The Earth

by Emile Zola

  All night the skies had dissolved into rain and, sitting in a daze in the bedroom, his eyes brimming over with tears, Jean had listened to the water pelting down in torrents. Now, through the damp, warm morning air, he could hear the drum as though muffled in crape. The rain had stopped but the sky remained leaden and overcast.

  The drum roll continued for a long time. The drummer was new, a nephew of Macqueron's who had done his military service and was beating away as though leading his regiment into battle. The whole of Rognes was in a stir because the news of the threat of war which had been circulating in the last few days made the drawing of lots this year even more harrowing than usual. Oh, no, not to go and get bashed about by the Prussians, thank you very much! There were nine youngsters from the village who were drawing lots, something which had perhaps never happened before. And amongst their number were Nénesse and Delphin, who, after being bosom pals, had been separated when the former had gone to work in a restaurant in Chartres. Nénesse had slept at his parents' farm the night before and he had changed so much that Delphin hardly recognized him: a proper gent with a stick, a silk hat and a sky-blue tie, fastened in a ring: he wore tailor-made clothes and made fun of Lambourdieu's suits. The second lad, on the other hand, clumsy in build and with a weather-beaten face, had thickened out and looked as sturdy as a young tree. All the same, they had lost no time in renewing their friendship. Having spent part of the night together, they turned up in front of the school, arm in arm, when they heard the roll of the drum which kept up its persistent, relentless ratatatat.

  Parents were standing about in the square. Gratified at Nénesse's distinguished appearance, Delhomme and Fanny had come along to see him leave; moreover, their minds were at rest, because they had insured against any eventuality. As for Bécu, he had polished up his gamekeeper's badge and was threatening to give his wife a clout because she was crying: why shouldn't Delphin be fit to serve his country? The lad himself expressed indifference: he was sure, he kept saying, that he would draw the right number. When the nine had assembled, which took a good hour, Lequeu handed over the flag to them. There was discussion as to who should have the honour. It was usually the tallest and strongest, so they finally chose Delphin. He seemed very put out by this, because, despite having fists like hams, he was a shy young man and uneasy about anything he was not used to. What a long, awkward bit of gear to lug about! Let's hope it wouldn't bring him bad luck.

  At the two street corners, Flore and Coelina were each giving the final spit and polish to their respective tap-rooms, ready for the evening. Macqueron was gloomily looking on from the doorway when Lengaigne made his grinning appearance in his. It must be explained that the latter was exultant because two days ago the government inspectors had seized two casks of wine secreted in his rival's woodpile, and this unfortunate mishap had forced the latter to send in his resignation as mayor; and no one doubted that the anonymous letter denouncing him had certainly been sent by Lengaigne. To complete his discomfiture, Macqueron was in a state of fury over another matter: his daughter Berthe had so compromised herself with the wheelwright's son, whom he did not want as a son-in-law, that he had at last been obliged to agree to their marriage. For the last week, the women fetching water from the fountain had been talking of nothing else but the daughter's marriage and her father's trial. He would certainly be fined and perhaps even gaoled. So, faced by his neighbour's offensive laugh, Macqueron preferred to go back into his shop, embarrassed by the fact that other people were also beginning to laugh.

  But now Delphin had taken the flag and the drummer struck up again, Nénesse fell in behind him and the seven others followed, forming a small platoon which made its way along the level road. Little urchins ran beside them, while a few parents, the Delhommes, Bécu and a few others, accompanied them to the end of the village. Having got rid of Bécu, his wife hurried up the hill and furtively slipped into the church, where, after making sure that she was quite alone, although she was not religious she knelt down in tears, pleading to God to see that her son drew the right number. For more than an hour she knelt there mumbling her heartfelt prayer. The flag had gradually faded from sight in the distance along the Cloyes road and the sound of the drum had finally been swallowed up in the open air.

