Complete Works of Emile Zola (965 page)

“Oh! it’s Delphin. Come in, my lad.”

Delphin ventured into the room, excusing himself as he made his greetings. He was wearing a blue blouse and heavy field-boots. He had no tie round his neck, and his face was brown from exposure to the hot sun.

“Well,” continued Delhomme, who had a high opinion of the lad, “will you be setting off for Chartres one of these days?”

Delphin opened his eyes widely, and then energetically ex­claimed:

“Oh! Curse it all! No, I should be suffocated in the place.”

The father cast a side-long glance at his son, and then Delphin, coming to the rescue of his friend, continued:

“It’s all very well for Nénesse to go there, as he looks so well when he’s dressed up, and can play the cornet.”

Delhomme smiled, for he was very proud of his son’s skill with the cornet. Fanny now returned with a handful of two-franc pieces. She slowly counted out ten of them into Nénesse’s palm. All the coins were quite white from having been kept beneath a heap of corn. She never trusted her money to her wardrobe, but hid it away in small sums in odd corners all over the house, underneath the corn, or the coals, or the sand; the consequence being that when she paid the coins away they were sometimes one colour, and sometimes another, white, black, or yellow.

“It will do, all the same,” said Nénesse, by way of thanks. “Now, Delphin, are you coming?”

Then the two young fellows went off together, and their merry laughter could be heard dying away in the distance.

Jean now emptied his glass, seeing that old Fouan, who had kept aloof during the whole of the last scene, had left the window to go out into the yard. Then he said good-bye to the Delhommes, and went out in his turn, finding the old man standing alone in the black night.

“Now, Fouan,” said Jean, “will you go to Buteau’s and arrange about my having Françoise? You are the master, and you have only got to say the word.”

“I cannot, I cannot,” replied the old man in the darkness, with a jerky voice.

Then he broke out excitedly, and unbosomed himself of his brooding wrath. He had done with the Delhommes, he declared, and in the morning he would go to live with Buteau, who had offered to give him a home. Even if his son beat him, he would prefer that to being gradually tortured to death by his daughter’s pin-thrusts.

This new obstacle exasperated Jean, and he spoke out bluntly:

“I must tell you, Monsieur Fouan, that Françoise and I have been together.”

The old peasant uttered a simple exclamation: “Ah!” Then, after a moment’s reflection, he added: “We had better wait. By-and-bye we’ll see what can be done.”

Fanny now appeared at the door, and called to her father to come in, as the soup was ready.

“Stick your soup behind!” shouted the old man, turning round to her. “I’m going to bed.”

And, indeed, he went upstairs to bed, with an empty stomach, and boiling over with anger.

Jean walked slowly away from the farm, so absorbed in his vexation that he found himself in the level plain again without being conscious of the road he was taking. The blue-black sky gleamed with stars, and the night was close and hot. The immobility of the atmosphere told of the approach of a storm now passing afar, and the reflection of lightning could be seen towards the east. As Jean raised his head he caught sight on his left hand of hundreds of phosphorescent eyes gleaming like candles, and turning towards him at the sound of his steps. It was the sheep in the pen, alongside of which he was now passing. Then he heard Soulas ask in his drawling voice: “Well, my lad?”

The dogs, who were lying on the ground, had not stirred, for they had scented that Jean belonged to the farm. The little swineherd, driven from the wheeled hut by the excessive heat, was sleeping in a furrow; the shepherd standing quite alone on the cropped plain, which was now enveloped in night.

“Well, my lad, have you settled it?”

“He says,” replied Jean, without even stopping, “that if she’s in the family-way he’ll see.”

He had already stridden past the pen, when old Soulas’s response reached him, sounding solemnly in the deep silence.

“That’s true. You must wait.”

Jean continued on his way. La Beauce lay stretched around him, buried in a leaden sleep; and there was an overwhelming sense of the silent desolation of the scorched stubble and the baked, parched soil in the burnt smell that floated in the air, and in the chirrup of the crickets which sounded like the cracking of embers among ashes. Nothing but the dim forms of the ricks rose above the melancholy nakedness of the plain; but every twenty seconds or so, low on the horizon, the lightning flashed in violet streaks of mournful aspect, which swiftly disappeared.

