by Emile Zola
‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘apparently the government is waiting for us to vote on it before it can offer us any financial aid. You're in favour, aren't you?’
Lengaigne was a local councillor but he had not even a small piece of garden at the back of his property. He replied:
‘A fat lot I care! What good's your road to me?’
And as he tackled the second cheek, scraping away at the skin as if using a grater, he launched into an attack on the farm. These rich townsfolk nowadays were even worse than the old aristocrats: when the share-out took place, they kept the lot, they made the laws to suit themselves and their wealth came at the expense of the wretched plight of the poor! The others were listening embarrassed, yet secretly pleased at his daring words: the age-old and invincible hatred of the land-worker for his landlord.
‘It's a good job we're amongst friends,’ muttered Macqueron, casting an uneasy glance towards the schoolmaster. ‘As for me, I'm a supporter of the government. And our deputy, Monsieur de Chédeville, who's said to be a friend of the Emperor.’
At this Lengaigne brandished his razor wildly in the air:
‘And that's another fine one, old Chédeville… Shouldn't a wealthy man like him, who owns more than twelve hundred acres round Orgères way, make a present of your road to the parish instead of trying to squeeze the money out of us? The old devil…’
But the grocer, by now terrified at such talk, protested:
‘That's not true, he's a very decent sort and he's not a snob… But for him you'd never have got your tobacco shop. What, would you have to say if he took it away from you?’
Lengaigne suddenly calmed down and started scraping away at his client's chin again. He had gone too far and was losing his temper; his wife was right when she said that his ideas would get him into trouble. And at that moment Bécu and Jesus Christ started to quarrel. The former tended to become argumentative and nasty in his cups whereas the latter, although a rogue when sober, became more and more mawkish with every glass of wine, like a soft-hearted, good-humoured but drunken apostle. There was also their basic disagreement over politics: the poacher was a republican, a Red as people used to say, who boasted that he had made the women dance to his tune in Cloyes in 1848; the gamekeeper was a rabid Bonapartist who adored the Emperor, whom he claimed to know personally.
‘I swear it's true! We once ate a herring salad together. And afterwards he said: Mum's the word, I'm the Emperor… I recognized him because of his picture on the five-franc pieces.’
‘A likely story!… And he's still a swine who beats his wife and never showed any affection for his mother!’
‘Shut up, for Christ's sake, or I'll give you a punch on the nose!’
They had to remove the bottle which Bécu was brandishing from his grasp, whilst Jesus Christ, with tears in his eyes, sat waiting for the blow with a smile of resignation on his face. Then they made it up and started playing again… ‘Trumps and trumps again and I trump the whole lot!’
Macqueron, disturbed by the schoolmaster's pretence of indifference, finally asked him:
‘Monsieur Lequeu, what's your view about the road?’
Lequeu, who was warming his bloodless hands against the stovepipe, gave a sour smile to indicate that his superior position prevented him from speaking frankly.
‘I'm not saying anything; it's none of my business.’
At this moment Macqueron went over, dipped his face in a basin of water and, as he dried himself, spluttered:
‘Well, listen to me, I'm prepared to do something… Yes, for Christ's sake, if they vote in favour of the road, I'll give my land for nothing!’
The others were dumbfounded by this statement. Even Jesus Christ and Bécu, drunk as they were, looked up. There was a sudden hush; people were looking at him as if he had suddenly taken leave of his senses, while he, excited by the effect he had produced, although his hands were trembling, now he had committed himself, added:
‘There'll be a good half an acre… Strike me blind if I don't, cross my heart.’
Lengaigne went off with his son Victor, exasperated and upset at his neighbour's generosity: he wouldn't really miss the land, he'd already rooked everybody pretty thoroughly! Despite the cold, Macqueron took down his gun from the wall and went out to see if he would come across the rabbit which he'd seen the day before at the bottom of his vineyard. There remained only Lequeu, who used to spend all his Sundays there (although he never had a drink), and the two fanatical card players, their heads bent over their cards. Hours went by; other peasants came in and went out again.
