The Earth

by Emile Zola

  ‘Go away and play for a minute, my pet.’

  After she had left, accustomed to being sent out of the room when grown-ups were talking, he planted himself in the middle of the room with his arms crossed, his firm, fat, yellow judge's face quivering with indignation.

  ‘Can you imagine? Have you ever seen such abominable conduct… I was tidying up my rose-tree and I climbed up to the top rung and without thinking looked over the top and what do I see?… Honorine, yes, my maid Honorine, with a man on top of her and her legs in the air, up to their disgusting tricks… The dirty pigs, right under my wall!’

  He was finding difficulty in breathing and started walking up and down, waving his arms about in noble gestures of execration.

  ‘I'm waiting for her to come in so that I can send her packing, the depraved creature… We can't keep a single one, they all get pregnant. After six months, like clockwork, they become impossible to keep on in a decent family, with their bellies sticking out… And this one I actually caught at it and wasn't she enjoying it, too! It really is the end, there's no limit to their filthy conduct.’

  Dumbfounded, Buteau and Lise deferentially echoed his indignation.

  ‘No, it's certainly not decent, not decent at all.’

  Once more he stopped in front of them:

  ‘And can you imagine Élodie climbing up on the ladder and discovering that! That innocent little girl who knows nothing about anything, we even try to keep watch over her thoughts. It makes one shudder, it really does! What a shock if Madame Charles had been here.’

  And at that very moment, looking out of the window he caught sight of his granddaughter inquisitively putting her foot in the lowest rung of the ladder. He rushed over and shouted to her in a voice trembling with anguish, as if he had seen her standing on the verge of a precipice:

  ‘Élodie! Élodie! Get down, go away from there, for goodness' sake!’

  His legs gave way and he collapsed into an armchair, continuing to complain about the shameless behaviour of maids. Hadn't they caught one of them in the chicken-run showing their little girl what a hen's backside was like! It was worrying enough, outside, to have to protect her from the villagers' coarseness and the cynical behaviour of the animals: but it really made him lose heart if there was a constant source of immorality in his own house.

  ‘She's coming in,’ he said suddenly. ‘You'll see.’

  He rang the bell and sat waiting sternly for Honorine to appear, having with difficulty regained his air of calm and dignity.

  ‘Honorine, pack your bags and leave at once. I'll pay you a week's wages in lieu of notice.’

  The maid, a puny skinny girl, looking miserably ashamed, mumbled apologetically as she tried to explain.

  ‘It's no good, you should be grateful I'm not going to turn you over to the police for indecent behaviour.’

  This was too much for Honorine to stomach:

  ‘I suppose it's because you didn't get your cut?’

  He sprang to his full height and pointed imperiously towards the door. Then, when she had gone, he violently relieved his feelings.

  ‘Can you imagine that whore bringing disgrace to my house?’

  ‘Yes, what a whore she is, a real whore,’ echoed Lise and Buteau obligingly.

  And the latter went on:

  ‘So it's agreed, Uncle, you'll come with Élodie?’

  Monsieur Charles was still quivering. He went over to look at himself in the mirror, with a worried look; and came back reassured.

  ‘Come where? Oh yes, to your wedding… Yes, I'm very glad you're getting married… Yes, I'll be there, you can rely on me. But I can't promise to bring Élodie because at a wedding, you know, there's a lot of loose talk. Ah, that trollop! I turned her out and no mistake! I can't stand women who give trouble! Goodbye, I'll be there, don't worry.’

  Buteau and Lise then went to the Delhommes, who accepted after the customary refusal and persuasion. The only member of the family left was Jesus Christ. But he was really becoming unbearable, at loggerheads with everyone and thinking up the most disgusting stories to discredit his relatives; so they decided not to include him, despite their apprehension in case he took his revenge by some monstrous piece of behaviour.

