Complete Works of Emile Zola (955 page)

So things went on till mid-July — Saint Henri’s day, which was the patronal feast-day of Rognes. A travelling ball-room, under canvas, was usually set up in the meadows of the Aigre; and on the road, in front of the municipal offices, there were three stalls, one kept by a cheap-jack, who sold everything down to ribbons; a shooting-gallery, and a game of turn-about, at which sticks of barley-sugar could be won. That day Mon­sieur Baillehache, who was breakfasting at La Borderie, profited by the occasion to go and have a chat with Delhomme, who begged him to accompany him to Fouan’s, and persuade the old man to listen to reason. Since Rose’s death the notary also had advised Fouan to take up his abode with his daughter and sell the house, which was now uselessly large. It was worth some three thousand francs; and he, the notary, even offered to take care of the money and to pay Fouan the interest on it in little sums, according to his humble wants.

They found the old fellow in his customary bewilderment, trudging about at random in a state of stupor, in front of a heap of wood, which he wanted to saw up without having the strength to do so. That morning his poor hands shook even more than usual, for on the night before he had undergone a terrible onslaught from Hyacinthe, who, to get hold of twenty francs, in view of the morrow’s festivity, had brought all his resources into play, bellowing maddeningly, crawling on the ground, and threatening to kill himself with a knife which he had purposely concealed up his sleeve. At this the old man had given the twenty francs, as he at once confessed, with an air of anguish, to the notary.

“Tell me, would you do otherwise? I’m dead beat, dead beat!”

So Monsieur Baillehache took advantage of the circumstance. “I’ve not come to talk about all that,” said he. “You can’t keep on like this. You won’t even have your own skin left you. At your age it isn’t prudent to live alone; and if you don’t want to be eaten alive, you must listen to your daughter. Sell this place and go and live with her!”

“Ah! so that’s your advice, too?” muttered Fouan. He glanced askance at Delhomme, who affected to hold himself aloof. However, remarking the old man’s look of distrust, he spoke out.

“You know, father,” he began, “that I say nothing, be­cause you perhaps imagine that I have some selfish object in inviting you. Good gracious, no! You’ll give us extra work at home, but then it annoys me to see you so uncomfortably situated when you might be living at ease.”

“Well, well,” replied the old fellow, “we must think it over. As soon as I make up my mind, I’ll be sure and let you know.”

Neither his son-in-law nor the notary could get anything more out of him. He complained of being bustled. His authority, which had gradually died out, just lingered in this obstinacy of old age — this obstinacy which made him regard­less even of his own comfort and well-being. In addition to his vague dread at the idea of no longer having a house of his own — a dread which was by no means unnatural, seeing how much he already suffered from having no land left him — he said “no,” because they all wanted to make him say “yes.” The brutes had something to gain by it, then? Well, he would say “yes” when he chose to do so, and not before. On the evening before, Hyacinthe having been weak enough in his rapture to show La Trouille his four five-franc pieces, had gone to sleep clutching them in his hand, for on the last occasion the minx had stolen one from under his bolster, taking advantage of the fact that he had come home drunk to assert that he must have lost it out of doors. On awaking he had a fright, the coins having escaped from his grasp during his sleep; but he found them again, quite warm, under his buttocks, and was then thrilled with a mighty joy. His mouth was already watering at the thought of how he would spend the cash at Lengaigne’s. It was the village fête, and no one with any decency would go back home at night-­time with any change left in his pocket. During the morning La Trouille vainly coaxed her father to give her one of the five-franc pieces, just a little one, she said; but he repulsed her, and was not even grateful for the stolen eggs with which she made him an omelette. No, no! It didn’t suffice that she was fond of her father; money was made for men. Then in a fit of wrath she put on her blue poplin dress — a present dating from the period of plenty — saying that she, too, was going to enjoy herself. She hadn’t got twenty yards from the door when she turned round and called out:

“Father, father, look!”

Her hand was raised, and she displayed between the tips of her slender fingers a five-franc piece which shone like a sun.

Hyacinthe fancied that he had been robbed, and, growing pale, he fumbled in his pockets. But the twenty francs were there all right. The hussy must have sold some of her geese, and the dodge striking him as funny, he chuckled paternally and let her go.

He was only strict on one point: morality; and it was on that account that, half-an-hour later, he fell into a violent passion. He also was going out, and was on the point of fastening the door, when a peasant, in holiday garb, passing along on the road below, hailed him.