At about five o'clock, the door was pushed roughly open and Buteau appeared, followed by Jean. As soon as he caught sight of Jesus Christ, he exclaimed:
‘I'd've bet anything… Are you trying to have us on? We've been waiting for you.’
But Jesus Christ, drooling at the mouth, replied with a chuckle:
‘No, you old humbug, I've been waiting for you… You've been keeping us waiting ever since this morning.’
Buteau had looked in at La Borderie where Jacqueline, whom he had been tumbling in the hay ever since the age of fifteen, had invited him to stay and have a meal with Jean. Farmer Hourdequin had stayed in Cloyes for lunch after Mass and they had gone on drinking and guzzling until late afternoon, so that the two young men, now inseparable, had only just arrived.
Meanwhile Bécu kept bawling that he would pay for the five litres of wine but the game must go on; whilst Jesus Christ, maudlin and bleary-eyed, hauling himself with difficulty out of his chair, followed his brother.
‘Wait here,’ Buteau said to Jean, ‘and come and pick me up in half an hour's time. Remember that you're having supper with me at my father's.’
When the two brothers went into the Fouans' house, everyone was already gathered in the room. Their father was standing up with a hangdog expression on his face. Their mother was sitting knitting mechanically at the table in the middle of the room. Opposite her, Grosbois had eaten and drunk so much that he had dozed off, his eyes half closed; while Fanny and Delhomme were sitting on a couple of low chairs near by, patiently waiting. And, in this smoke-blackened room with its shabby old furniture and the few kitchen utensils worn thin by constant scouring, there was the unusual sight of a blank sheet of paper and pen lying on the table beside the surveyor's hat, a hat of monumental proportions, once black but now a rusty brown, which its owner had carried about with him, come rain, come shine, for the last ten years. Night was falling and in the murky light filtering through the narrow window the hat with its flat rim and urn-like shape assumed a strange significance.
However, ever mindful of his business despite his drunkenness, Grosbois roused himself and mumbled:
‘Here we are, then. I was explaining that the deed is all drawn up. I went to see Monsieur Baillehache yesterday and he showed me it. Only the numbers of the lots have been left blank against your names. So now we'll draw and all the lawyer will have to do is to write them in so that you can sign the deed in his office on Saturday.’
He shook himself awake and spoke more loudly.
‘Well, I'll get the pieces of paper ready.’
At once the children all quickly gathered round, making no attempt to disguise their mistrust, watching each other like hawks so as not to miss the slightest gesture, as if a conjuror might spirit away their share. First of all, with his thick, trembling, alcoholic's fingers, Grosbois cut the sheet of paper into three, and then, laboriously, on each piece he wrote an enormous 1, 2 or 3; looking over his shoulders, they all followed the movement of his pen, even the father and mother nodding their head in satisfaction when they saw that there was no chance of cheating. Slowly the pieces of paper were folded and thrown into the hat.
A solemn silence ensued.
After waiting a good two minutes, Grosbois said:
‘Well, make up your minds… Who's going to begin?’
Nobody stirred. Night was falling fast and in the gloom the hat seemed to be growing larger.
/>
‘In order of age, do you think?’ the surveyor suggested. ‘You go first, then, Jesus Christ, you're the eldest!’
Jesus Christ good-naturedly stepped forward, but losing his balance he nearly fell flat on his face. He thrust his fist violently into the hat as if he were expecting to pick up a boulder. When he had seized his piece of paper, he had to go to the window to read what was on it.
‘Two!’ he exclaimed, doubtless thinking that this was a particularly funny number, since he spluttered with laughter.
‘Your turn, Fanny,’ Grosbois called.
When Fanny put her hand into the hat she was in no hurry. She rummaged in the bottom, moving the papers around and lifting up one after the other.
‘You're not allowed to choose,’ exclaimed Buteau angrily, in a voice choking with emotion; his face had gone pale when he saw the number his brother had drawn.
‘Really? Why not?’ she retorted. ‘I'm not looking, there's nothing wrong in feeling.’
‘Go on,’ her father said. ‘They're all the same, there's no difference in any of them.’
She finally made her choice and rushed to the window:
‘One.’
