by Emile Zola
‘Don't get het up about trifles! Since we're happy, what does the rest matter? If you've got enough, that's all you need.’
She had never stood up to him like this before. He glared at her.
‘You're talking too much, woman!… I've nothing against being happy but I won't be buggered about!’
So she shrank back again into her chair and sat idly there while he finished off his bread, rolling the last piece round his mouth for a long time to make the most of it. The dismal room relapsed into its slumber.
‘Well,’ Lise continued, ‘I'd like to know what Buteau intends doing about me and his son. I haven't been pestering him much and it's time something was decided.’
The two old folk remained completely silent. She directed her question to her uncle:
‘Since you saw him, he must have mentioned me. What did he say about it?’
‘Nothing, he didn't once open his mouth on the subject… And there's nothing to say, after all. The priest is on at me all the time to arrange something, as if anything can be arranged if the bridegroom won't play!’
Lise was turning this over uncertainly in her mind.
‘Do you think he'll agree one day?’
‘He might still do that.’
‘And you think he would marry me?’
‘There's a possibility.’
‘So you advise me to wait?’
‘Well, it's up to you, everyone does as he thinks fit.’
She made no reply, unwilling to mention Jean's proposal and not knowing how to obtain a definite answer. Then she made a final attempt:
‘You see, I'm getting really upset not knowing where I stand. I must have an answer one way or the other. Uncle, please won't you go and ask Buteau?’
Fouan shrugged his shoulders.
‘In the first place, I'm never going to talk to that awkward young bugger again… And secondly, you silly girl, aren't you being a bit simple? Why make the pigheaded so-and-so say no now when he can always say no later on? So leave him alone, to say yes one day, if it's in his interest to do so.’
‘That's right,’ added Rose simply, happy to be able to echo her husband's words again.
And Lise could get nothing more definite out of them. She left and closed the door of the room, which sank back into its previous torpor. Once again, the house seemed empty.
In the meadows down by the Aigre, Jean and his two helpers had started making the first haystack.
Françoise was building it by standing in the centre on a stook and arranging in a circle the forkfuls of hay brought by the young man and Palmyre. Little by little, it rose up, taller and taller, while she still stood in the middle, putting new trusses of hay under her feet as the wall around her began to reach her knees. The stack was beginning to take shape. It was already over six feet high; Palmyre and Jean had to reach up with their forks; and the operation did not proceed without a good deal of laughter caused by the pleasure of being in the open and the loud jokes they kept making amidst this wonderful smell of new-mown hay. In particular Françoise, whose scarf had slipped off her head, exposing it to the sun and leaving her hair loose and tangled with grass, was as happy as a lark as she sank into this moving pile of hay reaching up to her thighs. She plunged her bare arms in as each forkful was tossed up to her, covering her in a shower of dry grass, and she disappeared, pretending to be submerged in the swirling hay.
‘Oh dear, it's pricking me!’
‘Where?’
‘Under my skirt, up here.’
‘Look out, it's a spider. Keep your legs closed!’
And he laughed louder than ever as he made saucy remarks which made them split their sides, too. In the distance, Delhomme, disturbed by this frivolity, turned his head to look for a moment while still continuing to swing his scythe. That little scallywag must be doing a lot of work, playing about like that! They spoilt girls these days, they only worked for the fun of it! And he continued on his way, rapidly cutting his swathes, leaving a hollow wake behind him. The sun was sinking towards the horizon and the swathes left by the reapers were spreading out wider and wider. Victor had stopped hammering his scythe but did not seem to be in any great hurry; and when La Trouille went by with her geese he slipped slyly away after her to the shelter of a thick row of willows along the bank of the river.
‘Well done,’ shouted Jean. ‘He's going to sharpen his tool again. The grinder's waiting for him.’
This remark sent Françoise into another fit of laughter.
‘He's too old for her.’
‘Too old?… You just listen, you can hear them sharpening up together.’
