by Emile Zola
But father and son were in agreement on one thing: they both detested the bailiff, a certain Vimeux, a seedy-looking little man who was given all the unpleasant chores which his colleagues at Cloyes did not want. One evening, Vimeux gingerly made his way up to the Castle to deliver a writ. Vimeux was a very grubby little shrimp of a man with a tiny yellow tuft of beard from which emerged a red nose and a pair of rheumy eyes. Always dressed like a gentleman, in a hat, a frock-coat and black trousers, dreadfully worn and stained, he was celebrated in the region for the frightful drubbings he had received at the hands of the peasants when delivering notice of proceedings against them, in remote areas where he was defenceless. There were many legends about him, thrashings and involuntary duckings in ponds, a mile-long chase at the point of a pitchfork, a sound spanking administered, with his trousers down, by a mother and her daughter.
It so happened that Jesus Christ was just coming home with his gun; and old Fouan, who was sitting on a tree-trunk smoking his pipe, grunted angrily:
‘Look at the shame you're bringing on us, you good-for-nothing.’
‘Just wait and see,’ the poacher said, clenching his teeth.
But seeing that he had a gun, Vimeux had stopped dead, some thirty yards away. The whole of his pitiful, black, dirty, correctly dressed person was trembling with fear.
‘Monsieur Jesus Christ,’ he quavered, ‘I've come on that little matter you know about. I'll put it down here. A very good evening to you!’
He put the writ down on a stone and was already retreating backwards rapidly when Jesus Christ shouted:
‘Look, you bloody pen-pusher, you'd better learn some manners! Bring your bit of paper over here!’
And as he stood stock-still, so scared that he hardly knew whether to go backwards or forwards, the other man pointed the gun at him:
‘If you don't hurry up, you'll get lead poisoning. Come along, pick up your piece of paper and bring it here. Nearer than that, right here, you dirty little funk, or I'll shoot.’
Paralysed, livid with fright, the bailiff was stumbling on his tiny legs. He looked imploringly at old Fouan but with the savage resentment all peasants feel against the cost of legal proceedings and the law's official representative, the latter merely went on quietly puffing at his pipe.
‘Ah, there we are at last, that's a good fellow. Now hand over your bit of paper. Oh no, not like that, you must be a bit more forthcoming. Hand it over properly, as if you really meant it, for Christ's sake! And be polite. Yes, that's more like it.’
Petrified by these jocular remarks which the hulking great fellow was delivering with a malicious grin on his face, Vimeux stood blinking, awaiting the threatened punch or slap across the face.
‘And now, turn round.’
He realized what was going to happen and warily did not stir.
‘Turn round or else I'll do it for you.’
He saw that there was nothing else to do and, pitifully, he turned and without being asked offered his little behind, as scrawny as that of a famished cat. Jesus Christ took a run and landed his foot fairly and squarely on the target with such force that the bailiff's man went sprawling on his face, a good four yards away. And then, painfully rising to his feet, he took desperately to his heels, pursued by the shout:
‘Look out! I'm going to fire!’
Jesus Christ had put the gun to his shoulder but was content merely to lift his thigh and let out such a loud bang that Vimeux fell flat on his face again, terrified by the report. This time his black hat had gone spinning off among the boulders. He chased after it, picked it up and set off faster than ever, pursued by a further series of bangs, one after the other, a whole volley accompanied by gusts of laughter that completed his discomfiture. He hurtled down the slope hopping like an insect and the valley was still re-echoing with Jesus Christ's artillery barrage when he was a good hundred yards away. The whole countryside was reverberating and the final one, a real tear-arse, followed the bailiff as he disappeared into Rognes, now no bigger than an ant. La Trouille had run up on hearing the noise and was holding her sides as she lay on the ground cackling like a hen. Old Fouan had taken his pipe out of his mouth to laugh more freely. Ah, what a card Jesus Christ was! A proper waster but by God he was funny!
All the same, the following week the old man had to make up his mind to agree to sign the authority for the sale of his land. Monsieur Baillehache had found a buyer and the most sensible thing was to follow his advice. So it was agreed that father and son would go into Cloyes on the third Saturday of September, the day before Saint Lubin's Day, one of the town's two feast-days. The father was also hoping to take advantage of the trip to pick up from the tax-collector the interest on the bonds he kept hidden away, which had been accumulating since July; and he was relying on slipping away from his son in the course of the festivities. They would use the same vehicle for outward and return journeys – Shanks's pony.
