Complete Works of Emile Zola (998 page)

Delhomme quietly waited till the priest’s first ebullition of anger was exhausted, and then began to argue with him. The Church, he said, did not refuse the last sprinkling of holy water to any one; and a corpse could not be kept indefinitely in the house. Then he tried more personal arguments; the dead man was his father-in-law, the father-in-law of the mayor of Rognes. Come, now, shouldn’t they say to-morrow at ten o’clock? No! no! no! cried the Abbé Godard, blustering and almost choking in his wrath, and Delhomme had to go away without being able to make him yield, though he hoped that he would think better of it before morning.

“I tell you that I won’t come,” the priest shouted at him for the last time from his door. “Don’t ring the bell, for I tell you I won’t come; no, a thousand times no!”

The next morning, however, Bécu received the mayor’s orders to ring the bell at ten o’clock. They would see what would happen. Everything was ready at the Buteaus’ for the funeral; the body had been placed in the coffin on the previous evening under the experienced eyes of La Grande. The room, too, had been washed, and the only trace left of the fire was the old man’s corpse screwed down ready for interment.

The bell was tolling, and the family had met together in front of the house, waiting for the removal of the body, when the Abbé Godard was seen hurrying along up the street, quite out of breath from running, and so flushed and furious that he held his hat in his hand, half afraid lest he should fall down in a fit. Without looking at any one he dashed into the church, immediately reappearing again in his surplice, followed by two choir-boys, one of whom carried the cross, and the other the vessel of holy water. Then he rapidly proceeded to mutter over the corpse, and, without troubling himself as to whether the bearers were following him with the coffin, he returned to the church, where he began to say mass at a furious pace. Clou and his trombone and the two choristers quite lost their breath in their attempts to keep up with him. In the front row were the members of the family, Buteau and Lise, Fanny and Delhomme, Hyacinthe and La Grande. Monsieur Charles also honoured the funeral with his presence, but Madame Charles had been at Chartres for the last two days with Elodie and Nénesse. As for La Trouille, just as she was on the point of starting for the ceremony, she discovered that three of her geese were missing, and she rushed off to search for them. Behind Lise stood the two children, Laure and Jules, com­porting themselves very decorously, with their arms crossed, and an expression of deep gravity on their widely-opened eyes. The other seats were crowded with acquaintances, women for the most part, including La Frimat, La Bécu, Cœlina, Flore, and many others, making up such a gathering as the family might well be proud of. As the priest turned to the congre­gation, he threw his arms open with such a terribly threatening expression that it looked as though he were going to cuff them all. Bécu, who was very drunk, was still tugging at the bell. Altogether it was a very satisfactory mass, though solem­nised somewhat hurriedly. The congregation, however, showed no signs of vexation, and they even smiled secretly at the Abbé’s anger, which they quite excused, for it was only natural that he should be a little sulky over his defeat, just as they themselves felt elated at the victory of their village. An expression of sly satisfaction beamed on all their countenances. They had forced him to celebrate the blessed sacrament amongst them, though in reality they cared nothing at all about it.

When the mass was over, the aspersorium was passed from hand to hand, and then the procession reformed. First came the cross and the chanters, then Clou and his trombone, then the priest, choking from his breathless haste, next the body carried by four peasants, then the family, and finally the crowd of acquaintances. Bécu had now commenced to tug so ener­getically at the bell that the crows flew off from the steeple, croaking in distress. The funeral party reached the graveyard at once; they had only to turn the corner of the church. The chants and music broke out into fuller sound amid the hushed silence, beneath the vapoury sun which imparted warmth to the quivering peacefulness of the weeds and grass. When the coffin appeared in the open air, it seemed so small that every one looked at it in surprise. Jean, who was still standing by the grave, was painfully affected by the sight. Ah, poor old man! to be so emaciated by age, so shrunken owing to the wretchedness of his life, that he had room enough to lie com­pletely in that mere toy-box! that mere pretence of a coffin! But little room would he want for his grave, and but a very slight incumbrance would he be to the soil, that mighty mother earth, whom he had so passionately loved.