And with his lips, he made the hissing sound of a grindstone scraping against the edge of a blade, so that even Palmyre, clasping herself as if she had stomach ache, said:
‘What's up with Jean today, he's so funny!’
They were tossing the forkfuls of grass higher and higher and the haystack was now quite tall. They joked about Lequeu and Berthe, who had finally sat down. Perhaps ‘Not Got Any’ was being tickled at long range, with a piece of straw; anyway, even if the schoolmaster might be warming the oven, somebody else would eat the cake.
‘Isn't he a dirty man?’ Palmyre said again. She was never able to laugh but she was choking with amusement. Then Jean teased her.
‘And to think that you've reached the age of thirty-two without ever having a tumble in the hay!’
‘Not me, never!’
‘How's that, didn't any boy ever relieve you of it?’
‘No, never, never.’
Her long, miserable face, already tired, worn out and blank through excessive work, had gone all pale and serious; the only thing ever alive in it was her eyes, shining with deep devotion like those of a faithful old bitch. Perhaps her thoughts had gone back to her sad, unhappy, friendless and loveless life, the life of a beast of burden mercilessly whipped during the day and ready to drop with fatigue in the stable every night; and she stood motionless, her hands on her fork, her eyes far away amidst the countryside which she never even saw.
There was silence. Françoise remained still, listening on top of the stack while Jean, who was also taking a breather, continued to poke fun, hesitating to mention what was on the tip of his tongue. Then he blurted out:
‘So it's all lies, what they say about you sleeping with your brother?’
Palmyre's pale face suddenly became purple, making her look young again. She stammered with annoyance and confusion, vainly trying to find words to deny what he had said.
‘Oh! They're wicked… If anyone can believe…’
At this Françoise and Jean burst out laughing and both started talking at once, pressing and bullying her. After all, in the tumbledown cowshed where she and her brother lived there was hardly room to move without falling on top of each other. Their mattresses were touching, they must sometimes get into the wrong one in the dark.
‘Come on, it's true, isn't it? Admit it. Anyway, people know it's true.’
Completely taken aback, Palmyre jerked herself upright and was so distressed that she lost her temper.
‘Even if it is true, what's it got to do with you? The poor boy doesn't get much pleasure out of life. I'm his sister, so I could be his wife, since he can't stand girls.’
As she made this confession two tears ran down her cheeks, in her maternal pity for the cripple which did not stop short of incest. After earning his bread during the day, surely she could give him that as well at night, since nobody else was prepared to offer him that pleasure, even though it would have cost them nothing. And such dim-witted creatures living so close to the soil, who had perhaps never known love, would always be incapable of explaining how it had happened; a sudden instinctive approach without any premeditation or agreement, he tormented and little more than an animal, she passive and ready to accept anything; and afterwards neither of them could resist the pleasure of keeping each other warm in the cruel cold of their hovel.
‘She's right, what's it got to do wi
th us?’ Jean said good-naturedly, sad to see her so upset. ‘It's their own business, it's nothing to do with anyone else.’
In any case, something else was happening to distract them. Jesus Christ had just come down from the Castle, the former cellar halfway up the slope in the undergrowth where he lived, and from the road above he was shouting at the top of his voice for La Trouille, swearing and screaming that his slut of a daughter had disappeared again two hours ago without bothering to get his supper.
‘Your daughter's in the willows,’ shouted Jean. ‘She's watching the moon together with Victor.’
Jesus Christ waved his fists in the air.
‘That God-forsaken bitch! Bringing disgrace on the family. I'll get my whip.’
He ran back up the hill to fetch his whip, a long horsewhip which he kept hanging beside the door on the left for such occasions.
But La Trouille must have been listening. Under the leaves you could hear a sound of rustling and someone running away; two minutes later, Victor nonchalantly strolled out. He examined his scythe and set to work at last. And when Jean called out to him from a distance to enquire whether he'd had an attack of the gripes, he replied:
‘Correct!’
