Complete Works of Emile Zola (1219 page)

“Say, you! do you take us for beggars that you leave us standing in the cold in weather such as this?”

But Prosper did not trouble himself to make any other reply than was expressed in a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders, and while he was leading the horse off to the stable old Fouchard, bending over the wheelbarrow, again spoke up.

“So, it’s two dead sheep you’ve brought me. It’s lucky it’s freezing weather, otherwise we should know what they are by the smell.”

Cabasse and Ducat, Sambuc’s two trusty henchmen, who accompanied him in all his expeditions, raised their voices in protest.

“Oh!” cried the first, with his loud-mouthed Provencal volubility, “they’ve only been dead three days. They’re some of the animals that died on the Raffins farm, where the disease has been putting in its fine work of late.”

“
Procumbit humi bos
,” spouted the other, the ex-court officer whose excessive predilection for the ladies had got him into difficulties, and who was fond of airing his Latin on occasion.

Father Fouchard shook his head and continued to disparage their merchandise, declaring it was too “high.” Finally he took the three men into the kitchen, where he concluded the business by saying:

“After all, they’ll have to take it and make the best of it. It comes just in season, for there’s not a cutlet left in Raucourt. When a man’s hungry he’ll eat anything, won’t he?” And very well pleased at heart, he called to Silvine, who just then came in from putting Charlot to bed: “Let’s have some glasses; we are going to drink to the downfall of old Bismarck.”

Fouchard maintained amicable relations with these francs-tireurs from Dieulet wood, who for some three months past had been emerging at nightfall from the fastnesses where they made their lurking place, killing and robbing a Prussian whenever they could steal upon him unawares, descending on the farms and plundering the peasants when there was a scarcity of the other kind of game. They were the terror of all the villages in the vicinity, and the more so that every time a provision train was attacked or a sentry murdered the German authorities avenged themselves on the adjacent hamlets, the inhabitants of which they accused of abetting the outrages, inflicting heavy penalties on them, carrying off their mayors as prisoners, burning their poor hovels. Nothing would have pleased the peasants more than to deliver Sambuc and his band to the enemy, and they were only deterred from doing so by their fear of being shot in the back at a turn in the road some night should their attempt fail of success.

It had occurred to Fouchard to inaugurate a traffic with them. Roaming about the country in every direction, peering with their sharp eyes into ditches and cattle sheds, they had become his purveyors of dead animals. Never an ox or a sheep within a radius of three leagues was stricken down by disease but they came by night with their barrow and wheeled it away to him, and he paid them in provisions, most generally in bread, that Silvine baked in great batches expressly for the purpose. Besides, if he had no great love for them, he experienced a secret feeling of admiration for the francs-tireurs, a set of handy rascals who went their way and snapped their fingers at the world, and although he was making a fortune from his dealings with the Prussians, he could never refrain from chuckling to himself with grim, savage laughter as often as he heard that one of them had been found lying at the roadside with his throat cut.

“Your good health!” said he, touching glasses with the three men. Then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand: “Say, have you heard of the fuss they’re making over the two headless uhlans that they picked up over there near Villecourt? Villecourt was burned yesterday, you know; they say it was the penalty the village had to pay for harboring you. You’ll have to be prudent, don’t you see, and not show yourselves about here for a time. I’ll see the bread is sent you somewhere.”

Sambuc shrugged his shoulders and laughed contemptuously. What did he care for the Prussians, the dirty cowards! And all at once he exploded in a fit of anger, pounding the table with his fist.

“
Tonnerre de Dieu!
I don’t mind the uhlans so much; they’re not so bad, but it’s the other one I’d like to get a chance at once — you know whom I mean, the other fellow, the spy, the man who used to work for you.”

“Goliah?” said Father Fouchard.

Silvine, who had resumed her sewing, dropped it in her lap and listened with intense interest.

“That’s his name, Goliah! Ah, the brigand! he is as familiar with every inch of the wood of Dieulet as I am with my pocket, and he’s like enough to get us pinched some fine morning. I heard of him to-day at the Maltese Cross making his boast that he would settle our business for us before we’re a week older. A dirty hound, he is, and he served as guide to the Prussians the day before the battle of Beaumont; I leave it to these fellows if he didn’t.”

