The Earth

by Emile Zola

  Buteau was still hugging Lise in his arms. Now they were both burning hot as if desire had set their blood on fire. Suddenly he let go of her and sprang out onto the tiled floor in his bare feet.

  ‘I'm going to take a look myself.’

  He disappeared, candle in hand, while she held her breath and listened wide-eyed in the dark. But minutes went by and no sound came from the room next door. In the end, she heard him come back without a light, his feet padding softly on the floor, his breath coming in gasps. He came up to the bed and reached for her, whispering:

  ‘You come, too, I'm afraid to do it by myself.’

  Lise followed Buteau, holding her arms out in front in order not to bump into him. They no longer noticed the cold and felt uncomfortable in their nightclothes. The candle standing on the ground in the corner of the old man's room showed him lying on his back with his head beside the pillow. He was so stiff and gaunt with age that but for the painful rasping breath issuing from his gaping mouth you might have thought he was dead. He was toothless and his mouth looked like a black hole into which his lips seemed to be falling; and the two of them bent over and peered into it as if to see how much life remained at the bottom. For a long time, they stood looking side by side, with their hips touching. But their arms had lost their strength; it was so easy and yet so difficult to pick something up and stuff it into that hole. They walked away and came back again. Their mouths were too dry to say anything, they could speak only with their eyes. She was staring at the pillow as though to say: Go on! What are you waiting for? But he stood there, blinking and pushing her into his place. In exasperation, Lise suddenly caught hold of the pillow and clapped it down on her father's face.

  ‘What a skunk you are! Why has it always got to be a woman?’

  At this, Buteau ran forward and pressed with all his might on the pillow while Lise climbed onto the bed and sat her bare rump down with all her weight like some dropsical old carthorse. As though demented, they leant on him with their hands and thighs and shoulders. Their father gave a violent jerk and his legs shot up with a sound like a breaking spring; he looked like a fish squirming about on the grass. But not for long. They were holding on to him too tightly and they could feel him subsiding underneath them as his life ebbed away. A long shudder, a final quiver and all that was left was a piece of limp rag.

  ‘I think that's it,’ grunted Buteau breathlessly.

  Lise stopped bouncing up and down and remained sitting hunched up, waiting to see if she could feel any quiver of life underneath her.

  ‘That's it, he's not moving.’

  She slid to one side, her shift rolled up round her hips, and lifted off the pillow. But then they gave a grunt of terror.

  ‘Christ Almighty! He's gone all black, we're sunk!’

  Indeed, it would have been impossible for him to have got into such a state by himself. They had pounded away at him so savagely that his nose had been pushed right down into the back of his mouth; and he was all purple, like a real black man. For a second, they could feel the ground swaying beneath their feet, they could hear the thundering hooves of the gendarmes, the clink of handcuffs, the thud of the guillotine. The sight of their botched handiwork filled them with horror and remorse. What could they do about it now? It would be no good washing his face with soap, they'd never succeed in making him white. And this terrifying, sooty hue gave them an inspiration.

  ‘Suppose we set fire to him?’ muttered Lise.

  Buteau heaved a sigh of relief:

  ‘That's right, we can say he set light to himself.’

  Then he thought of the bonds and he clapped his hands as his face lit up and he gave an exultant laugh.

  ‘By Christ, that's it! We'll make them think that the papers went up in flames with him. There'll be no accounts to settle!’

  He quickly rushed over to fetch the candle but she was afraid of setting everything alight and at first refused to let him bring it too close to the bed. In the corner behind the beetroot there were some straw ties; she picked one up, lit it and began by setting fire to her father's hair and his long white beard. There was a sizzling sound, with little yellow flames and a smell of spilt fat. Suddenly they recoiled in horror, open-mouthed, as if some icy hand had pulled them back by their hair. Under the dreadful pain of his burns, their father, not completely smothered, had opened his eyes and this hideous black countenance, with its big broken nose and blazing beard, was staring at them. It took on a fearsome expression of pain and hatred and then collapsed. The old man was dead.

