The Earth

by Emile Zola

  ‘Well, three hundred?’ Buteau repeated indefatigably.

  ‘No, three fifty.’

  Then, as there was another buyer there also bargaining, he took the cow by the jaws and forced them open, to see her teeth. Then he pulled a face and let them go. And at that very moment the animal chose to defecate, and as the dung plopped on the yard Buteau followed it with his eyes and looked even more disgusted. Dismayed, the other buyer, a tall, pallid man, moved on.

  ‘I'm no longer interested,’ said Buteau, ‘her blood's tainted.’

  This time the woman made the mistake of losing her temper and calling him names; this was what he wanted and he replied with a flood of abuse. People gathered round laughing. Behind his wife, her husband still made no move. Eventually, he touched her elbow and suddenly she cried:

  ‘Will you take her for three twenty?’

  ‘No, three hundred!’

  He was walking off again when she called him back, choking with anger:

  ‘All right, take her away, blast you! But by Christ, next time I'd as soon punch your ugly mug for you!’

  She was beside herself and quivering with rage. He was roaring with laughter and affably offering to sleep with her to make up the difference.

  Lise had come up straight away. She drew the woman aside behind a tree-trunk and gave her the three hundred francs. Françoise had already taken possession of the cow, but Jean had to push the animal from behind to make her move. They had been hanging about for a couple of hours and Rose and Fanny had been waiting to see the outcome without a word or sign of impatience. Finally, as they were moving off they looked round for Buteau, who had disappeared, and found him giving the pigman a friendly tap on the shoulder. He had just bought his piglet for twenty francs; and to pay him, he first of all counted the money out in his pocket, pulled out the exact amount and then counted it again in his half-closed palm. Then there was a great to-do when he tried to force the pig into a sack which he had brought along under his smock. The sack was rotten and split so that the pig's legs came through, and its snout as well. So he slung it over his shoulders as it was, wriggling, snorting and squealing horribly.

  ‘I say, Lise, what about my five francs?’ he demanded. ‘I won my bet.’

  She handed him the money, thinking that he would not accept it. But he did and promptly pocketed it. Slowly they all made their way back to the Jolly Ploughman.

  The market was at an end. Coins were flashing in the sunlight and rattling on the innkeepers' tables. Everything was being hurriedly settled up at the last minute. In the corner of the square only a few animals remained unsold. The crowd had gradually drifted back towards the Rue Grande where the fruit and vegetable sellers were clearing up and removing their empty baskets from the roadway. Similarly, the only thing left in the poultry market was straw and feathers. Carts were already leaving, in the inns horses were being hitched up and their reins untied from the rings in the pavements. All the roads out of town were filled with spinning wheels and blue smocks were billowing in the wind as the carts jolted over the sets.

  Lengaigne passed by, his black pony at the trot; he had taken advantage of his excursion to buy a scythe. Macqueron and his daughter Berthe were still shopping. As for Frimat's wife, she was going home on foot with as big a load as she had come with, because she had filled her baskets with dung from the streets. In the chemist's in the Rue Grande, amidst all the gilt decoration, poor exhausted Palmyre was standing waiting to pick up some medicine for her brother, who had been ill for the past week: some foul concoction that would take half her hard-earned two francs. But the leisurely progress of the Mouche girls and their companions was speeded up by a glimpse of a very drunk Jesus Christ, reeling across the whole breadth of the street. They had heard that he'd been borrowing money that morning by mortgaging his last piece of land. He was laughing to himself and you could hear the five-franc pieces jingling in his big pockets.

  When they finally reached the Jolly Ploughman Buteau said cheerfully, in an ingenuous voice:

  ‘Are you off then? Look, Lise, suppose you and your sister stayed on and had a bite to eat with me?’

  She was taken aback, and as she looked towards Jean Buteau added:

  ‘Jean can join us too, I'd like him to.’

  Rose and Fanny exchanged a glance. The young man certainly had something in mind, although his expression was still giving nothing away. Never mind! They mustn't put any obstacles in his way.

