he seemed all at once to have grown taller. For years, all of them, wife and children, had trembled under his rule, the harsh and tyrannical rule of a peasant father over his family. If anyone thought he was finished with, they were mistaken.
‘Oh, Father.’ Buteau made an attempt to treat it as a joke.
‘For Christ's sake shut up,’ the old man went on, his hand still raised. ‘Shut up or I'll let you have it.’
His younger son stammered and cowered back in his seat. He had felt the wind of the blow and his childhood fears had returned as he raised his elbow to ward it off.
‘And as for you, Hyacinthe, take that grin off your face! And Fanny, stop staring!… As sure as God's my witness, I'll make you all hop!’
He stood there, dominating and threatening. His wife sat trembling, afraid that one of his blows might miss its target. Their children sat quite still, holding their breath, cowed.
‘Do you hear? I want six hundred francs for my annuity… If not, I'll sell my land. I'll take a life interest on it. Just so that I can blue the lot and you won't get a penny… Are you going to let me have six hundred francs?’
‘Of course, Father, we'll give you anything you want,’ said Fanny quietly.
‘Six hundred francs, I agree,’ said Delhomme.
‘And as for me,’ said Jesus Christ, ‘I want what everyone else wants.’
For Buteau, his teeth clenched in resentment, silence seemed to give consent. And still Fouan stood glaring from one to the other with the harsh look of a maste
r determined not to brook any disobedience. Finally, he sat down:
‘Very well, then, we're agreed.’
Monsieur Baillehache had sunk back into his torpor and was waiting placidly for the storm to subside. He opened his eyes again and gently summed up:
‘Now you've come to an agreement, that's that. Now that I know the terms I'll draw up the deed… On your part, you must have the land surveyed, divide it up and tell the surveyor to send me a note indicating the actual plots. When you've drawn lots for them, all we shall need to do is write down the number which has been drawn against the name of each plot and we can sign.’
He had stood up from his desk to indicate that the meeting was at an end. But they still lingered, discussing and having second thoughts.
Was that really everything? Hadn't anything been forgotten, hadn't they made a bad deal, which there was perhaps still time to go back on?
Three o'clock struck; they had been there almost two hours.
‘Please go now,’ the notary said in the end. ‘There are other people waiting.’
They had to accept his decision; he ushered them out into the main office where numbers of peasants were, in fact, sitting stiffly upright, patiently waiting, whilst the office-boy was watching a dog-fight through the window and the two others were still scratching away with a surly air on official stamped paper.
Outside, the family stood for a moment in the middle of the street.
‘If you like,’ their father said, ‘the survey can be done on Monday, tomorrow.’