As the coffin was laid down by the edge of the yawning grave, Jean’s eyes followed it, and then strayed further away, over the little wall, sweeping La Beauce from end to end. Again he beheld the sowers stretching away into the far dis­tance ceaselessly swinging their arms, while the seed streamed over the gaping furrows.

When the Buteaus caught sight of Jean, they exchanged an uneasy glance. Could the scoundrel be waiting there with the intention of creating some disturbance? They would never be able to sleep at ease as long as he remained in Rognes! The boy who carried the cross had just planted it at the foot of the grave, and now the Abbé Godard, standing in front of the coffin which was lying on the grass, hurriedly repeated the last prayers. The spectators’ attention was, how­ever, diverted on noticing that Macqueron and Lengaigne, who had arrived late, were gazing intently towards the plain. Every one now turned to look in the same direction, and noticed a thick cloud of smoke rolling up into the sky. It seemed to come from La Borderie; probably some stacks be­hind the farm had caught fire.

“Ego sum—” exclaimed the priest in a tone of fury; and then the funeral-party again turned towards him, fixing their eyes once more upon the coffin; Monsieur Charles alone was in­attentive, continuing a whispered conversation with Delhomme. He had that morning received from Madame Charles a letter which filled him with delight. During the four-and-twenty hours she had been in Chartres, Elodie had shown herself in the most surprising light, displaying as much energy and shrewdness as even Nénesse himself. She had got the better of her father, and was already in possession of the house. Ah, she had the proper gifts, a ready hand and a sharp eye! Monsieur Charles was quite overcome with emotion as he thought of the happy old age that was now in store for him at Roseblanche, where his rose-trees and his carnations had never looked better than they were doing now; and it seemed to him, too, that his birds had quite recovered their health during the last few days, for they sang again so sweetly as to stir his very soul.

“Amen!” now cried the boy who was carrying the vessel of holy water.

Then the Abbé Godard, in his angry voice, immediately commenced the psalm:

“De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine—”

And as he continued, Hyacinthe, who had taken Fanny aside, began to abuse the Buteaus again.

“If only I hadn’t been so drunk the other day,” he began. “But really it isn’t possible, you know; we can’t submit to be robbed in this way.”

“Yes, there’s no doubt but what we are being robbed,” murmured Fanny.

“Those two wretches have got the scrip, that’s quite certain,” her brother continued. “They’ve been enjoying the dividends for a long time past; they settled it all with old Saucisse, I know that for a fact. God in heaven! aren’t we going to take proceedings against them?”

On hearing this Fanny started back, and shook her head energetically.

“No, no,” she said; “I certainly sha’n’t. I’ve got quite enough on my hands as it is. But you can, if you like.”

Hyacinthe, in his turn, now made a gesture of alarm and refusal. As he couldn’t get his sister to interfere, he didn’t care to come into close contact with the law; his own antecedents worried him.

“Oh, no, no! I can’t do anything,” said he. “People have a spite against me. Never mind, even if we don’t send them to gaol, we at least have the satisfaction of knowing that we can carry our heads erect.”

La Grande, who was listening, watched him as he drew himself up with an air of unsullied integrity. She had always considered him a simpleton, blackguard though he was, and she felt quite vexed that such a great big fellow didn’t go and smash everything in his brother’s house to compel him to give him his share. Then, with a desire to make game of the brother and sister, she abruptly launched out into her custom­ary statement, without any preliminaries.

“Ah, well, you’ll never find me wronging any one. My will’s been made a long time past, and every one will get a fair share. I couldn’t die with an easy mind if I had shown an unfair preference for any one. Hyacinthe is down in it, and you, too, Fanny. I’m ninety years old now, and the day will soon come. Yes, it will come indeed.”

However, she did not believe a word of it; she had made up her mind that she would never die, such was her obsti­nate determination to stick to her property. She would see all her relations buried. Here was another one, her brother, whom she was seeing being put away. The whole affair, the carrying of the corpse, the open grave, the final ceremony, all seemed matters which concerned her neighbours, and not herself. Tall and fleshless, with her stick under her arm, she stood firmly erect amid the graves, without showing the slightest sign of emotion, merely exhibiting a feeling of curiosity in her neighbours’ shrinking from death.

The priest was now sputtering out the last verse of the psalm.