  Buteau was panic-stricken, but at this moment he uttered a yell of fury as he heard sobbing at the doorway. It was the two children, Laure and Jules, in their nightclothes, who had been woken up by the noise and had come in through the open bedroom door, attracted by the glare of the flames. They had seen what was happening and were screaming with fright.

  ‘You blasted little vermin,’ shouted Buteau, rushing towards them. ‘If you ever say a word, I'll strangle you. And here's something to remind you.’

  He gave them both a clout that sent them sprawling. They picked themselves up, dry-eyed, and ran away, to curl up on their mattress, where they did not stir again.

  Now anxious to finish, Buteau, despite his wife's objections, set light to the palliasse. Fortunately the room was so damp that the straw burned slowly. Big clouds of smoke swirled up and they opened the skylight, half asphyxiated. Then it began to flare up until the flames reached the ceiling. In the middle their father was crackling and the unbearable stench, the stench of burning flesh, grew stronger. The old house would all have gone up in flames like a haystack if the straw had not started smoking again, damped down by the bubbles dripping from the body. All that remained on the cross-pieces of the iron bedstead was a half-charred corpse, disfigured and unrecognizable. One corner of the straw mattress was still intact, with a tiny corner of cloth hanging down.

  ‘Let's go,’ said Lise, who was shivering again, despite the tremendous heat.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Buteau replied. ‘Got to make things look all right.’

  Placing a chair beside the bedhead, he knocked the old man's candle off it, to make it seem as if it had fallen onto the palliasse. He was even artful enough to set light to some paper on the ground. They would find the ashes and he would explain that the day before the old man had found his bonds and kept them by him.

  ‘That's that, let's get to bed!’

  Buteau and Lise left the room, jostling each other in their haste to hurry back to bed. But the sheets were icy cold and so they once more clung desperately to each other to warm themselves up. Dawn came and still they could not sleep. They said nothing, but shudders ran through them and they could hear the pounding of their hearts. They had left the door of the next room open and it was this that so troubled them; but the thought of closing it disturbed them even more. They dozed off, still clasped in each other's arms.

  Next morning, hearing the Buteaus' desperate calls, the neighbours hurried round and Frimat's wife and the other women were able to see the upset candle, the half-burnt straw mattress, the papers reduced to ashes. They all exclaimed that it was bound to happen, they'd predicted it dozens of times before, because the old man was in his second childhood. And what a stroke of luck that the house hadn't burnt down as well!

  Chapter 6

  Two days later, on the very same morning old Fouan was to be buried, Jean woke up very late, tired after a sleepless night in the little room which he had rented in Lengaigne's house. He had still not gone to Châteaudun to see the magistrate, although this was his only reason for not leaving Rognes; every evening he kept putting off his decision until the following day, even more hesitant as his anger cooled; and it was a final, anxious struggle with himself to reach a decision that had kept him awake.

  Those Buteaus! What murderous beasts they were, killers whom any honest man ought to try to send to the guillotine. As soon as he had heard of the old man's death, he had realized the foul deed they had committed.
That disgusting pair had roasted him alive to shut his mouth. First Françoise, then Fouan. Killing the one had forced them to kill the other. Whose turn next? And he reflected that it was his turn: they knew he was in on the secret and they'd surely pick him off in some lonely corner if he persisted in remaining in the district. So why not denounce them to the police straight away? He had almost decided to do so; he'd go and see the police as soon as he got up. Then once more he was gripped by indecision, full of misgivings at the thought of such a matter of life or death in which he'd have to be a witness and frightened that he himself might suffer as much as the guilty ones. What was the point of stirring up more trouble for himself? Of course, he was not behaving very courageously, but his excuse was, as he kept reassuring himself, that by keeping quiet he was respecting Françoise's last wishes. A dozen times during the night he had swung to and fro, on tenterhooks at the thought of this duty which he dare not face.