As Fouan and Jesus Christ were standing at the level crossing just outside Cloyes waiting for a train to pass, Buteau and Lise came up in their cart. A quarrel broke out immediately between the two brothers, who hurled abuse at each other until the barrier was raised; and even when his horse was carrying him off down the slope on the other side, Buteau turned round with his smock bellying in the wind and shouted further remarks better left unsaid.
‘Shut your trap, you bloody slacker,’ Jesus Christ bawled with all his might, using his hands as a megaphone: ‘It's me who's feeding your father.’
Fouan spent an unpleasant time at Monsieur Baillehache's office in the Rue Grouaise, the more so as it was packed with people wanting to take advantage of market day and he had to wait nearly two hours. It reminded him of the day when he had come along to settle the distribution of his property; certainly he'd have done better to go and hang himself, that Saturday. When the lawyer finally saw them and he had to sign, the old man got out his glasses and wiped them; but his eyes were watering so much that they misted up, and his hand was trembling so that they had to put his fingers in the right place on the paper and he made a big blot of ink as he signed. He found the whole business such a strain that he kept trembling and sweating, casting bewildered glances all around him, like someone who has just had his leg cut off in an operation and is still looking for it. Monsieur Baillehache took Jesus Christ severely to task and he sent them both away with a legal homily: selling property was immoral, the state would certainly be increasing the legal costs in order to discourage people from selling rather than bequeathing it to their children.
Once outside, Fouan left Jesus Christ at the door of the Jolly Ploughman, in the midst of the market-day throng. The latter agreed with alacrity, not without a sly grin, for he suspected what the old man was up to. And indeed his father made his way straight to the Rue Beaudonnière where the tax-collector Monsieur Hardy had his office in a cheerful little house, with a courtyard in front and a garden at the back. He was a stout, jovial, rubicund man with a well-kempt black beard, held in awe by all the peasants who accused him of misleading them with all sorts of tall stories. His office was a narrow room, divided into two by a rail: he sat on one side, they on the other. Often there were a dozen of them standing packed like sardines. At the moment there happened to be only Buteau, who had just arrived.
Buteau could never agree to pay his taxes in one instalment. When he received the demand in March, he was in a bad temper for a whole week. He would angrily scrutinize the land tax, his income tax, the tax on personal estate, the door and window tax; but his main source of anger was the special rate, which went up every year, he claimed. Then he would wait to receive the first demand, which was free of charge. That gave him a week's grace. After that, he would pay in monthly instalments when he went to market; and each month he suffered the same torment; his sufferings even started the night before and he would take his money along as if going to the guillotine. The blasted government! What a gang of thieves they were!
‘Ah, it's you,’ said Monsieur Hardy cheerfu
lly. ‘I'm glad you came, I was just going to work out your additional charges.’
‘That would have been the end,’ grunted Buteau. ‘And you know I'm not going to pay the extra six francs of land tax that you added on. It's just not fair.’
The tax-collector laughed.
‘Oh yes, you tell that tale every month. I've already explained to you that your income must have increased because you've planted your former meadow down by the Aigre. We base ourselves on that.’
But Buteau argued fiercely: his income gone up? It was like his meadow, which used to be two hundred and eighty poles and which was now only two hundred and seventy-two, ever since the Aigre had changed its course and removed eight of them. Well, he was still paying on two hundred and eighty, did he call that justice? Monsieur Hardy replied calmly that that was a matter for the survey people and didn't concern him. Buteau would have to wait until the next survey. And under the pretence of explaining the matter again, he smothered him in figures and technical expressions that Buteau could not understand. Then, in his hearty way, he added:
‘Well, if you like, don't pay, I don't give a damn. The bailiff will be round to see you.’
