He cackled again and the sidelong look he gave Jean greatly embarrassed the latter, who had been sitting with hunched shoulders in silence ever since the conversation had come round to Jacqueline.
‘Don't let anybody try and lay a hand on her now,’ growled Tron like an angry dog afraid of losing its bone. ‘If he did, that'd be the last thing he'd ever do.’
Soulas scrutinized him for a second, surprised by this savage exhibition of jealousy. Then, relapsing into one of his long vacant silences, he said in his laconic way:
‘That's your business, son.’
When Tron had gone back to the cart that he was driving to the mill, Jean stayed with the shepherd for a moment to help him drive in some of the stakes with his mallet; and seeing that he was so quiet and sad, the latter started talking again:
‘At least it's not the Cognet girl who's upsetting you?’
The young man shook his head vigorously.
‘So it's someone else? Who is it then, since I've never seen you together?’
Jean was looking at old Soulas and thinking that in such matters old people can often give sound advice. So he yielded to his desire to unburden himself and told him all about it, how he'd had Françoise and why, after his scuffle with Buteau, he was afraid of never seeing her again. He had even been scared for a while that Buteau might sue him because of his broken arm which, although already well on the mend, was preventing him from working. But no doubt Buteau had thought that it's never wise to let the law poke its nose into private affairs.
‘So you stuffed Françoise did you?’ the shepherd asked.
‘Just once.’
He looked solemn, giving the matter thought, and then stated:
‘You must go and tell Fouan. Perhaps he'll let you have her.’
Jean was surprised because it had not crossed his mind to take such a simple step. The pen was now set up and he left, deciding to go and see the old man that very evening. And as he went off behind his empty cart, Soulas took up his watch again, a thin, lean, vertical, grey bar standing out against the flat line of the plain. The little pigherd had sat down between the two dogs in the shade of the tiny hut on wheels. The wind had suddenly dropped and the storm had slid away towards the east. It was very warm and the sun was sparkling in the pure blue sky.
That evening Jean left work an hour early and went to see old Fouan at the Delhommes', before dinner. As he went down the slope, he saw them removing the leaves in their vineyard, to let the sun into the bunches of grapes; rain had fallen at the end of the last moon and as the grapes were not ripening properly it was important to take full advantage of this last autumn sunlight. As the old man was not there, the young man hurried on, hoping to be able to speak to him alone, which he preferred. The Delhommes' house was at the other end of Rognes, beyond the bridge, a little farmhouse which had had more barns and sheds built on recently, forming three irregular blocks enclosing a fairly large farmyard which was swept out every morning and where even the dungheaps were straight as a die.
‘Good evening, old Fouan!’ Jean called out from the road, in a rather uncertain voice.
The old man was sitting in the yard with a stick between his legs and his head hanging down. However, when Jean called again, he raised his head and recognized him.
‘Oh, it's you, Corporal. So you were passing by?’
And he gave him such a friendly, unforced welcome, without any resentment, that the young man went in. But at first he did not dare mention or raise the matter; his courage was evaporating at the thought of telling him straight out about how he'd tumbled Françoise in the hay. They talked about the fine weather and how good it was for the vines. Another week of sun and the wine would be good. Then the young man tried a little flattery:
‘You're really sitting pretty now. I don't know a single farmer better off than you.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘What it is to have children like yours, you'd have to go a long way to find better ones!’
‘Yes, of course… Only, you know, they've all got their own ideas.’
He looked gloomier than ever. Ever since he had been living with the Delhommes, Buteau was refusing to pay his pension, saying that he didn't want any money of his to go to his sister. Jesus Christ had never paid out a penny and now that Delhomme was offering him bed and board, he too had stopped paying his father-in-law anything. But it was not lack of money that Fouan was complaining of, particularly as he was receiving one hundred and fifty francs a year from Maître Baillehache, exactly twelve and a half francs a month, from the sale of his house. Out of this he could afford to buy himself a few luxuries, his ha'porth of tobacco every morning, a little drop at Lengaigne's and a cup of coffee at Macqueron's, because the thrifty Fanny only produced coffee or brandy from her cupboard for medicinal purposes. And yet in spite of everything, although he could afford his little pleasures in the village and lacked for nothing in his daughter's house, he did not feel at home there and spent all his time grieving.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Jean said, not realizing that he was touching a sore spot, ‘when you're living in someone else's house, it's not like your own home.’