  When Jean finally sprang out of bed at around nine o'clock, he dipped his head in a basin of cold water and suddenly reached a decision: he would say nothing, he wouldn't even start a lawsuit to get back half the furniture. The game would certainly not be worth the candle. His pride came to his rescue: he was pleased not to be one of such a band of rogues, to be an outsider. Let them devour each other if they wanted: it would be a good riddance if they all destroyed themselves. All the suffering and disgust he had experienced during his ten years in Rognes surged up inside him in a flood of anger. To think that he had been so blissfully happy the day he left the army, after the Italian campaign, because he wouldn't be a sabre-rattler or a killer any more! And ever since then he had been living amongst savages, surrounded by foul play of every sort! Immediately he'd got married, he'd felt sad at heart; and now there were thieves and murderers about! Real wolves prowling around over such a vast, tranquil plain! No, he'd had enough of all these ravening beasts; living in the country was impossible. What was the point of tracking down one couple, one male and female, when they ought to exterminate the whole pack? He'd sooner leave.

  At that moment, Jean's eyes fell on a newspaper that he had picked up in the bar the night before. He had been interested by an article on the imminence of war, for the war rumours which had been circulating during the last few days had been causing much alarm and despondency; and an unconscious, half-extinguished flame now suddenly flared up, rekindled by the news. His last motive for hesitation, the thought that he had nowhere to go, was suddenly removed, swept away as though by a gust of wind. That was the answer. He'd go and fight, he'd join up again. He'd paid his debt but so what? When you've got no fixed job any more and life is unpleasant and you're fed up at being harassed by enemies, then the best thing is to go off and smash 'em! He felt suddenly relaxed and exhilarated. While he was dressing, he loudly whistled the bugle call which he had followed into battle in Italy. People were such swine and the hope of demolishing a few Prussians cheered him up; and since he had found no peace in this corner of the world where families were all out for each other's blood, he might just as well go in for real slaughter. The more people he could kill, the more bloodstained the earth, the more he would feel he was getting his revenge for this god-forsaken life of misery and suffering that mankind had reduced him to.

  When Jean went downstairs, he ate two eggs and bacon served by Flore and then called to Lengaigne to settle his bill.

  ‘You leaving, Corporal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you'll be back?’

  ‘No.’

  The innkeeper looked at him in surprise, keeping his thoughts to himself. So this big clot was going to give up his rights?

  ‘And what are you going to do now, then? Taking up carpentering again?’

  ‘No, soldiering.’

  On hearing this, Lengaigne's eyes nearly popped out of his head and he could not restrain a contemptuous snigger. What an idiot!

  Jean was already on the road to Cloyes when, seized by a sudden emotion, he stopped, and went back up the hill. He could not leave Rognes without taking a final farewell of Françoise's grave. And there was something else as well, the desire to take a last look at the immense sad plain of Beauce which he had come to love during his long solitary hours working there. The churchyard lay at the back of the church, surrounded by a small broken-down wall, so low that as you stood amongst the graves your gaze could range from one end of the horizon to the other. Under the pale March sun, the hazy sky had the delicacy of white silk, enlivened by the merest touch of blue; and under this gentle light, still numbed by winter frosts, Beauce seemed to be prolonging its slumber like a drowsy woman no longer properly asleep but not stirring, luxuriating in her laziness. The far horizon was misty and the plain seemed all the more immense with its square fields of autumn wheat, oats and rye already green, while on the rest of the arable land, still bare, spring sowing had already begun.

  In every direction men could be seen moving along with a steady sweep of their arms sowing the rich earth. The golden seed could be seen as a living cloud slipping from the hands of the nearest sowers; and then, as their figures became smaller and were lost in the infinite space, the seed swirled around them until, in the far distance, it seemed like a sheer quivering of light itself. For miles around, at every point of the boundless plain, the life of the coming summer was raining down in the sunlight.