‘Well, Buteau's got number three,’ said Fouan. ‘Go on, draw it, my boy!’
In the ever deepening gloom, it was impossible to see how contorted the face of the youngest son had become. He burst out angrily:
‘I shan't!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If you imagine I'm going to accept that, you're mistaken! That's the third lot, isn't it? The rotten one! I've already told you lots of times that I want the sharing to be done differently. No, I won't! You'd just be making a fool of me! And anyway, do you think I can't see what you're up to? Shouldn't the youngest have drawn lots first? So I won't! I'm not going to draw because I'm being cheated!’
His father and mother watched him throwing his arms about, stamping and banging the table.
‘You poor boy, you must have taken leave of your senses,’ said Rose.
‘Oh yes, mother, I know you never loved me. You'd skin me alive to give my skin to my brother… You all want to do me down!’
Fouan harshly interrupted him.
‘Stop talking nonsense! Will you draw or not?’
‘I insist we do it all again!’
Everyone protested. Jesus Christ and Fanny clung to their pieces of paper as if someone were trying to take it away from them. Delhomme pointed out that the lots had been drawn fairly and Grosbois, highly offended, talked of leaving if his good faith was being questioned.
‘Then I want Father to add another thousand francs to my share from the money he's got hidden away.’
Completely taken aback, the old man was momentarily at a loss for words. Then he collected himself and made towards his son with a terrifying expression.
‘What's that you said? So you really want to kill me off, you swine! You wouldn't find a brass farthing even if you pulled down the whole house. Draw your lot, for Christ's sake, or else you'll get nothing!’
Buteau, pigheaded and stubborn, did not even flinch at his father's threatening gesture.
‘I won't.’
Once again an embarrassed silence fell. Now the enormous hat sat there, rebuking them and blocking the way with that single piece of paper lying inside it which nobody was willing to take. To end the discussion, the surveyor advised the old man to draw it himself and he solemnly pulled it out and went over to the window to look at it, as if he did not know what was on it.
‘Three! You've got the third lot, do you hear? The deed's drawn up and Monsieur Baillehache certainly won't change it, because what's done can't be undone… And since you're going to sleep here, I'll give you tonight to think it over!… Now that's over and done with, let's say no more.’
Plunged into gloom, Buteau made no reply. The others loudly approved and their mother decided to light a candle to lay the table.
And at that moment Jean, on his way to rejoin his friend, caught sight of two shadowy figures, huddled together, standing in the dark deserted road and trying to see what was going on at the Fouans'. From the slate-grey sky, feathery flakes of snow were beginning to fall.
‘Oh! You frightened us, Monsieur Jean,’ a voice said softly.
Then he recognized Françoise, wearing a hood over her long face with its heavy lips. She was huddled against her sister Lise with her arm round her waist. The two sisters were devoted to each other and were always to be seen together like that, with their arms round each other's necks. Lise, taller and pleasant-looking, despite her coarse features and the incipient flabbiness of her plump figure, had remained cheerful in spite of her misfortune.
‘So you're spying?’ he said with a smile.
‘Well, perhaps,’ she replied. ‘It interests me to know what's happening in there… To know if it will help Buteau make up his mind.’
Françoise had passed her other arm round her sister's bulging waist and was holding it affectionately.
‘If that's possible, the rotten pig!… Once he's got the land, perhaps he'll want a girl with more money!’
But Jean raised their hopes: the share-out must have been decided by now, all the rest would be all right. Then, when he told them that he was going to eat with the old people, Françoise said:
‘All right then, we'll meet later on, we'll come round to the evening gathering!’
He watched them disappear into the night. The snow was falling more heavily now and their clothes, merging together, were acquiring a feathery white fringe.
Chapter 5
BY seven o'clock, after supper, the Fouans, Buteau and Jean had gone over to the cowshed to join the two cows which Rose was going to sell. Tied up at the end beside their trough, these two animals filled the shed with the powerful smell and the heat of their bodies and of their litter, whereas the kitchen, with its three miserable logs of wood which had been lit for supper, was already bitterly cold from the early November frosts. So, in winter, the neighbours would gather there on the mud floor and be warm and cosy, with no further effort than bringing in a little round table and a dozen old chairs. Each neighbour provided a candle in turn; broad shadows danced along the bare walls, black with dust, up to the spiders' webs in the roof timbers; and in the background was the warm breath of the cows lying chewing the cud.
