Complete Works of Emile Zola (973 page)

In the Macquerons’ vineyard, Berthe still continued to play the fine lady, using little scissors, instead of a bill-hook, to cut off the bunches, showing herself also nervously afraid of thorns and wasps, and expressing great alarm because her thin shoes, quite saturated with dew, did not dry again. Although she detested Lequeu, she tolerated his attentions, feeling flattered by the courtship of the only educated man present. Presently he took out his handkerchief to wipe the girl’s shoes; but just then an unexpected apparition attracted their attention.

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Berthe, “did you ever see such a dress? I heard that she had arrived yesterday evening, at the same time as the priest.”

It was Suzanne, the Lengaignes’ daughter, who had unex­pectedly ventured to visit her native village, after leading a wild life in Paris for three years. She had reached home the previous evening, and had lingered late in bed, letting her mother and brother set out for the vineyard, and resolving to join them there later on, and appear in the midst of the peasants in such a showy toilet as would quite overwhelm them with admiration. And she certainly did create an immense sensa­tion; for she had donned a blue silk dress of so bright a hue that the blue of the sky looked quite pale and faded. As she stood in full relief amid the dark green of the vines, bathed in a flood of sunshine, she looked a real swell — something wonderful. She immediately began to talk and laugh loudly, nibbling at the grapes, which she held up in the air and then dropped into her mouth. She joked with Delphin and her brother Victor, who seemed very proud of her, and she excited the wondering admiration of her mother and Madame Bécu, who, leaving off their work, gazed at her with damp, straining eyes. The vintagers in the more distant vineyards joined in the general admiration; work was stopped, and every eye was turned upon the girl, who had grown and improved out of all recognition. People had once thought her plain, but now she looked really appetising, no doubt on account of the way in which she brought her little fair locks of hair over her phiz. The result of this inquisitive examination was a great feeling of deference for this plump girl attired in such costly raiment, and with such a smiling face, betokening prosperity.

Cœlina, turning quite yellow with bile, and biting her lips, burst out angrily before her daughter Berthe and Lequeu.

“My gracious, what a swell! Flore tells every one she meets that her daughter has servants and a carriage in Paris. And I daresay it’s true, too, for she must be making a deal of money to be able to deck her body out in that way!”

“Oh, those ne’er-do-wells!” said Lequeu, who wanted to make himself agreeable. “Every one knows how they get their money!”

“What does it matter how they get it,” retorted Cœlina bitterly, “so long as they do get it?”

Just at this moment Suzanne, who had caught sight of Berthe, and had recognised in her one of her old companions among the Handmaidens of the Virgin, came up to her.

“Good morning. How are you?” she said very politely.

She scanned her with a scrutinising glance, and noticed her faded complexion. Then, rejoicing in the soft richness of her own milky flesh, she suddenly exclaimed, breaking out into a laugh:

“Everything’s going on all right, I hope?”

“Quite so, thank you,” replied Berthe, annoyed, and feeling quite crushed.

The Lengaignes were the heroes of the day, and the Macquerons felt that their noses were put out of joint. Cœlina angrily compared the sallow scraniness of her daughter, whose face was already wrinkled, with the sleek and rosy beauty of the other girl. Was it just that that hussy, who gave herself up to men from morning till night, should look so fresh and bright, when a virtuous maiden grew as faded and wan in her lonely bed as if she had had three con­finements? No, indeed, virtue went unrewarded, and it wasn’t worth while for a girl to remain living an honest life with her parents! All the vintage parties greeted Suzanne enthusias­tically. She kissed the children who had grown taller, and she stirred the old folks’ hearts by reminding them of the past. What does it matter what one may be, as long as one has succeeded and is independent of other people’s patronage? And Suzanne, said the peasants, showed that she had a good heart by not despising her family, and by coming back to see her old friends now that she had grown rich.

At the first stroke of noon they all sat down to eat their bread and cheese. On a line with the tops of the stakes you saw rows of women’s heads covered with blue kerchiefs. None of them had any appetite, however, for they had been stuffing themselves with grapes ever since day-break. Their throats were sticky with the sugary juice; their bellies, as round and swollen as barrels, rumbled with the purgative effects of what they had swallowed. Already at every minute some girl or other was obliged to retire behind a hedge. The others naturally laughed, and the men got up and guffawed jocosely as the girls went past them. It was a scene of general merriment, quite free from all constraint.