“It’s as true as there’s a candle standing on that table!” attested Cabasse.

“
Per silentia amica lunoe
,” added Ducat, whose quotations were not always conspicuous for their appositeness.

But Sambuc again brought his heavy fist down upon the table. “He has been tried and adjudged guilty, the scoundrel! If ever you hear of his being in the neighborhood just send me word, and his head shall go and keep company with the heads of the two uhlans in the Meuse; yes, by G-d! I pledge you my word it shall.”

There was silence. Silvine was very white, and gazed at the men with unwinking, staring eyes.

“Those are things best not be talked too much about,” old Fouchard prudently declared. “Your health, and good-night to you.”

They emptied the second bottle, and Prosper, who had returned from the stable, lent a hand to load upon the wheelbarrow, whence the dead sheep had been removed, the loaves that Silvine had placed in an old grain-sack. But he turned his back and made no reply when his brother and the other two men, wheeling the barrow before them through the snow, stalked away and were lost to sight in the darkness, repeating:

“Good-night, good-night!
an plaisir
!”

They had breakfasted the following morning, and Father Fouchard was alone in the kitchen when the door was thrown open and Goliah in the flesh entered the room, big and burly, with the ruddy hue of health on his face and his tranquil smile. If the old man experienced anything in the nature of a shock at the suddenness of the apparition he let no evidence of it escape him. He peered at the other through his half-closed lids while he came forward and shook his former employer warmly by the hand.

“How are you, Father Fouchard?”

Then only the old peasant seemed to recognize him.

“Hallo, my boy, is it you? You’ve been filling out; how fat you are!”

And he eyed him from head to foot as he stood there, clad in a sort of soldier’s greatcoat of coarse blue cloth, with a cap of the same material, wearing a comfortable, prosperous air of self-content. His speech betrayed no foreign accent, moreover; he spoke with the slow, thick utterance of the peasants of the district.

“Yes, Father Fouchard, it’s I in person. I didn’t like to be in the neighborhood without dropping in just to say how-do-you-do to you.”

The old man could not rid himself of a feeling of distrust. What was the fellow after, anyway? Could he have heard of the francs-tireurs’ visit to the farmhouse the night before? That was something he must try to ascertain. First of all, however, it would be best to treat him politely, as he seemed to have come there in a friendly spirit.

“Well, my lad, since you are so pleasant we’ll have a glass together for old times’ sake.”

He went himself and got a bottle and two glasses. Such expenditure of wine went to his heart, but one must know how to be liberal when he has business on hand. The scene of the preceding night was repeated, they touched glasses with the same words, the same gestures.

“Here’s to your good health, Father Fouchard.”

“And here’s to yours, my lad.”

Then Goliah unbent and his face assumed an expression of satisfaction; he looked about him like a man pleased with the sight of objects that recalled bygone times. He did not speak of the past, however, nor, for the matter of that, did he speak of the present. The conversation ran on the extremely cold weather, which would interfere with farming operations; there was one good thing to be said for the snow, however: it would kill off the insects. He barely alluded, with a slightly pained expression, to the partially concealed hatred, the affright and scorn, with which he had been received in the other houses of Remilly. Every man owes allegiance to his country, doesn’t he? It is quite clear he should serve his country as well as he knows how. In France, however, no one looked at the matter in that light; there were things about which people had very queer notions. And as the old man listened and looked at that broad, innocent, good-natured face, beaming with frankness and good-will, he said to himself that surely that excellent fellow had had no evil designs in coming there.

“So you are all alone to-day, Father Fouchard?”

“Oh, no; Silvine is out at the barn, feeding the cows. Would you like to see her?”

Goliah laughed. “Well, yes. To be quite frank with you, it was on Silvine’s account that I came.”

Old Fouchard felt as if a great load had been taken off his mind; he went to the door and shouted at the top of his voice:

“Silvine! Silvine! There’s someone here to see you.”