“Et ipse redimet Israel ex omnibus iniquitatibus ejus.”

Then he took the sprinkler out of the holy water vessel and shook it over the coffin, exclaiming in a louder tone:

“Requiescat in pace.”

“Amen” responded the two boys.

Then the coffin was let down into the grave. The grave-digger had already slipped the ropes under it, and a couple of men amply sufficed to lower it, for the old man’s corpse didn’t weigh more that that of a little child. The funeral party now passed in procession in front of the grave, and the sprinkler again passed from hand to hand, every one shaking it crossways over the coffin.

Jean, who now stepped up, received the aspersorium from the hands of Monsieur Charles, and his eyes sought the bottom of the grave. He was rather dazzled, as he had gazed so long upon the far-stretching plain of La Beauce, watching the sowers as they sowed the bread of the future, from one end of the ex­panse to the other, and dwindled away in the suffused light of the vaporous horizon. However, down in the depths of the soil Jean could distinguish the coffin, looking still smaller than before, with its narrow lid of pale corn-yellow pinewood. The clods of rich earth were falling over it and gradually concealing it from view; and now there was only a pale glimmering patch to be seen, looking like a handful of the corn which the sowers were scattering in the furrows over yonder, he shook the sprinkler, and then handed it to Hyacinthe.

“Your reverence! your reverence!” Delhomme now called, running after the priest, who, as the service was over, was striding off with a furious gait, forgetting all about the boys.

“Well, what is it now?” asked the priest

“I only wanted to thank you for your kindness in coming. I suppose we may have the bell rung for mass at ten o’clock on Sunday, as usual, eh?”

The priest looked at him keenly without making any reply, and Delhomme hastily added:

“By the way, there’s a poor old woman who is very ill, and absolutely alone, and she hasn’t got a farthing either — Rosalie, the chair-mender; you know her, don’t you? I have sent her some food, but I can’t do everything.”

The Abbé Godard’s features lost their stern expression, and a thrill of charity swept away his wrath. He began fumbling in his pockets, but could only find seven coppers.

“Lend me ten francs,” said he. “I’ll give you them back on Sunday. Good-bye till Sunday, then.”

Then he rushed on again, in a fresh burst of haste. Although it was quite certain that the good God whom they had forced him to bring amongst them would send all these cursed villagers to roast in hell, still, that was no reason why they should be left in too great suffering and tribulation in this life.

When Delhomme joined the others, he found himself in the midst of a violent quarrel. For some time the funeral party had stood quietly watching the sexton shovelling the soil on to the coffin. Presently, however, chance having brought Macqueron and Lengaigne close together beside the grave, the latter began to abuse the former on the subject of the plots. The family group, which had just been going away, thereupon remained to listen, and soon took an excited interest in the war of words, to which the sound of the falling soil furnished a muffled, regular accompaniment.

“You had no right to do it!” cried Lengaigne. “Your being mayor made no difference at all! You ought to have followed the row! You only shove yourself close up to my father to annoy me. Confound it all! You haven’t gained your ends yet, I can tell you!”

“Aren’t you going to shut up!” replied Macqueron. “I have paid for the plot, and it’s my own property. And when my time comes, it won’t be a foul swine like you who will pre­vent me from being laid there.”

The two men had stepped apart, and each was now stand­ing by his own plot, the few feet of earth where they would some day sleep their long sleep.

“But, you confounded villain, can you stomach the thought that we shall be lying there, shoulder to shoulder, like a couple of bosom friends? As for me, it makes my blood boil to think of it! To think that, after being enemies all our lives, we shall patch up a peace down there, and lie quietly side by side! No, no, indeed! No patching up, no forgetting for me!”

“Ah, well, I don’t care a curse! You can blow yourself out with rage till you burst, if you like, but I’ve too much con­tempt for you to trouble myself about knowing whether your carcass will rot near mine or not!”

This scornful reply capped Lengaigne’s exasperation; and he blurted out that if he lived the longer, he’d come in the night and dig up Macqueron’s bones and toss them outside the graveyard, rather than submit to lie beside them. Macqueron sniggered, and said he should like to see him do it; and then the women joined in the fray, that dark, skinny wench, Cœlina, making an angry attack upon her husband.