  Rognes was all agog: this long-deferred wedding was an event. Hourdequin, the mayor, took the trouble to attend the ceremony but refused the invitation for the wedding-feast in the evening because it so happened that he had to spend that night in Chartres for a lawsuit; he promised that Madame Jacqueline would come, since they were so kind as to invite her. For a moment they had considered inviting Father Godard as a really distinguished guest. However, hardly had the marriage been mentioned when the priest lost his temper because they wanted the ceremony on Saint John's Day. He had to take High Mass at Bazoches-le-Doyen for a foundation; so how could they expect him to be at Rognes in the morning? At that, the three women, Lise, Rose and Fanny, all dug in their heels; they made no mention of any invitation and he was forced to give in; and he came over at noon, so infuriated that he dispatched their Mass in such a bad-tempered way that they were deeply offended.

  In any case, after discussion, they had decided that the wedding would be a very simple family affair, because of the situation of the bride, with her son now nearly three years old. All the same, they had ordered a pie and dessert from the cake-shop at Cloyes, resigning themselves to extravagant expenditure on the dessert, to show that when the occasion demanded they could be openhanded. So there would be a raised cake, a double quantity of cream and four platefuls of cakes and petits fours, just like the wedding of the Coquarts' eldest girl, the farmers at Saint Juste. They themselves would provide a cream soup, chitterlings, four fried chickens, four fricasseed rabbits, roast beef and veal. And that would be for fifteen people or so; they did not yet know the exact number. Anything left over could be eaten up the next day.

  After a slightly hazy start the clouds dispersed and the day ended up clear and pleasantly warm. The table had been laid in the middle of the vast kitchen, opposite the fire and the oven where the meat was roasting and the sauces bubbling. The fire was making the room so hot that they had left the two windows and door wide open, letting in the sharp scent of fresh-mown hay.

  Rose and Fanny had been helping the Mouche girls ever since the previous day. At three o'clock there was great excitement when the pastryman's cart appeared: all the women in the village came to their doorsteps to look and at that very moment La Grande arrived in advance; she sat down, gripped her stick between her knees and her hard eyes never left the food. Such extravagance should be forbidden! She had eaten nothing that morning in order to leave more room for the meal in the evening.

  The men, Buteau, Jean who had been best man, old Fouan and Delhomme, together with his son Nénesse, all in tail-coats and black trousers with tall silk hats, which never once left their heads, were playing cork penny in the courtyard. Monsieur Charles arrived alone, having taken Élodie back to her school in Châteaudun the day before; and without joining in, he watched the game and made some judicious comments.

  But when everything was ready at six o'clock, they had to wait for Jacqueline. The women let down their skirts, which they had tucked up with pins in order not to dirty them at the stove. Lise wore a blue dress, Françoise a pink one, in garish-coloured silk which was no longer fashionable but which Lambourdieu had sold them at twice their proper value as being the latest thing from Paris. Old Madame Fouan had brought out the purple poplin dress which she had been parading at every wedding in the district for the last forty years, while Fanny, in green, had put on all her jewellery, her watch and chain, a brooch, rings for her fingers and earrings. Every minute one of the women ran out up the road to the corner of the church to see if the lady from the farm was coming. The meat was beginning to burn, the thick soup, which they had made the mistake of serving, was going cold in the plates. Finally, there was a shout:

  ‘Here she comes! Here she comes!’

  And the gig appeared.
Jacqueline sprang lightly down. She looked charming, having had the good taste, pretty as she was, to wear a simple white cretonne dress with red spots but without a single jewel on her bare flesh except brilliants in her ears, a present from Hourdequin which had caused a great stir among the local farmers. But they were surprised to see, when they had helped her put her carriage away, that she did not send the farm-hand who had driven her over back to the farm. This was an individual by the name of Tron, a sort of giant, white of skin and red of hair, with a childlike manner. He came from the Perche and had been working at La Borderie as a farm-hand for the last fortnight.

  ‘Tron's staying, by the way,’ she said gaily. ‘He'll be taking me home.’