  ‘All right,’ said Fanny. ‘You stay… I'll be off with Mother. We're expected.’

  Françoise, who was still holding the cow, said curtly:

  ‘I'm going too.’

  And she refused to be persuaded. She was fed up with the inn, she wanted to get the cow home straight away. They had to give in because she was making herself thoroughly disagreeable. As soon as they had hitched up, the cow was tied to the back of the cart and the three women got in.

  Only then did Rose, who had been waiting for her son to speak out, pluck up the courage to ask her son: ‘You've no message for your father?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ Buteau replied.

  She was looking him full in the eyes and pressed him:

  ‘So there's nothing new?’

  ‘When there's anything new, you'll learn all about it when the time comes.’

  Fanny flicked her horse and it went ambling off, pulling the cow along behind, with her neck outstretched. Lise remained on her own, between Buteau and Jean.

  By six o'clock, the three of them were seated at table in one of the inn rooms which opened off the café. Without telling anyone whether he was the host, Buteau had gone behind into the kitchen and ordered an omelette and a rabbit. Meanwhile Lise had been urging Jean to speak to Buteau and clear their situation up in order to save himself another trip. But by now, after finishing off the omelette, they were busy with the rabbit fricassée and the embarrassed young man had still done nothing about it. In any case, the other man hardly seemed to be thinking of such matters. He was eating hungrily and guffawing with laughter as he kept giving his cousin or his pal a friendly push with his knee under the table. Then the conversation turned to more serious matters, they talked about Rognes and the new road, and although the five hundred franc compensation and the increased value of the land was never mentioned, it added hidden weight to all that they were now saying. Buteau started playing the fool again and toasted them, while one could see in his grey eyes the thought of a profitable deal now that his third share was worth accepting and his former girl friend, whose field next door to his had nearly doubled in value, well worth marrying.

  ‘For Christ's sake,’ he shouted, ‘aren't we going to get any coffee?’

  ‘Three coffees,’ Jean ordered.

  They spent an hour sipping and emptying their small carafe of brandy and still Buteau had not declared his hand. He kept beating about the bush and dragging things out as though still bargaining for the cow. In his heart of hearts he had already taken his decision but, all the same, you had to see what was what. Suddenly he turned to Lise and said:

  ‘Why didn't you bring the littl'un along?’

  She started to laugh, realizing that this time all was well. She leant over and gave him a happy little slap, with merely the good-humoured remark:

  ‘Lord, what a skunk you are!’

  That was all. He was grinning too. The marriage was settled.

  Jean, who until this moment had been embarrassed, now joined in their laughter with a look of relief. He even finally unburdened himself:

  ‘You know that it's a good thing for you that you're coming back to Lise. I was going to replace you.’

  ‘Yes, people told me that. Oh, I wasn't worrying, you'd have given me notice, probably.’

  ‘Well, of course… And in any case it's better that it's with you, because of the little lad. That's what we always said, wasn't it, Lise?’

  ‘Always, and that's the honest truth!’

  All three faces were flushed with emotion an
d their joy was free of any jealousy; this was particularly the case with Jean, who was quite surprised at being a marriage-broker. And when Buteau exclaimed that, for Christ's sake, they ought to have one last drink, he ordered some beer. Elbows on table, with Lise sitting between them, they were now talking about the recent rains that had flattened the wheat.

  But in the neighbouring coffee-room, sitting at a table with an old peasant, equally drunk, Jesus Christ was creating an unholy din. Indeed, neither of them, sitting in their smocks in the smoky glow of the lamps and drinking, smoking and spitting, could open his mouth without shouting; but Jesus Christ's ear-splitting voice drowned all the others. He was playing cards and a dispute had just broken out between him and his partner over the last hand, which the latter calmly but firmly asserted he had won, despite the fact that he seemed to be in the wrong. The quarrel went on and on and the enraged Jesus Christ was starting to shout so loudly that the proprietor intervened. Then he stood up and with drunken obstinacy went round from table to table showing his cards for the other customers to judge. He was getting on everyone's nerves. Then he started bawling again and went back to the old man, who was quite unperturbed at being in the wrong and listened to his abuse with stoical complacency.