Scared and taken aback, Buteau swallowed his anger. When you're the underdog, you have to submit; and his fear increased still more his long-standing hatred of this faceless and complicated authority which he could feel weighing him down, the administrators and the law courts, all these townee layabouts, as he was wont to call them. He slowly pulled out his purse. His thick fingers were trembling. He had been paid a good deal of small coin at the market that morning and he felt each sou carefully before putting it down in front of him. He counted out the money three times, all in five-centime pieces, which made him even more broken-hearted at having to hand over such a large pile of money. In the end, just as he was watching the tax-collector put the money into the till, old Fouan appeared.
The old man had not recognized his son from the back and was startled when he turned round.
‘And how are things with you, Monsieur Hardy?’ he stammered. ‘I was just going by and I thought I might drop in to pass the time of day. We hardly ever see each other these days.’
Buteau was not taken in by this. He said goodbye and left as though in a hurry; and then, five minutes later, he came back, pretending he had forgotten to ask for some information, at the very moment the tax-collector was paying out on his desk a quarter's interest, seventy-two francs in five-franc pieces. Buteau's eyes gleamed but he avoided looking at his father and pretended not to see him throw a handkerchief over them, gather them up into it like a fisherman hauling in his net, and stuff them into his pocket. This time they left together, Fouan very perplexed and casting furtive glances at his son, Buteau in high good humour and showing a sudden affection for his father: they could go along together and he offered to take him home in his cart. He went back with him to the Jolly Ploughman.
Jesus Christ was there with young Sabot, from Brinqueville, a wine-grower, another well-known joker, who could also produce enough wind to turn a windmill. So, having met, the pair of them had just made a bet of ten bottles of wine for the one who would blow out the greatest number of candles. With much guffawing, their friends went off with them, in great excitement, into the back room and formed a circle round them. One went into action on the left, the other on the right, trousers down, aiming with their backsides and hitting the mark each time. However, Sabot had managed ten and Jesus Christ nine, having run short of wind on one occasion. He was very cross about this; his reputation was at stake. Go to it! Would Rognes let itself be beaten by Brinqueville? And he blew stronger than any blacksmith's bellows had ever blown: nine! ten! eleven! twelve! The town drummer of Cloyes, who was relighting the candles, was almost blown away himself. With a great effort, Sabot had reached ten and was exhausted and windless when Jesus Christ triumphantly let off two more, calling on the drummer to light those two for the grand finale. The drummer lit them and they burned with a lovely golden yellow light, like a glowing sun rising in all its glory.
‘Ah, that bugger, Jesus Christ! What a gut that man's got! He takes the biscuit!’
Their friends were screaming and doubled up with laughter, in admiration not unmixed with jealousy because, after all, you had to be pretty solidly built to hold all that wind and let it out as and when you liked. They spent two hours drinking the ten litres, talking of nothing else all the time.
While his brother was putting on his trousers again, Buteau had given him a friendly slap on his backside and good relations seemed to be restored by this flattering family victory. Looking years younger, old Fouan told a story about his childhood, at the time when the Cossacks were in Beauce and one of them had gone to sleep beside the Aigre with his mouth open and he had shoved one in his gob which gave him a taste of shit up to his eyeballs. The market was coming to an end and everyone went off very drunk.
And then Buteau actually took Fouan and Jesus Christ back in his cart while Lise, with whom Buteau had had a quiet word, made herself agreeable, too. No more squabbling, they couldn't do too much for their father. But the elder brother, who was now sobering up, was busy thinking to himself: as his younger brother was being so pleasant, it must mean that the sod had uncovered the mystery, at the tax-collector's? In that case, hang on a second! If he, the black sheep of the family, had been decent enough to leave the nest-egg alone, he certainly wasn't going to be stupid enough to let the old man go back to the other couple. He would make sure of that, quite gently, without making a fuss, since the family now seemed set on being reconciled.
When they arrived at Rognes and the old man tried to get down, the two brothers scurried round to help, each trying to show more respect and affection than the other.
‘Lean on me, Father.’
‘Give me your hand, Father.’
They helped him down to the ground. And standing between the two of them, he felt scared, knowing in his heart that he had been found out, without any shadow of a doubt.
‘What's up with you? Why are you all being so kind?’
He was terrified by the way they were looking at him. He would have preferred them to be disrespectful, as usual. Ah, what bloody bad luck! Was he going to run into trouble now they knew he had some money? Disconsolately, he went back to the Castle.