“Hyacinthe, ahoy! Hyacinthe!”

“What is it?”

“I have just seen your daughter.”

“What of it?”

“Well, there’s a fellow with her.”

“Whereabouts are they?”

“In the ditch over there, at the corner of Guillaume’s field.”

On hearing this Hyacinthe raised both hands furiously to heaven.

“All right; thanks,” said he to the peasant. “I’ll fetch my whip. The dirty drab! Bringing dishonour on me like this, indeed!”

Having returned into his house, he took down from behind the door, on the left, a long horse-whip which he only used on these occasions; then with the whip under his arm he set out, creeping past the bushes as if after some game, so as to come upon the guilty couple unawares.

When, however, he turned round the bend of the road, Nénesse, who was keeping watch on a heap of stones, caught sight of him. It was Delphin who was with La Trouille. The two were taking turns, the one acting as outpost while the other amused himself.

“Look out!” cried Nénesse; “here’s Hyacinthe.”

He had seen the whip, and he started off across country like a hare.

La Trouille and Delphin were in the grassy ditch. What a nuisance! So here was her father coming! Still she had her wits sufficiently about her to hand Delphin her five-franc piece.

“Look here,” said she, “hide this somewhere. You can give it me back again. Quick, cut away, hang you!”

Hyacinthe came up like a hurricane, shaking the ground as he ran, and brandishing his whip, which smacked with a sound like that of crackling flames.

“Oh, you foul drab, you!” he shouted; “I’ll rouse you!”

He was so infuriated, on recognising the rural constable’s son, that he missed the lad, as the latter scuttled off on all fours through the brambles. La Trouille, hampered by her petticoats, could neither escape nor plead innocence. A lash of the whip soon set her upright, and brought her out of the ditch. Then the sport began.

“Take that, you dirty troll! See if that won’t quiet you!”

La Trouille, without saying a word, accustomed to these races, leapt away like a goat. Her father’s usual tactics were to bring her back home like that, and then lock her up. So she tried to make her escape towards the plain, hoping to tire him out; and on this occasion she all but succeeded, thanks to a chance encounter. For the last moment or so, Monsieur Charles and Elodie, whom he was taking to the fête, had been standing there stock-still, in the middle of the road. They had seen everything; the young girl staring wide with innocent stupefaction, the father red with shame and bursting with indignation. The worst was that as that shameless hussy La Trouille recognised him she tried to obtain his protection. He repulsed her, but the whip was within range, and, to avoid it, she took to dodging round her uncle and cousin; while her father swore more loudly than ever, coarsely reproaching her with her misbehaviour. Meantime he also dodged round Monsieur Charles, and launched forth a volley of lashes, with all his might. Monsieur Charles, dumbfounded and aghast at being thus encircled, could only bury Elodie’s face in his waist­coat, so that she might not see or hear anything. To such an extent did he lose his wits, that he himself became very coarse.

“Now, then, you dirty troll, will you leave me alone? Who­ever cursed me with such a family in this strumpets’ country?”

As soon as La Trouille was dislodged she felt that she was lost. One lash of the whip, which curled round her up to her arm-pits, made her spin like a top; another knocked her down, and dragged out a wisp of her hair. After that, brought back into the right road, her only idea was to get home as sharply as possible. She leapt over the hedges, cleared the ditches, and cut across the vineyards, without fear of impalement on the stakes. However, her little legs could no longer hold out; the lashes still rained down upon her round shoulders, upon her loins, indeed over all her precocious flesh. Not that she cared a straw; she had got to think it rather amusing to be tickled so hard. With a nervous laugh she finally leapt into the house, and took refuge in a corner, where the big whip could no longer reach her.

“Hand over your five francs,” said the father, “by way of penalty.”

She swore that she had lost them while running home, where­upon he sniggered incredulously, and rummaged her all over. Finding nothing, he flew into a passion again.

“What! So you’ve given them to your gallant! You blessed fool! You amuse them, and then you pay them!”

After that he went off in a towering rage, locking her in, and calling out that she should stay there all by herself till the next day, as he didn’t mean to return.