  Dr Finet did not call until about ten o'clock and he seemed greatly surprised to find Françoise still alive, for he had been expecting to have nothing more to do than sign the certificate. He examined the wound, shaking his head and slightly bothered by the story he had been told, although he had no suspicions. He asked to hear about it again: how on earth could the poor woman have managed to fall on the point of her scythe like that? He left, full of indignation at such clumsiness and vexed at having to come back for the death certificate. But Jean was still in a sombre mood and kept looking at Françoise who silently closed her eyes every time she felt her husband's questioning gaze resting on her. He suspected her of lying and of trying to hide something from him. At daybreak he had slipped away for a moment and hurriedly gone up to the field of lucerne to have a look, but he had not been able to see anything clearly, only footprints washed out by the torrential rain during the night and, in one place, trampled ground, doubtless where she had fallen. When the doctor had gone, he sat down again beside the dying woman's bed, alone for once, as Frimat's wife had left for lunch and La Grande had gone off to see if all was well at home.

  ‘Are you in pain?’

  She kept her eyelids tightly closed and made no reply.

  ‘Françoise, are you hiding something from me?’

  Apart from the little gasping breath in her throat, she seemed already dead. Ever since last night she had been lying on her back, motionless, as though frozen into silence. Although burning with fever, she seemed to have found inner reserves of willpower to prevent herself from becoming delirious, for fear of blurting something out. She had always had a peculiar character – pigheadedness, they called it – the pigheadedness of the Fouans, refusing to be like other people and full of ideas that amazed them. Perhaps she was moved by a sense of family solidarity stronger than hatred or desire for revenge? What was the point since she was going to die? These were things reserved for your kith and kin, kept buried in that little territory where you had all grown up together, things which must never, in any circumstances, be divulged to strangers; and Jean was a stranger, the young man whom she had never been able to bring herself to love, whose child she was taking with her, without giving birth to it, as though she were being punished for having conceived it.

  Meanwhile, ever since he had brought her back home to die, he had been thinking of the will. All that night he had been unable to banish the thought that, were she to die now, he would have only half the furniture and the money, the hundred and twenty-seven francs in the chest of drawers. He was fond of her, he would have given his own blood to save her, but the thought that he might lose not only her but the land and the house as well increased his sadness. Till now, however, he had never dared to raise the subject; it was so awkward, and also there had always been other people present. Finally, seeing that he was not going to learn anything further about how the accident had occurred, he decided to broach the other matter.

  ‘Perhaps there are some things that you'd like to settle?’

  Françoise became tense and did not seem to hear him. With her eyes closed and her face set, she made no sign.

  ‘You know, because of your sister, in case something were to happen to you. We've got the official paper in the chest of drawers over there.’

  He fetched the sheet of stamped paper and continued in an embarrassed voice:

  ‘Here we are. Would you like me to help you? Are you still strong enough to write? It's not that I'm interested for myself. It's just the idea that you won't want to leave anything to people who've done you so much harm.’

  Her eyelids twitched, proving that she had heard him. So she refused? He was shocked and uncomprehending. Perhaps she herself would not have been able to say why sh
e was shamming dead even before she was nailed in her coffin. The land and the house didn't belong to this man who had chanced to come into her life, like someone passing in the night. She owed him nothing, their baby was going away with her. By what right would this property have left the family? Her obstinately childish ideas of fairness protested: this is mine, that's yours, so let's say goodbye and that's that! Yes, these were some of the things and there were others as well, less clear, her sister Lise who now seemed so far away, lost in the distance, and Buteau alone remained, loved despite his brutality, desired and forgiven.

  But Jean too had become infected by this dread virus of lust for land. In exasperation, he raised her from her pillow in an attempt to make her sit up, at the same time trying to thrust a pen between her fingers.

  ‘Look, it's not possible, surely? Do you really prefer them to me? You'd let that gang take the lot?’