  ‘You cowardly idle bugger! Come on outside and I'll show you!’

  Then suddenly Jesus Christ sat down again in his chair opposite the other man and quietened down:

  ‘I tell you what. I know a game. You have to bet, right? Will you take me on?’

  He had pulled a handful of five-franc pieces, fifteen or twenty of them, out of his pocket and piled them all up in a heap in front of him:

  ‘This is what it is… You do the same as me.’

  Intrigued, the old man took out his purse without a word and made an identical pile.

  ‘Now look, I take one off your pile and here goes!’

  He picked up the coin, solemnly placed it on his tongue like a eucharistic host, and swallowed it at one go.

  ‘Now it's your turn, take one off my heap. And the one who swallows most from the other pile keeps them. That's the game!’

  Wide-eyed, the old man accepted and with some difficulty disposed of his first coin. But Jesus Christ was bolting them down like prunes, loudly asserting meanwhile that there was no need to rush. When he reached five, a murmur ran through the café and a circle of people gathered round, spellbound with admiration: ‘Good God, what a gob the bloke's got to tuck 'em away like that!’ The old man was just swallowing his fourth coin when he tumbled over backwards, purple in the face, choking and gasping; for a moment they thought he was dead. Jesus Christ stood up, quite unperturbed, with a sardonic look on his face; he had stowed away ten five-franc pieces in his own stomach so at any rate he was thirty francs to the good.

  Buteau, afraid that he might become involved if the old man failed to recover, had left the table, and as he stood gazing vaguely at the walls of the room with no mention of paying, even although the invitation had come from him, Jean settled the bill. This put the rogue into an even better humour. In the courtyard, once they had hitched up, he took his friend by the shoulders:

  ‘You know, I want you to come. The marriage will be in three weeks' time… I've been to see the lawyer and I've signed the deeds, the papers will all be ready by then.’

  And he helped Lise into his own cart:

  ‘Up you come, I'll take you home! I'll go via Rognes, it won't be much further.’

  Accepting the situation, Jean climbed into his cart by himself and followed them. Cloyes had returned to its deathlike torpor and was slumbering in the light of its street-lamps, which were shining like yellow stars. Nothing remained of the bustle of the market but the stumbling footstep of some belated drunken peasant. Then the road stretched out ahead in complete darkness. However, eventually he caught sight of the other cart with the future husband and wife. It would be better that way, it was the best solution. And he whistled loudly in the cool night, filled with a blissful feeling of freedom.

  Chapter 7

  ONCE again, haymaking time had come round; the weather was very warm, the sky blue, with a cooling breeze; and the wedding had been fixed for Midsummer Day, which that year fell on a Saturday.

  The Fouans had strongly advised Buteau to begin by inviting La Grande, the head of the family. Like the rich and fearsome queen she was, she demanded special consideration. So one evening Buteau and Lise set off, both in their Sunday best, to invite her to the ceremony and to the lunch afterwards, which was going to be held in the bride's house. La Grande was sitting knitting in her kitchen by herself, and, continuing to ply her needles, she stared at them, letting them explain their mission and repeat themselves three times before replying in her shrill voice:

  ‘To the wedding? Certainly not! What would I be doing at a wedding? It's all right for those who like enjoying themselves!’

  They had seen her face, the colour and texture of old parchment, flush with pleasure at the idea of this free binge and they felt certain she would accept; but convention required that she must be persuaded.

  ‘Oh, Auntie, really, we can't possibly do without you.’

  ‘No, I'm not up to that sort of thing. How can I find the time? And I've got nothing to wear. It all costs money… I can get along without going to a wedding!’

  They had to repeat the invitation a dozen times before she eventually said grumpily:

  ‘All right, since you won't take no for an answer. I'll come. But I wouldn't go out of my way for anybody else!’