  In Beauce, they were not very fond of people from the Perche; they accused them of being shifty and untrustworthy. They exchanged glances: this big oaf was the Cognet girl's latest fancy man, was he? Buteau, who had been very agreeable and full of fun all the morning, replied:

  ‘Of course he can stay! Anyone who's with you…’

  Lise gave the order to begin and they all elbowed their way noisily to the table. They were three chairs short so they quickly fetched a couple of stools that had lost their stuffing and put a piece of board across them. Spoons were already clattering against the bottoms of the plates. The soup was cold and covered with blobs of congealing fat. Nobody minded and old Fouan pointed out that it would be warming up in their stomachs, a remark which sent everyone into fits of laughter. Then the slaughter began as everything vanished down their throats: the chickens, the rabbits, the meat were paraded and devoured with a terrible crunching and gnashing of teeth… Frugal eaters at home, they ate like pigs in other people's houses. La Grande said not a word, in order to leave more time for eating as she munched away without a single pause. It was frightening to see what this lean, flat-chested octegenarian could tuck away without the slightest sign of swelling. It had been agreed that Françoise and Fanny should do the serving so that the bride could remain in her seat, but in fact she was unable to restrain herself and kept getting up all the time, tucking up her sleeves and keeping her eyes open to pour out gravy or take a piece of meat off its spit. In any case, the whole table soon started to take part; there was always someone standing up to cut himself some bread or trying to help himself to a bit more of something. Buteau had assumed responsibility for the wine but soon found he could not keep up; true, he had taken the precaution of tapping a cask of wine in order to save time corking and uncorking bottles; nonetheless, they did not give him time to eat and Jean had to help him in filling the litre bottles, while Delhomme, rooted to his seat, declared in judicious tones that liquid refreshment was necessary to avoid choking over your food. When they brought in the pie, as big as a plough-wheel, a solemn hush fell, and the forcement balls were particularly admired; while Monsieur Charles politely gave his word of honour that he had never seen a finer one in Chartres. At that, old Fouan, in high spirits, produced another witticism:

  ‘I say, if you stuck that on your bum it would clear up all the wrinkles.’

  The whole company exploded, particularly Jacqueline, who had tears in her eyes. She was spluttering and trying to add something that was lost in her laughter.

  The bride and groom were sitting facing each other, Buteau between his mother and La Grande, Lise between old Fouan and Monsieur Charles; the other guests sat where they pleased, Jacqueline next to Tron, who was devouring her with gently stupid eyes, Jean close to Françoise with only little Jules between them, as they had promised to look after him; but the pie immediately produced a violent attack of indigestion and the bride had to put him to bed. So Jean and Françoise finished the meal sitting side by side. She was very lively, flushed from the big fire in the hearth, tired out but over-excited. He was very attentive and tried to stand up to help her but she kept slipping away, and had the additional task of handling Buteau, who was much given to teasing when in a good mood and had been plaguing her ever since the meal began. He was pinching her as she went by and she would give him an infuriated slap; then she would find some pretext to stand up as if she liked being pinched again and giving him another slap. She complained that her behind was black and blue all over.

  ‘Why not stay here?’ Jean kept saying.

  ‘No, I won't,’ she cried. ‘He mustn't think that I'm his as well, just because Lise is.’

  When it was quite dark, they lit six tallow candles. They had been eating since three and they finally launched onto the dessert at about ten o'clock. From then on they drank coffee, not one or two cups but big bowlfuls of it all the time. The jokes became more pointed: coffee gives you energy, just the thing to liven men up who sleep too soundly; and each time one of the married guests took a gulp, everyone held their sides with laughter.

  ‘You'd better drink a lot,’ Fanny said to Delhomme, with a loud laugh, forgetting her usual reserve.

  He blushed and soberly offered the excuse that he had to work so hard, while their son Nénesse, open-mouthed, laughed too amidst the shrieks and thigh-slapping that followed their revelation of a marital secret. In any case the lad had eaten so much that he was ready to burst. He disappeared and was found at the end of the evening asleep beside the two cows.