They were just finishing their bread and cheese when Macqueron came in sight on the road at the foot of the hill­side, accompanied by the Abbé Madeline. Then Suzanne was abruptly forgotten, and all eyes were turned upon the priest, To tell the truth, he did not create a very favourable im­pression. He was as lank as a pike-staff, and gloomy and ascetic-looking. However, he bowed in front of each vine­yard, and said a pleasant word or two to every one, so that the peasants ended by finding him very polite and gentle. He evidently hadn’t got any will of his own; they meant to make him do as they pleased. It would be easier to deal with him than with that cross-grained, cantankerous Abbé Godard! As he passed on, they joked and grew merry again behind his back. Soon he reached the top of the hill, and then, a prey to vague fear and gloomy melancholy, he stood motionless, gazing upon the vast grey plain of La Beauce. The big bright eyes of this mountain-born priest filled with tears as he thought of the narrow hill-bound landscapes of the gorges of Auvergne.

Buteau’s vines were close to him. Lise and Françoise were gathering the grapes, while Hyacinthe, who had not failed to bring his father with him, had already got tipsy with the grape juice which he had swallowed while pretending to empty the small baskets into the large ones. The grapes were fer­menting inside him, puffing him out with such a volume of gas that it sought escape from every aperture. The presence of the priest, too, seemed to excite him.

“You dirty brute!” Buteau cried to him, “can’t you at least wait till his reverence has gone away?”

Hyacinthe, however, would not submit to the reprimand; assuming the air of a man who could be as refined as he chose, he replied:

“I’m not doing it on his account; I’m doing it to please myself.”

Old Fouan had sat down on the ground, tired, but rejoicing in the lovely weather and the fine vintage. He was grinning maliciously at the thought that La Grande, whose vines were on the adjoining plot, had come to wish him good-day. She, like the others, had begun to treat him with respect, now that she had learnt that he still had some money of his own. However, she had turned away from him abruptly, having caught sight of her grandson, Hilarion, greedily taking advantage of her absence to stuff himself with grapes. She promptly adminis­tered a hiding to him with her stick. The gluttonous pig! he ate more than he put in the basket!

“Ah, that aunt. What a lot of people will be pleased when she’s under ground,” exclaimed Buteau, as he came and sat down for a moment by his father’s side by way of paying court to him. “It’s a crying shame that she should abuse the poor innocent in that way, for if he’s as strong as a donkey, he’s also quite as stupid.”

Then he began to fall foul of the Delhommes, whose vines were down below, skirting the road. They had the finest vine­yard in the neighbourhood, some seven acres all in one plot, and it took a good half-score hands to get in the crop. The carefully tended vines produced larger bunches than any of the neighbours’ vineyards, a fact of which they were so proud that they affected to keep their own party quite distinct from the others, even disdaining to smile at the sudden colics which sent the girls in the adjoining plots scuttling behind the hedges. They were too much afraid of their legs, Buteau hinted, to care to climb up the hill to greet their old father, and so they pretended not to be aware of his presence there. Then he began to abuse Delhomme as a clumsy, cross-grained ass, who put on all sorts of airs, pretending to be industrious and just; and Fanny, too, was a shrew, losing her temper over the merest trifles, and demanding worship as though she were a saint. She remained quite unconscious of all the wrong she did to others!

“The truth is, father,” Buteau continued, “that I’ve always been fond of you, whereas my brother and sister — Ah! I’ve always regretted that we parted for a mere nothing.”

He then began to throw the blame of what had taken place upon Françoise, whose head, he said, had been turned by Jean. However, she had become steady now, he continued. If she showed any nonsense, he would cool her blood by ducking her in the horse-pond.

“Come, now, father, let bye-gones be forgotten. Why shouldn’t you come back to us? Will you?”

Old Fouan remained discreetly silent. He had been expect­ing the offer which his younger son now made; but he was unwilling to give a definite reply either one way or the other, not feeling at all certain as to his best course.

Buteau assured himself that his brother was at the other end of the vineyard, and then resumed:

“It’s hardly fit for you to stay with that scamp Hyacinthe. You’ll probably be found there murdered one of these days. Now, if you’ll come back to me, I’ll board and lodge you, and pay you the allowance as well.”