La Trouille, when once he had gone off, made an inspection of her body, which was just striped with two or three weals. Then she put her hair straight, and tidied her dress. Finally, she calmly undid the lock — a trick at which she had grown extremely skilful — and bolted off, without even taking the trouble to refasten the door. Nicely robbed the robbers would find themselves, if any came! She knew where to find Nénesse and Delphin again: in a copse beside the Aigre. They were, indeed, waiting for her there; and now it was her cousin Nénesse’s turn. He had three francs with him, the other three­pence. She had got her money back, and she decided good­naturedly that they would spend the whole lot together. They returned to the fair, and she set them a-shooting for macaroons, after buying herself a big bow of red satin, which she stuck in her hair.

Meanwhile, on arriving at Lengaigne’s, Hyacinthe fell in with Bécu, who had his official badge fastened on to a new blouse. The scamp apostrophised the constable vehemently.

“Look here, you! You’ve a pretty way of going your rounds! D’you know where I found your swine of a boy?”

“Where?”

“Why, with my daughter! I’ll write to the prefect and have you cashiered, you swine’s father — swine, yourself!”

This made Bécu fire up.

“Daughter, indeed! Why, she’s always flourishing her legs in the air — and so now she’s led Delphin astray? Hell and thunder! I’ll send the gendarmes after her!”

“Just try it on, you thief!”

Then the two snarled in each other’s faces, till, all at once, the strain was relaxed, and their fury dropped.

“We must have an explanation; let’s go in and liquor,” said Hyacinthe.

“I haven’t a copper,” replied Bécu.

Then the other merrily produced his first five-franc piece, tossed it in the air, and stuck it in his eye.

“Well, shall we spend it, you gay dog? Come along, my buck! It’s my turn now; you’ve paid often enough.”

They went into Lengaigne’s, chuckling for joy, and slapping each other affectionately on the back. Lengaigne had had an idea that year. As the owner of the strolling ball-room refused to come and pitch his tent in the village, disgusted at not having cleared his expenses the year before, the innkeeper had dar­ingly made a ball-room of his barn, which adjoined his tavern, with its front door communicating with the road. He had even made another doorway in the party-wall, so that ball-room and tavern communicated. This idea had brought him the custom of the whole village, and his rival, Macqueron, was furious at having his house empty.

“Two quarts at once; one for each of us!” yelled Hyacinthe.

As Flore, bewildered and radiant at sight of the throng of people, was attending to his order, he noticed that his arrival had interrupted Lengaigne, who had been reading a letter aloud, standing amid a group of peasants. On being questioned, the taverner replied, with a deal of dignity that it was a letter sent by his son Victor from the regiment.

“Ah, indeed, the rascal!” said Bécu, becoming interested. “And what does he say? You must begin it again for us.”

So Lengaigne read it over again.

“My Dear Parents, — This is to tell you that we have been here at Lille in Flanders for a month, less seven days. The country’s not bad except for the dearness of the wine, for which we have to pay as much as eightpence a quart.”

In all the four closely-written pages there was hardly any­thing else. The same detail recurred with infinite monotony, spun out into lengthened phrases. However, they all expressed surprise each time that the price of the wine was mentioned. So there were parts like that! How horrid! In the last lines of the letter came an attempt at sponging: a request for twelve francs to replace a lost pair of shoes.

“Ah, the rascal!” repeated the rural constable. “Some­thing like a fellow that, good God.”

After the first two quarts, Hyacinthe asked for two more: bottled wine, at a franc apiece, paying as he was served so as to create astonishment, and rapping his money on the table, in a way that revolutionised the tavern. When the first five-franc piece had been expended in drink, he pulled out a second one, screwed it into his eye, as before, and cried out that there was plenty more where that one had come from. So the after­noon slipped by, amid a bustle of drinkers passing in and out, and increasing tipsiness. Dull and sedate though they were on work-days, they were now all yelling, thumping, and spit­ting vehemently. It occurred to one tall thin fellow to get shaved, and Lengaigne sat him down forthwith in the midst of them, and scraped his skin so roughly, that the razor was heard going over the leathery integument as if at work on a scalded pig. A second took the first one’s place; ‘twas fine sport. And how the tongues wagged! There was Macqueron, now, who didn’t dare show himself outside. Wasn’t it this fool of an assessor’s own fault if the usual ball hadn’t come? Arrange­ments might have been made. But, sure enough, he preferred voting roads, and getting three times as much money for his land as it was worth. This allusion provoked a tempest of laughter. Fat Flore, whose triumph the day was to be, kept neglecting her customers to run to the door, bursting into insolent mirth, whenever she saw Cœlina’s jaundiced visage behind the opposite window-panes.