  At that Françoise opened her eyes and the look she gave him went straight to his heart. She knew that she was going to die; in her large staring eyes you could see her bottomless despair. Why was he torturing her like that? She wouldn't, she couldn't do it A muffled cry of pain and grief escaped her and that was all: she fell back in bed, her eyes closed again and once more her head lay still in the middle of the pillow.

  Ashamed of his brutality, Jean was so upset that he was still sitting there with the sheet of official paper in his hand when La Grande returned. She realized what was happening and drew him aside to ask him if there was a will. Stammering as he lied, Jean explained that he had been hiding the piece of paper in order not to cause Françoise unnecessary anxiety. La Grande seemed to approve; she was still on the side of the Buteaus, for she could foresee dreadful events taking place if they were to inherit. And sitting down at the table, she started her knitting again, saying loudly:

  ‘Well, as for me, I'll never do any harm to anyone. My affairs were cut and dried a long time ago. Oh yes, everyone will have his share, I'd be ashamed to favour one more than the other. You've all been remembered, you'll get it all one day!’

  This was exactly what she told the members of her family every day and she was repeating it at her great-niece's deathbed out of sheer habit. And every time she would laugh to herself at the thought of this famous will which would make them fly at each other's throats once she was gone. Every single clause contained a potential lawsuit.

  ‘Oh, if only you could take it all with you,’ she added in conclusion. ‘But since you can't, we must let others enjoy it!’

  Now Frimat's wife came in and sat down at the table facing La Grande. She was knitting too and the afternoon passed with the two old women quietly chatting, while Jean, unable to settle, kept walking up and down, going out and coming in again in an agony of suspense. The doctor had said there was nothing to be done, so they did nothing.

  First, Frimat's wife deplored the fact that no one had been to fetch Maître Sourdeau, a professional bone-setter from Bazoches, who knew about wounds as well. He would say some words and he could close them up by just blowing on them.

  ‘A wonderful man!’ confirmed La Grande, in a voice now full of respect. ‘He put the Lorillons’ breastbones straight. Old Lorillon's breastbone caved in and weighed down on his stomach, so that he started to go downhill fast. And the worst thing was that then old Lorillon's wife began to suffer the same thing, it's catching, of course, as you know. And so they all got it, their daughter, their son-in-law, all the three children. My word, they‘d've all died if they hadn't sent for Monsieur Sourdeau who put it right by rubbing a tortoiseshell comb on their stomachs.’

  The other old woman sat approvingly, nodding her chin at every detail. There was no doubt about it at all, everyone knew. She herself added a further fact:

  ‘It's old Sourdeau who cured the Budins' little girl of fever by slitting a live pigeon open and applying it to her head.’

  She turned her head towards Jean, who was standing in a daze by the bed.

  ‘I'd ask him to come if I was you. Perhaps it's not too late even now.’

  His reply was an angry gesture. He was too much of the supercilious townsman to believe in such things. And the two women went on and on, exchanging remedies, parsley under the mattress for kidney trouble, three acorns in your pocket to cure any swellings, a glass of water blanched by moonlight and drunk on an empty stomach to get rid of wind.

  ‘I say,’ Frimat's wife suddenly exclaimed, ‘if no one's going to fetch old Sourdeau, perhaps someone ought to ask the priest to come.’

  Jean made his same angry gesture and La Grande pursed her lips.

  ‘What earthly good could he do?’

  ‘What could he do? He'd bring God's comfort, that's not a bad thing, sometimes.’

  La Grande shrugged her shoulders as if to say that that sort of thing didn't cut much ice any more. Each to his own: God in his heaven, people on earth.

  ‘Anyway,’ she remarked after a pause, ‘the priest wouldn't come, he's ill, Bécu's wife told me just now that he was leaving by carriage on Wednesday because the doctor said that if they didn't get him away from Rognes he'd certainly peg out.’