It so happened that Canon, who had not been seen for the last two months, was sitting on a stone waiting for Jesus Christ. As soon as he caught sight of him, he cried out:
‘I say, your daughter's down in the Pouillards' wood with a man on top of her.’
Purple-faced with indignation, her father exploded:
‘The little slut, disgracing me again!’
And taking down his long horsewhip from its hook behind the door, he dashed down the rocky slope to the little wood. But whenever she was on her back, La Trouille's geese kept guard for her like good watchdogs. The gander at once scented her father and came up with all his flock. Threatening with lifted wings and stretching out his neck, he uttered a series of shrill hisses while, lined up in battle order, the geese all stretched out their necks too, with their large yellow beaks wide open ready to peck him. There was a crack of the whip and the sound of escaping animals: La Trouille had been warned and made herself scarce.
After he had hung up his whip again, Jesus Christ seemed to be overcome by a melancholy, philosophical mood. Perhaps his daughter's persistently shameless behaviour had made him take a more understanding view of human passion? Perhaps he had merely seen the vanity of fame after his triumph at Cloyes? He shook his unhappy head, the head of a drunken, scrounging, crucified Christ, and said to Canon:
‘Would you like to know something? The whole thing's not worth a fart!’
And, lifting his thigh, he let one go thundering over the village, now swathed in shadow, as though to shatter the earth beneath his contempt.
Chapter 4
IT was early October and the wine harvest was about to begin; a splendid week of feasting when quarrel
some families usually became reconciled over jugs of new wine. For a whole week Rognes would reek of grapes; people ate so many that women lifted their skirts and men dropped their trousers under every hedge and lovers stained with grape juice greedily exchanged kisses among the vines. In the end, there were lots of drunken men and pregnant girls.
The very day after their return from Cloyes, Jesus Christ started his search for his father's nest-egg, because the old man might not carry his money about on him and he must have secreted his bonds in some little corner or other. But although La Trouille helped him and they turned the whole house upside down, at first they met with no success, despite their astuteness and long experience of scrounging; but a week later, when he was lifting down a cracked old disused saucepan, the poacher discovered underneath some lentils a bundle of paper carefully wrapped up in the sort of oilcloth used to line hats. But no trace of cash: the old man had no doubt tucked his money away somewhere else: and it must be a pretty large sum because his father hadn't spent a penny for the last five years. But it was certainly the bonds, three hundred francs' worth of five per cent. As Jesus Christ was counting them over and examining them he discovered another sheet of paper, a stamped document which left him lost in amazement when he read it. Good God! So that's where the money was going!
It was an incredible story. A fortnight after splitting up his property at the lawyer's, heartbroken at the thought of no longer having any possessions of his own, not even one square inch of wheatland, Fouan had become distraught. No, he couldn't possibly go on living like that, it'd be the death of him. And so he had done something completely idiotic, comparable to the idiocy of an infatuated old man who sacrifices his last penny to creep furtively back to an unfaithful slut of a woman. And he, who had been so sharp in his day, had let himself be taken in by his friend, old Saucisse. He must have been really frantic to own some property and completely at the mercy of that fierce urge which overtakes old men who have toiled all their lives to make the land fruitful. So frantic was he that he had signed an agreement with old Saucisse whereby the latter made over an acre of land after his death, in exchange for a daily payment of seventy-five centimes for the rest of his natural life. Fancy making an agreement like that at the age of seventy-six, when the vendor is ten years younger than yourself! The truth was that, at about that time, Saucisse, the old rogue, had taken to his bed, coughing as if about to breathe his last, and blinded by his desire the other man stupidly took himself to be the cleverer of the two and was anxious to strike a good bargain. Be that as it may, it all goes to show that if you've got an urge, for a wench or a field, you'd do better to take to your bed than sign a piece of paper. The seventy-five centimes had now been paid over every morning for the last five years; and the more he paid out, the more fiercely Fouan became attached to that bit of land and longed to lay hands on it. To think that, having disposed of all the problems of his long working life, he had nothing else to do but die in peace and quiet while watching other people work themselves to skin and bone to cultivate the land, and then he'd gone back to let himself be killed by it! Alas, men are not very wise and old men are no wiser than young ones.