The haystack was now nearly finished, more than twelve feet tall and solid, looking like a round beehive. Palmyre's long thin arms were tossing up the last trusses and standing at the top Françoise stood out tall against the pale sky, tawny in the light of the setting sun. She was quite out of breath and trembling from her efforts, soaked in sweat with her hair sticking to her skin, and with her clothes in such disorder that her bodice was gaping open, showing her hard little breasts, while her skirt had come unhooked and was slipping down over her hips.
‘Oh, I say, isn't it high… It's making me giddy.’
And she gave a little shaky laugh, hesitating because she was afraid to come down, sticking one foot out and then quickly drawing it back.
‘No, it's too high. Go and fetch a ladder.’
‘Don't be silly,’ said Jean. ‘Sit down and let yourself slide.’
‘No, I'm frightened, I can't.’
There followed cries and shouts of encouragement mingled with rude jokes: Don't come face downwards, you might end up with a bump in the front! On your backside, unless you've got chilblains on it! And standing down below, he was becoming excited as he looked up at the girl and could see her legs; and filled with an unconscious male urge to seize hold of her and press her close against him, he was slowly becoming exasperated because she was so far out of his reach.
‘But I promise you won't break anything! Jump and I'll catch you in my arms.’ He was standing under the haystack, holding out his arms and offering his chest for her to jump onto. And when she finally made up her mind and let herself go, closing her eyes, she fell so suddenly as she slid down the slippery slope of hay that she knocked him over, straddling him with her thighs round his ribs. She lay on the ground with her skirts round her thighs, roaring with laughter and gasping that she hadn't hurt herself. But when he felt her all hot and sweaty against his face, he seized hold of her.
Intoxicated by this acrid woman's smell and the overpowering scent of hay floating in the air, his whole body became taut in a sudden fury of desire. And there was something else as well, a deep unrecognized passion for this girl, a long-standing fondness of heart and body, born of their games and horseplay and reaching a climax in this desire to possess her, here and now, in the grass.
‘Jean, that's enough! You're crushing my ribs!’
She was still laughing, imagining that he was playing. And seeing Palmyre staring with wide-open eyes, he gave a start and stood up, trembling with the bewildered look of a drunkard suddenly sobering up at the sight of a gaping hole in front of him. What had happened? So it wasn't Lise he wanted but this little girl! The idea of Lise's body lying against his own had never made his heart beat any faster, whereas the mere thought of kissing Françoise sent the blood racing through his veins. He knew now why he so much enjoyed visiting the two sisters and helping them. But the girl was still only a child! He felt disheartened and ashamed.
At that very moment Lise came back from the Fouans. On her way she had been thinking. She would have preferred Buteau because, after all, he was the father of her child. The old couple were right, why try and rush him? If Buteau one day said no, Jean would still be there to say yes.
She went up to Jean and said straight away:
‘No news, Uncle doesn't know anything. Let's wait.’
Still scared and shaking, Jean was looking at her uncomprehendingly. Then he remembered: their marriage, the brat, Buteau's consent, all these things which two hours earlier he had thought of as beneficial to both her and him. He said hastily:
‘Yes, of course, let's wait, that's the best thing.’
Night was falling and already a distant star was shining in the dark-red sky. In the deepening twilight only the round shapes of the first haystacks could be dimly perceived, breaking up the flat expanse of the meadows. But in the calm air, the warm scents rising from the earth were all the stronger, each sound louder, more resonantly clear and musical. They were the voices of men and women, faint sounds of laughter, a snorting horse, the clink of a tool; while, still obstinately working on their patch of meadow, the reapers continued their unremitting task, and from this scene of toil, which could no longer be seen, still the long regular hiss of the scythe rose into the air.
Chapter 5
Two years had passed, two active and monotonous years of life on the land, and in the inevitable succession of the seasons Rognes had followed the same eternal recurrence of all things, the same rhythm of work and sleep.