The old man raised his eyes in amazement; and as he still remained silent, his son determined to overwhelm him with his lavish offers.

“And I will take care that you have all your little luxuries, your coffee, and your glass, and your four sous’ worth of tobacco; everything you wish for, in fact.”

It was too tempting, and the old man began to feel alarmed. Certainly, things were getting bad at Hyacinthe’s, but what if there should be a repetition of the old goings-on when he got back to the Buteaus’ again?

“Well, we must see,” was all he said; and then he got up, anxious to bring the conversation to a close.

The vintaging lasted until nightfall; the carts incessantly carrying off the grape-laden casks, and bringing them back empty. Under the wide expanse of rosy sky, among the vines gilded by the setting sun, the flitting of the baskets, large and small, became brisker, each worker being excited by the intoxicating effects of all these grapes that were carried to and fro. Berthe now had a misfortune. She was seized with such a sharp and sudden attack of colic that she was not able to run off, and her mother and Lequeu were obliged to form a rampart round her with their bodies, while she relieved herself amongst the stakes. The vintagers in the adjoining plot observed what was happening, and Victor and Delphin wanted to take her some paper. But Flore and Madame Bécu res­trained them, saying that there were limits which only ill-bred persons would out-step.

At last they all set off home again. The Delhommes led the way; La Grande forced Hilarion to help the horse in pulling the cart along; and the Lengaignes and the Macquerons fraternised together in a maudlin, tipsy tenderness which made them forget their rivalry. What attracted most attention on the return home was the mutual politeness of the Abbé Madeline and Suzanne. The priest, seeing how well the girl was dressed, took her for a lady, and they walked along side by side, the Abbé showing her every attention, while she put on her sweetest manners, and inquired at what time mass was celebrated on Sunday. Behind them came Hyacinthe, who, in his hatred of priests, recommenced his disgusting tricks, deter­mined in his tipsy obstinacy to have a spree. At every five yards he lifted up his leg and let fly. That hussy Suzanne bit her lips to keep from laughing, while the priest pretended not to hear; and gravely exchanging pious remarks they walked on behind the file of vintage carts, escorted by this disgusting music.

At last, as they were nearing Rognes, Buteau and Fouan, who felt quite ashamed of Hyacinthe, made an attempt to silence him. But he still persisted in continuing his tricks, and protested that his reverence was quite under a mistake if he felt in any way hurt.

“Don’t I tell you that I mean no offence to any one, and that I am simply doing it for my own amusement?” he re­peated.

The following week the Buteaus invited their friends to come and taste the new wine. Monsieur and Madame Charles, Fouan, Hyacinthe, and some four or five others were to meet at seven o’clock and partake of some leg of mutton, nuts, and cheese — a real repast, in fact. During the day Buteau had barrelled his wine. There were six casks of it, full to the bung. Some of his neighbours, however, were not so far advanced in their operations. One of them, who was still vintaging, had been hard at work all the morning treading his grapes in a state of complete nudity; another, armed with a bar, was watching the fermentation, and beating down the stalks and skins that rose to the surface of the bubbling must; a third, who had a press, squeezed the grape skins in it, and then threw them into his yard in a reeking heap. Scenes like these were going on in every house; and from the burning vats, the stream­ing presses, the overflowing casks, indeed from all Rognes there arose the fumes of the wine, which were so strong as to suffice to make every one intoxicated.

Just before leaving the Château that day, Fouan was seized with a vague presentiment, which induced him to remove his papers from their hiding-place beneath the lentils in the pan. He thought it as well to conceal them about his person, for he fancied he had detected Hyacinthe and La Trouille looking up into the air with a meaning expression. They all three set out, and arrived at the Buteaus’ house at the same time as Monsieur and Madame Charles.

The full moon was so large and bright that it gave almost as much light as the sun; and as Fouan entered the yard, where one could have seen well enough to pick up a pin, he observed that Gédéon, the donkey, was in the outhouse, with his head inside a bucket. Fouan was not much surprised to see him at liberty, for he was a very cunning fellow, and fre­quently raised the latch with his mouth. The bucket, however, excited the old man’s curiosity, and, going up to it, he recog­nised it as one of the buckets used in the cellar, which had contained some wine from the press, left after Buteau had finished filling the casks. That cursed Gédéon was emptying it.