La Grande was the first to arrive with her knitting. Taking advantage of her great age, she never provided a candle herself; and she inspired such awe that her brother never dared to remind her of the normal custom. She at once took the best seat and seized the candlestick which she kept to herself because of her bad eyes. Against her chair she had leant her stick, which she never left far away. Little shining specks of snow were melting on the coarse bristles of her scrawny bird-like head.
‘Is it snowing?’ asked Rose.
‘It is,’ she answered curtly.
And compressing her thin lips, she took up her knitting after casting a sharp glance in the direction of Jean and Buteau.
Then the others appeared: first of all Fanny, who had brought along her son Nénesse, since Delhomme never came to these gatherings; then, almost at once, Lise and Françoise, laughing as they shook off the snow. But at the sight of Buteau, Lise blushed. He looked at her unabashed.
‘How are things since we last met, Lise?’
‘Not too bad, thanks.’
‘That's good, then.’
Meanwhile Palmyre had surreptitiously slipped in through the half-open door. She was crouching down and staying as far away as possible from her terrible grandmother La Grande when a loud noise outside made her straighten up. She could hear furious stammering, shouts, laughter and boos.
‘Those miserable kids are at him again,’ she exclaimed.
She leapt towards the door and, suddenly transformed into a bold raging lioness, she rescued her brother Hilarion from the tormenting of La Trouille, Delphin and Nénesse. The latter had just joined the other two, who were shrieking and yelling at the cripple's he
els. Hilarion limped in on his deformed legs, quite out of breath and bewildered. His hare-lip was dribbling and he was stammering, unable to explain what was wrong, looking like an ugly village idiot and frail for his age of twenty-four. He was in a temper, furious because he had not been able to catch the young scamps who were chasing him and knock their heads together. Not for the first time, he had met a volley of snowballs.
‘Oh, what a fibber,’ said La Trouille, all innocence. ‘He bit my finger, look.’
At this Hilarion spluttered helplessly as he tried to explain, while Palmyre calmed him down and petted him as she wiped his face with her handkerchief.
‘That's enough now,’ said Fouan at last. ‘Palmyre, you ought to stop him from following you. Make him sit down at least and keep him quiet!… And you brats shut up! We'll take you back to your parents by your ears if you're not careful.’
But as the cripple still kept babbling on, La Grande, her eyes blazing, picked up her stick and struck the table with it so hard that everyone jumped. Terrified, Palmyre and Hilarion subsided and remained still as mice.
The evening now began. Grouped around the solitary candle, the women sewed and knitted or did needlework without a single glance at what they were making. The men sat behind, slowly smoking as they exchanged a few desultory remarks, while in a corner the children, with suppressed giggles, pinched and pushed each other.
Sometimes they would tell stories: the story of the Black Pig who kept guard over a treasure with a red key in his jaws; or the Beast of Orléans who had a man's face, bat's wings, hair reaching to the ground, two horns and two tails, one to catch and the other to kill you; and this monster had eaten a man from Rouen and left only his hat and his boots. At other times, they would launch into endless tales about wolves, the devouring wolves which ravaged Beauce for centuries. Formerly, when Beauce, which is so bare and treeless at the present time, had still a few coppices left from original forests, countless bands of wolves, impelled by hunger, used to come out in the winter to prey on the flocks. They devoured women and children, and the old people of the district could remember that in times of heavy snow the wolves would come into the towns. In Cloyes you could hear them howling on the Place Saint-Georges; in Rognes they would push their noses under the loose doors of cowsheds and sheep pens. Then, one after the other, the same old stories would be told: the miller ambushed by wolves who put them to flight by striking a match; the little girl who ran for two hours pursued by a she-wolf which ate her up when she fell down just as she reached the door of her home; and still more stories, legends of werewolves, of men changed into beasts leaping out onto the shoulders of belated passers-by or running them to death.