Down below at the roadside, on the corner by the school, there was a fountain of spring-water where all the village women used to come to fetch their drinking-water, since the houses only had ponds for their cattle and for watering their plots of land. At six o'clock in the evening all the latest news of the village was exchanged; everything that had happened, however trivial, was related and commented on endlessly: so-and-so had had meat for lunch; so-and-so's daughter had been pregnant since Candlemas; and in the course of the two years, the same tittle-tattle had followed the passage of the seasons, being repeated again and again, always about babies appearing too soon, wives being beaten, a great deal of hard work to produce a great deal of poverty. So much had happened, yet it added up to nothing at all!
The Fouans, who had been such a source of comment when they handed over their property, had gone on quietly stagnating, so quietly that hardly anyone talked about them anymore. The situation had not changed: Buteau was digging his heels in and he was still not keen to marry Mouche's elder daughter who was bringing up his child. It was Jean who had been accused of sleeping with Lise but perhaps he wasn't sleeping with her after all; in that case why did he go on visiting the two sisters? There was something fishy there. And on some days the session round the fountain would have been dull without the rivalry between Coelina Macqueron and Flore Lengaigne – which Bécu's wife kept stirring up under the pretext of pouring oil on troubled waters. Then, in the middle of a slack period, two big events had just burst on the community: the coming elections and the famous question of the road between Rognes and Châteaudun. These whipped up a gale of gossip. The jugs of water stood lined up waiting while their owners refused to leave. One Saturday evening, they almost came to blows.
It so happened that, the following day, Monsieur de Chédeville, the outgoing deputy, was lunching with Hourdequin at La Borderie. He was conducting his electoral campaign and showing great consideration to the latter, who had a good deal of influence on the countryfolk of the canton. He was, however, certain to be re-elected since he was the official candidate. As he had once been to Compiègne, everyone in his constituency knew him as ‘the Emperor's friend’; and that was enough, they called him that as if he slept at the Tuileries every night. This Monsieur de Chédeville, a ladies' man in his younger days and a leading light under
Louis Philippe, had, deep down, retained Orléanist sympathies. He had squandered his substance on women and now possessed only his farm, La Chamade, near Orgères, but he never set foot there except at election-time and was, moreover, dissatisfied with the drop in farm revenue since he had had the practical but belated idea of restoring his fortunes in business. Tall and still elegant, tightly buttoned up in his close-fitting coat, he dyed his hair; but he was now settling down, although his eyes still lit up at the sight of a bit of skirt, however sluttish the wearer, and he was preparing, so he said, some important speeches on agricultural questions.
Hourdequin had had a violent quarrel with Jacqueline the day before because she wanted to be present at the lunch.
‘Your deputy, your deputy! Do you think I'd eat him? So you're ashamed of me?’
But he remained firm and the table was laid for two only. Jacqueline was sulking, despite Monsieur de Chédeville's gallant manner; he had caught a glimpse of her, had understood the situation and kept continually glancing towards the kitchen whither she had retired in high dudgeon.
Lunch was coming to an end: an omelette followed by fresh trout from the Aigre, and roast pigeon.
‘What's ruining us’, said Monsieur de Chédeville, ‘is this free trade that the Emperor is so keen on. Of course, things went well after the 1861 treaties; people said it was an economic miracle. But it's now that the real effects are being felt. Look how prices are falling all round. I'm a protectionist, we must be defended against foreign competition.’
Hourdequin had stopped eating and was leaning back in his chair with a vacant look on his face. He said slowly:
‘Wheat sells at under two and a half francs a bushel and costs over two francs to produce. If it drops any more we're ruined. And America is increasing her production of cereals every year. They threaten to flood the market. Then what will become of us? Look, I've always been one for progress and science and freedom. Well, I'm beginning to waver, 'pon my soul! No, we mustn't starve, we've got to be protected!’