  Jean stood beside Françoise's grave. It was in the middle of a row and old Fouan's grave was already dug next to it. The cemetery was overgrown with weeds, for the parish council had never been able to bring itself to vote the fifty francs needed for the gamekeeper to keep it tidy. Crosses and surrounds had rotted where they stood; a few stained old stones still remained, but the charm of this solitary corner lay in its very neglect and its deep calm, barely disturbed by the cawing of the ancient rooks wheeling around the steeple of the church tower; here, away from the world, you could sleep in humility and forgetfulness; and filled with this peace of the dead, Jean was standing gazing with curiosity over the vast plain and the sowing which was bringing it new life when the bell began to toll slowly, three times, then twice, then a full peal. It was Fouan's body starting on its last journey. The bandy gravedigger came up with his rolling gait to take a quick look at the hole.

  ‘It's too small,’ Jean remarked. He felt suddenly emotional and anxious to stay and watch.

  ‘Not a bit!’ the lame man replied. ‘He's shrunk in the roasting.’

  The previous day the Buteaus had been very apprehensive until Dr Finet had called. But the doctor's only worry was to expedite the signing of the death certificate to save himself unnecessary journeys. He came, looked, expressed his indignation at the stupidity of families who leave old men who are wandering in their minds alone with lighted candles, and if he did harbour any suspicions, he took good care to keep them to himself. Good God! Suppose they had crisped their old father a bit, since he was in no hurry to die! He'd seen it all; such things hardly mattered. In his indifference, born of contempt and resentment, he was content merely to shrug his shoulders: a dirty rotten lot, these peasants!

  Relieved, the Buteaus now had only the ordeal of meeting the family, which they had foreseen and faced resolutely. As soon as La Grande appeared, they burst into tears, to put up a front. She scrutinized them in surprise, thinking it rather unwise to cry quite so bitterly; in any case, she had only come round out of curiosity, for she had no claim on any of the estate. It was more dangerous when Fanny and Delhomme appeared. He had just been appointed mayor to replace Macqueron and this had given his wife such a swollen head that she was in danger of bursting with pride. She had kept her word; her father had died without any reconciliation between them; and she was still smarting so much with indignation that she shed no tears over his corpse. But someone was sobbing: it was Jesus Christ making a very drunken entrance. He wept buckets of tears over the body, bellowing that it was a blow from which he would never recover.

  However, Lise had set out glasses and wine in the kitchen and they got
down to business. They started by excluding the annuity of one hundred and fifty francs from the sale of the house, because it had been agreed that this should go to the one who was looking after their father at the time of his death. However, there remained the nest-egg. Hereupon Buteau told his story of how the old man had taken his bonds from underneath the marble top of the chest of drawers and how it must have been for the pleasure of looking at them that night that he had set light to his hair and beard; they had even found the ash of the papers; there were people who would bear witness to it, Frimat's wife and Bécu's wife, amongst others. They all eyed him while he was telling his tale but he remained unperturbed as he crossed his heart and swore blind. Obviously the family knew and he didn't give a damn as long as he was left in peace with the money. Moreover, with her usual high-handed bluntness, Fanny did not mince her words, calling them thieves and murderers: of course they had set light to their father and robbed him, it was as plain as a pikestaff! The Buteaus responded with violent insults and monstrous accusations. So she wanted to stir up trouble for them, did she? And what about the poison in the soup that had nearly made the old man kick the bucket when he was living with her? They'd have plenty to say about everybody else if anyone said anything about them. Jesus Christ had started whimpering and howling again, grief-stricken that such dreadful crimes were possible. Heavens above! His poor father! Were there really sons who were such inhuman beasts as to roast their own father? When they ran out of steam, La Grande added a few words to stir the pot. Then, uneasy at the row they were all making, Delhomme went and closed the doors and windows. He had his official position to think of now and, in any case, he was always in favour of sensible solutions. So he ended by saying that such things ought not to be mentioned. A fat lot of good it would do them if the neighbours were to hear! There would be legal proceedings and the innocent would perhaps lose more than the guilty. They all fell silent: he was quite right, there was no point in washing your dirty linen in public in a law-court. They were terrified of Buteau; a crook like that was capable of ruining them. And underlying all this – their acceptance of crime, their deliberate silence over murder and theft – there was even the sense of collusion peasants feel for the outlaws of their society, for poachers and killers of gamekeepers whom they may fear but will never betray.