CHAPTER II

The next morning Fouan took up his abode with the Buteaus. The removal of his belongings did not give him any trouble, as they merely consisted of a couple of bundles of clothes, which he carried himself in two journeys. It was in vain that the Delhommes tried to bring about an explanation; he went off without replying to them.

At Buteau’s house he was given the big room on the ground-floor — behind the kitchen — which had hitherto merely been used for the storage of potatoes and beet-root for the cows. This room, unfortunately, was only lighted by a small window, some six or seven feet from the ground, and it was always as dim as a cellar. Then, too, the floor of hardened soil, the heaps of vegetables, and the rubbish that had been tossed into the corners gave rise to a copious moisture, which trickled down the bare plaster of the walls. The Buteaus, besides, left everything just as it was, and merely cleared out a corner for an iron bed, a chair, and a deal table. The old man, however, seemed quite delighted.

Buteau now felt very triumphant. Ever since Fouan had been living with the Delhommes he had been mad with jealousy, for he knew very well what would be said in Rognes. It would be reported from mouth to mouth that it made no difference to the Delhommes having to keep their father; but the Buteaus, poor folks, had barely sufficient for themselves. So now, during the earlier time of Fouan’s stay with him, he plied him with food in the hope of fattening him, and thus proving to the neighbourhood that there was no scarcity in his house. Then, too, there were the hundred and fifty francs a year, the proceeds of the sale of the house, which he felt sure the old man would leave to the one who looked after him and took care of him. Moreover, he reflected, now that Delhomme had no longer to support his father, he would doubtless begin to pay his share of the allowance again, two hundred francs a year, and in this expectation he was not disappointed. Buteau had reckoned upon getting these two hundred francs, he had calculated everything, and he flattered himself that he could get the credit of being a good and dutiful son without it costing him anything, besides having the prospect of reaping a substantial reward later on; to say nothing of the secret hoard which, so he still suspected, the old man must possess, though he had never been able to make certain on the point.

For Fouan the change was a perfect honeymoon. He was feasted and shown to the neighbours. Didn’t he look plump and well? the Buteaus asked. There were no signs of wasting or decline about him, were there? The little ones, Laure and Jules, were always playing with him, keeping him amused and delighted. But what, perhaps, pleased him most was the liberty to indulge himself in his elderly whims and ways, and to comport himself as he liked in the greater freedom of this household. Though Lise was a good and cleanly house­wife, she lacked Fanny’s precise tendencies and susceptibilities, and the old man was allowed to spit wherever he liked, to go out and come in as the fancy seized him, and to eat every minute if he chose, prompted by that spirit of the peasant who cannot pass a loaf without cutting a thick slice off it. Three months passed away in this pleasant fashion. It was now De­cember; and although the severe frosts froze the water in the old man’s jug at the foot of his bed, still he made no com­plaints. When it thawed, the moisture soaked through the walls of his room, and ran down them in dripping streams; but he seemed to take all this as a matter of course; he had been brought up in the midst of similar discomforts. So long as he had his tobacco and coffee, and was not badgered and worried, he declared he needed nothing more.

Matters began to cloud over, however. One fine, sunny morning, Fouan, on going back to his bedroom to get his pipe — the others imagined that he had already left the house — found Buteau there struggling to get the better of Françoise. The girl, who was strenuously resisting him, without, however, saying a word, pulled herself together and left the room, after taking the beetroot which she had come to get for the cows. The old man, on being left face to face with his son, became angry.

“You filthy swine, to be going after that girl, with your wife only a yard or two away!” he cried. “And it wasn’t she who wanted you either; I could see her wrestling with you!”

Buteau, however, who was still panting and flushed, received the old man’s remonstrances very badly.

“Why do you come poking your nose into everything?” he etorted. “You’d better shut your eyes and hold your jaw, or you’ll find it the worse for you.”