And he went away about his business without further apprehension, since the lass was there to look out for the property. A man must be in a bad way, he reflected, to let a fancy for a girl keep such a hold on him after such a length of time, years and years.

When Silvine entered the room she was not surprised to find herself in presence of Goliah, who remained seated and contemplated her with his broad smile, in which, however, there was a trace of embarrassment. She had been expecting him, and stood stock-still immediately she stepped across the doorsill, nerving herself and bracing all her faculties. Little Charlot came running up and hid among her petticoats, astonished and frightened to see a strange man there. Then succeeded a few seconds of awkward silence.

“And this is the little one, then?” Goliah asked at last in his most dulcet tone.

“Yes,” was Silvine’s curt, stern answer.

Silence again settled down upon the room. He had known there was a child, although he had gone away before the birth of his offspring, but this was the first time he had laid eyes on it. He therefore wished to explain matters, like a young man of sense who is confident he can give good reasons for his conduct.

“Come, Silvine, I know you cherish bitter feelings against me — and yet there is no reason why you should. If I went away, if I have been cause to you of so much suffering, you might have told yourself that perhaps it was because I was not my own master. When a man has masters over him he must obey them, mustn’t he? If they had sent me off on foot to make a journey of a hundred leagues I should have been obliged to go. And, of course, I couldn’t say a word to you about it; you have no idea how bad it made me feel to go away as I did without bidding you good-by. I won’t say to you now that I felt certain I should return to you some day; still, I always fully expected that I should, and, as you see, here I am again—”

She had turned away her head and was looking through the window at the snow that carpeted the courtyard, as if resolved to hear no word he said. Her persistent silence troubled him; he interrupted his explanations to say:

“Do you know you are prettier than ever!”

True enough, she was very beautiful in her pallor, with her magnificent great eyes that illuminated all her face. The heavy coils of raven hair that crowned her head seemed the outward symbol of the inward sorrow that was gnawing at her heart.

“Come, don’t be angry! you know that I mean you no harm. If I did not love you still I should not have come back, that’s very certain. Now that I am here and everything is all right once more we shall see each other now and then, shan’t we?”

She suddenly stepped a pace backward, and looking him squarely in the face:

“Never!”

“Never! — and why? Are you not my wife, is not that child ours?”

She never once took her eyes from off his face, speaking with impressive slowness:

“Listen to me; it will be better to end that matter once for all. You knew Honore; I loved him, he was the only man who ever had my love. And now he is dead; you robbed me of him, you murdered him over there on the battlefield, and never again will I be yours. Never!”

She raised her hand aloft as if invoking heaven to record her vow, while in her voice was such depth of hatred that for a moment he stood as if cowed, then murmured:

“Yes, I heard that Honore was dead; he was a very nice young fellow. But what could you expect? Many another has died as well; it is the fortune of war. And then it seemed to me that once he was dead there would no longer be a barrier between us, and let me remind you, Silvine, that after all I was never brutal toward you—”

But he stopped short at sight of her agitation; she seemed as if about to tear her own flesh in her horror and distress.

“Oh! that is just it; yes, it is that which seems as if it would drive me wild. Why, oh! why did I yield when I never loved you? Honore’s departure left me so broken down, I was so sick in mind and body that never have I been able to recall any portion of the circumstances; perhaps it was because you talked to me of him and appeared to love him. My God! the long nights I have spent thinking of that time and weeping until the fountain of my tears was dry! It is dreadful to have done a thing that one had no wish to do and afterward be unable to explain the reason of it. And he had forgiven me, he had told me that he would marry me in spite of all when his time was out, if those hateful Prussians only let him live. And you think I will return to you. No, never, never! not if I were to die for it!”

Goliah’s face grew dark. She had always been so submissive, and now he saw she was not to be shaken in her fixed resolve. Notwithstanding his easy-going nature he was determined he would have her, even if he should be compelled to use force, now that he was in a position to enforce his authority, and it was only his inherent prudence, the instinct that counseled him to patience and diplomacy, that kept him from resorting to violent measures now. The hard-fisted colossus was averse to bringing his physical powers into play; he therefore had recourse to another method for making her listen to reason.