  It was in fact La Grande who held out longest. At midnight she was still tucking into the petits fours, silently despairing because she would never finish them off. They had wiped out the cream jugs and swept up the crumbs of the raised cake. And as their drunkenness increased and they let themselves go more and more, with their bodices unhooked and trouser belts loosened, they moved around, chatting in little groups around the table stained with wine and gravy. Attempts to sing had faded out and only old Rose, bleary-eyed, was continuing to hum a bawdy song from another age, a refrain from her youth, keeping time with her shaking head. And as there were not enough people for dancing, the men preferred to go on drinking spirits and smoking, tapping out the dottles of their pipes onto the tablecloth. In one corner, Fanny and Delhomme, watched by Jean and Tron, were working out to the nearest sou what the financial situation of the newly-weds would be, as well as their expectations. They went on endlessly, evaluating every inch of land, for they knew how much everybody in Rognes was worth, down to the value of the bed-linen. At the other end of the room Jacqueline had cornered Monsieur Charles and was looking at him with an irresistible smile, her charming, perverse eyes shining with curiosity. She was questioning him about Chartres.

  ‘So it's amusing, is it? You can have fun there?’

  In reply, he spoke appreciatively of the ‘promenade’, an avenue of old trees encircling Chartres and providing a green shady walk all round the town. Down below, particularly along the bank of the Eure, the boulevards were very cool in summer. Then there was the cathedral: lie expatiated on the cathedral, like a knowledgeable man with a respect for religion. Yes, indeed, it was an outstandingly fine monument, too large now in an age of declining faith, standing almost always empty in its deserted square which only the shadowy figures of a few pious women were to be seen crossing during the week; and he had felt all the melancholy desolation of such vast abandoned buildings one Sunday when he had gone in as he was passing, at Vespers; it was freezing cold and he could not see very clearly because of the stained-glass windows, so that he had to accustom himself to the dark before he was able to distinguish two groups of little girls from boarding-schools, looking quite lost, like a handful of ants, and singing in their piping voices under the vaulted roof. Oh, it was really heartbreaking to see the churches being deserted for the taverns!

  Jacqueline, surprised, continued to watch him closely, still with the same smile on her face. In the end she said in a low voice:

  ‘But how about the women in Chartres?’

  He understood what she meant and looked very solemn; but expanding under the influence of the drunkenness all around them, he unbosomed himself. She had sidled up to him, very pink, with little gurgling laughs, as though wanting to enter into the secret of these men out o
n the spree every evening. But it was not as she had imagined it; he was telling her what hard work it was, for in his cups he was maudlin and avuncular. But he livened up when she told him how, for fun, she had once gone to have a look at the brothel at the junction of the Rue Davignes and the Rue Loiseau in Châteaudun, a ramshackle little house with closed, rotting shutters. At the back, in the badly kept garden, a big ball of silvered glass reflected the wall of the house, while in front of the skylight, in the attic which had been turned into a dovecot, pigeons were flying around cooing in the sun. On that particular day children were playing on the doorstep, and over the wall of the adjacent cavalry barracks you could hear orders being given. He interrupted indignantly. Yes indeed, he knew that place, the women were disgusting and overworked, they didn't even have mirrors downstairs. Filthy hovels like that brought discredit on the trade.

  He finally regained his composure. ‘What can you expect from a sub-prefecture?’ he said philosophically, with the tolerant resignation of a man whose mind is above such things.

  It was now one o'clock and there was talk of going home to bed. When you'd already had a child there was not really much point, was there, in standing on ceremony to get between the sheets? It was like those practical jokes such as itching powder or the collapsing bedstead, toys that bark when you squeeze them, that sort of thing would really have been too late in the day for them. The best thing was to have one for the road and say goodnight.

  At that moment, Lise and Fanny gave a cry. A big lump of filth had just been thrown through the open window, a handful of dung picked up from under the hedges, and the women's dresses had been thoroughly bespattered from top to bottom. Who was the dirty pig who had done it? They ran out and looked in the square and the street behind the wall; nobody to be seen. Anyway, everyone agreed that it was Jesus Christ taking his revenge for not being invited.