Since Lise’s confinement, and the fight with Jean, Buteau had been hotly pursuing Françoise again. He had waited till his arm was strong, and now all over the house he systemati­cally made onslaughts on the girl, feeling sure that if he could but once overcome her she would belong to him in future as much as he wished. Was not this the best way of preventing the marriage, and of keeping both the girl and her land? His passion for the two became intermingled, as it were; his resolute determination to retain the land, and not to part with what was in his possession, being blended with his unsated sexual lust, now exasperated by resistance. His wife was becoming enormously stout, a perfect heap of flesh, and she was still suckling, with Laure constantly hanging at her breasts; whereas the other one, the little sister-in-law, exhaled a most appetising odour; her bosom, moreover, being firm and elastic like the udder of a young heifer. He didn’t turn up his nose at either of them, by the way; in fact, he wanted to have them both, the one soft and flabby, and the other firmly built; both of them were attractive in their different styles. He considered himself quite a good enough cock to have two hens, and he dreamt of leading a pasha-like life, petted, carressed, and glutted with enjoyment. Why shouldn’t he marry both sisters, if he could get them to consent to his doing so? It seemed to him to be the best way of keeping things pleasant, and of avoiding a division of the property, which he dreaded as much as though he were threatened with having one of his limbs wrenched off.

Now, whenever he and Françoise found themselves alone for a moment, whether in the stable or the kitchen or anywhere else, it mattered not where, there was a sudden attack and defence; Buteau rushing upon the girl, and the girl striking him. It was always the same short, sharp struggle; the man seizing Françoise firmly round the waist, and the girl, with clenched teeth and savage eyes, forcing him to let go his hold by striking him with full force with her clenched fist. Not a word was spoken by either; there was no sound but that of their hot breath, a sort of stifled panting, the deadened stir of a struggle. Then Buteau would with difficulty restrain a cry of pain, while the girl straightened her clothes and limped away, feeling bruised and sore. These scenes took place when Lise was in the next room, and sometimes even when she was in the same room, with her back turned to them while she arranged some linen in the wardrobe. It was as though the wife’s presence excited the husband; he being at the same time certain of the girl’s proud and resolute silence.

Quarrels, however, had broken out since old Fouan had seen them among the potatoes. He had bluntly told Lise every­thing that he had seen, so that she might prevent her husband from making any further attempt upon his sister-in-law. Then Lise, after shouting to her father to mind his own business, angrily attacked her younger sister. She had only herself to blame, she cried, for enticing the men on, and what had hap­pened to her was only what was to be expected; all the men were swine. In the evening, however, Lise made such a scene with Buteau that she came out of her room the next morning with her eye bunged up and blackened by a heavy blow which he had dealt her with his fist during the discussion. After that there was constant quarrelling going on. There were always two of the inmates of the house trying to bite each other’s heads off, the husband and wife, or the husband and his sister-in-law, or else the two sisters, even if they were not all three engaged in devouring one another.

Then it was that the slowly and unconsciously-developed hatred between Lise and Françoise became truly bitter. Their whilom tender affection for each other gave place to a savage feeling, which kept them irritated with one another from morn­ing till night. The real and only cause of it all was this man, Buteau, who was like some poisonous leaven. Françoise, quite upset by his perpetual onslaughts, would have succumbed long previously if her will had not shielded her against desire each time he touched her. Her obstinate notions of abstract justice, her resolute determination neither to give up what was her own nor to take what was another’s, brought her no little trouble. She was angry with herself for feeling jealous and execrating her sister for possessing this man, rather than have shared whom she herself would have died. When he pursued her, she angrily retaliated by spitting upon him, and sent him back, befouled with her saliva, to his wife. To do this seemed in some way to soothe her struggling desires: it was as though she had spat in her sister’s face in her envious contempt, for the pleasure in which she had no share. Lise, on the other hand, was free from jealousy, feeling quite certain that Buteau had merely bragged in asserting that he enjoyed both of them — not that she believed him incapable of such a thing, but she was convinced that her sister was too proud to yield. The only grudge she felt against Françoise was that, owing to her persistent rejection of Buteau’s ad­vances, the whole house was becoming a hell upon earth. The fatter she grew, the more complacent she seemed to become, taking a lively delight in existence, and egotistically craving for pleasant, easy surroundings. It seemed to her the height of folly that her husband and sister should go on quarrelling like that, marring the sweetness of life, when they really had everything that was necessary for their happiness. The girl’s perverse disposition was the sole cause of all the trouble.