  Then, when she saw that they were not ready to go, an inner conflict took place, because in such cases it is customary to offer a glass of wine. She decided to go down to the cellar although she had a bottle that was already started. The fact was that for these occasions she had some leftover bottles of wine that had gone off and which she could not drink herself because it was so sour; she called it her special family wine. She filled two glasses and watched her nephew and niece so closely that they were forced to drain them with a straight face in order not to offend her. They left her with their throats burning.

  That same evening Buteau and Lise went to Roseblanche, the Charles' house. But there they arrived at a moment of high tragedy.

  Monsieur Charles was in his garden in a state of great agitation. No doubt something had happened to give him a violent shock while he was tidying up a climbing rose, because he had secateurs in his hand and the ladder was still leaning against the wall. However, he made an effort and asked them into the drawing-room, where Élodie was sitting demurely at her embroidery.

  ‘So you're getting married in a week's time. That's splendid… But I'm afraid we can't come because Madame Charles has gone to spend a fortnight in Chartres.’

  He raised his heavy lids and glanced towards the little girl.

  ‘You see, when there's a lot of business at fair-time, Madame Charles goes and lends my daughter a hand. You know, business is business, and there are days when the shop is obviously packed out. And although Estelle now knows the job thoroughly, it's still a great help to have her mother there; the more so as our son-in-law Vaucogne is hardly any use at all. And Madame Charles enjoys going back. After all, when you've spent thirty years of your life in a place it means something.’

  He became sentimental and his eyes were full of tears as his mind went back on the distant past. And what he said was true; despite their prosperous, cosy, comfortably furnished villa, full of flowers and birds and sun, his wife often felt a nostalgia for their little house in the Rue aux Juifs. Shutting her eves, she could see the old quarter of Chartres tumbling down from the cathedral square to the banks of the Eure. When she arrived, she would go down the Rue de la Pie and the Rue Porte-Cendreuse, then, after the Rues des Ecuyers, to take the shortest route, she would go down the steps of the Tertre du Pied-Plat; and on the bottom step you could see No. 19 at the corner of the Rue aux Juifs and the Rue de la Planche-aux-Carpes, white-fronted with its green shutters always closed. They were two wretche
d little streets and for thirty years she had looked on miserable hovels and their squalid occupants, with the gutter in the middle of the street full of murky water. And how many weeks and months on end she had spent there in the dark rooms without ever crossing the threshold. She still felt proud of the divans and mirrors in the parlour, the mahogany and linen sheets in the bedrooms, all this luxury, comfortable yet discreet, which they had created by their unaided labours and to which they owed their wealth. She felt a pang of sadness as she recalled certain cosy little corners, the pervading scent of toilet water, that special smell throughout the whole house which had become part of her whole being, like a nostalgic memory. So she looked forward to the times when there was great pressure of work and she would go off happily, looking years younger, after two big kisses from her granddaughter which she promised to pass on to the little girl's mother as soon as she arrived at the confectioner's shop that evening.

  ‘What a nuisance, what a nuisance,’ Buteau was saying, really annoyed at the thought that the Charles would not be coming.

  ‘Suppose Cousin Lise wrote to her aunt asking her to come back?’

  Élodie, who was rising fifteen, lifted her anaemic, puffy, virginal face with its wispy hair; she was so thin-blooded that good country air seemed only to make her more sickly.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said in a soft voice, ‘Grandma told me definitely that she would need more than two weeks at the sweet-shop. She's even going to bring me back a bag of sweets if I'm a good girl.’

  It was a pious pretence. After each trip she was given some sugared almonds which she believed had been made in her parents' shop.

  ‘Well,’ suggested Lise, ‘why not come without her, Uncle, bring Élodie along with you!’

  But Monsieur Charles had stopped listening and was becoming agitated again. He kept going up to the window and appeared to be on the look-out for someone, meanwhile holding back his anger which seemed on the point of exploding. Then, unable to restrain himself any longer, he sent the girl out of the room.