  And indeed, during the two and a half years that Father Madeline had been parish priest, he had been steadily failing. Homesickness, a desperate longing for his mountains in Auvergne, had been slowly but surely gnawing at him every day at the sight of the flat plain of Beauce stretching to infinity, a sight which overwhelmed him with sadness. Not a tree or a rock, and brackish pools instead of fresh mountain streams cascading from the heights. His eye grew dimmer, his frame more gaunt than ever, people were saying that he had consumption. If only he could have taken some consolation from his parishioners! But this timid, uneasy soul, coming as he did from a very devout community, was appalled by the lack of religion of the villagers, who were interested only in the externals of their faith. The village women bewildered him with their shouting and squabbling and took advantage of his weakness to run church affairs for themselves, leaving him worried and full of qualms, constantly terrified of unwittingly falling into sin. One final blow lay in store for him: on Christmas Day, one of the Daughters of Mary was taken with labour pains in church. And ever since this scandal he had had difficulty in keeping going and they had become resigned to having him taken back to Auvergne, a dying man.

  ‘So we're going to be without a priest once more,’ said Frimat's wife. ‘Who knows if Father Godard will want to come back?’

  ‘That old curmudgeon!’ exclaimed La Grande. ‘The very thought would kill him.’

  Fanny now came in and the conversation came to an end. She had been the only member of the family to come the previous day and she had returned to see what was happening. Jean merely pointed towards Françoise with a trembling hand. A sympathetic silence followed. Then Fanny asked in a whisper whether the sick woman had asked to see her sister. No, she hadn't said a word about it, it was as if Lise didn't exist. This was very surprising because, however much they were at loggerheads, death is death. When else could you make your peace if not before you had to leave?

  La Grande thought that Françoise should be asked about it. She stood up and leant forward:

  ‘Well now, Françoise, what about Lise?’

  The dying woman did not stir. Her closed eyelids gave a barely discernible tremor.

  ‘Perhaps she's expecting someone to fetch her, I'll go.’

  At that, still without opening her eyes, Françoise said no by gently rolling her head on the pillow. And Jean insisted that her wish should be respected. The three women sat down again. They were surprised that Lise herself hadn't thought of coming now. Members of families were often terribly obstinate.

  ‘Oh dear, there are so many things to worry about,’ Fanny went on. ‘Take me, for example. I've been on tenterhooks all this morning because they're drawing lots. And it's silly, really, because I know that Nénesse won't have to go away.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Frimat's wife, ‘you get worked up all the same.’

  Once
more the dying woman was forgotten. They talked about the luck of the draw, of the young men who would have to go and those who wouldn't. It was three o'clock and, although they were not expected back until five o'clock at the earliest, rumours from Cloyes were already circulating, carried by the sort of bush telegraph that links village to village. The Briquets' boy had drawn number 13, no luck there! The Couillets' had drawn 206, he'd surely be safe! But the others were more doubtful, there were contradictory reports and excitement was rising to a high pitch. No news of either Delphin or Nénesse.

  ‘Oh, I'm all of a flutter, isn't it silly,’ said Fanny again.

  They called out to Bécu's wife, who was passing. She had gone back to the church and now was wandering about like a lost soul, feeling so harassed that she would not even stop to talk.

  ‘I can't stand it any longer, I'm going to meet them.’

  Jean was staring vacantly out of the window, not listening. Ever since that morning he had several times noticed old Fouan hobbling around the house on his two sticks. Suddenly he saw him again with his nose stuck to the window, trying to see into the room. He opened the window and the old man, looking quite taken aback, faltered: ‘How is she?’ Very low, it was the end. So he craned his neck and looked at Françoise from a distance, for such a long time that he seemed unable to tear himself away. When they saw him, Fanny and La Grande came back to their idea of sending for Lise. Everyone had to do his bit, it mustn't end like this. But when they asked him to run the errand, the old man gave a shiver of fright and made himself scarce, grunting and mumbling between his toothless jaws, his voice slurred from lack of practice.