‘That's right, that's exactly it,’ grunted Fouan.
Then, rising to his feet as if seized by a spirit of revolt:
‘We're going to have a drink. I presume I've got the right to offer a friend a drink.’
But as soon as they had reached the door, he became scared:
‘Wipe your feet, Corporal, because, you see, they make a lot of fuss about being clean.’
Jean went in awkwardly, anxious to tell his story before the others returned. He was surprised at the tidiness of the kitchen: the copper pans were glistening, there was not a speck of dust on the furniture and the floor was worn down through much scrubbing. It was all spotlessly clean and cold, as if uninhabited. Over a fire damped down with ash, yesterday's cabbage soup was keeping warm.
‘Here's how!’ the old man said, having fetched an opened bottle and a couple of glasses out of the sideboard.
His hand was shaking a little as he drank, for he was frightened at what he had done. He put his glass down with a daredevil air and added suddenly:
‘Suppose I told you that Fanny hasn't spoken to me for two days, because I spat? Spat, eh? Doesn't everyone spit? Of course I spit when I want to. No, I'd just as soon bugger off as be pestered like that.’
And serving himself another glass, he poured out his heart, so pleased to have found someone in whom to confide that Jean could not get a word in edgeways. They were only trivial little complaints; he was just an angry old man who was being expected to be faultless and was having to conform to other people's habits. But he would not have been more affected by bullying or downright bad treatment. For him, any remark repeated in too sharp a tone was the equivalent of a slap in the face; and his daughter, too, was excessively sensitive and suspicious, with the vanity of an honest farmer's wife who took offence and sulked at the slightest misunderstanding; so that relations between her and her father were becoming more strained every day. Whereas at the time the property was divided, she had certainly been the nicest of the children, now she was turning sour and really beginning to persecute him, always after him with a cloth or dustpan and brush, telling him off for everything he did and everything he failed to do. Nothing really serious, merely constant pinpricks which eventually reduced him to tears when he was sitting all alone in a corner.
‘You must be patient,’ Jean kept saying at each complaint. ‘If you try hard enough, you can always get along.’
But Fouan, who had lit a candle, was growing excited and indignant.
‘No, I've had enough! Oh, if I'd only known what to expect here! I'd've been better dead the day I sold my house. But they're mistaken if they think they've got me. I'd sooner break stones by the roadside.’
He choked and had to sit down, at last giving Jean the opportunity to tell his story.
‘I say, old Fouan, I wanted to see you because o
f that business, you remember? I was very sorry, but I had to defend myself, didn't I, because he was attacking me. But the fact remains that we'd reached an understanding, and in view of everything, you're the only person who can arrange it. You could go to Buteau and explain it to him.’
The old man looked solemn. He was nodding his chin and looking embarrassed, wondering how to reply, when he was saved by the return of the Delhommes. They did not seem surprised at seeing Jean in their house and offered their usual friendly welcome. But at her first glance Fanny had seen the bottle and two glasses on the table. She removed them and said sharply, the first words she had addressed to him for forty-eight hours:
‘Father, you know very well that I don't allow that.’
Fouan jumped up, trembling with fury at this remark made in front of others.
‘What is it now? For Christ's sake, aren't I allowed to offer a friend a glass of wine? Go on, lock your wine away, I'll drink water!’
At this remark, it was her turn to be terribly offended at being accused of meanness. Her face went pale and she replied:
‘You can drink the lot and drink yourself to death for all I care. But what I won't allow is you dirtying my table and your wet glasses making round marks on it, like a common drinking-shop!’
Her father's eyes filled with tears. He had the last word:
‘A little less cleanliness and a little more kindness wouldn't go amiss, my daughter.’
And as she roughly wiped the table, he went over and stood at the window looking out into the dark night, shaking with silent despair.
Careful not to take sides, Delhomme had simply shown his approval of his wife's firm, sensible attitude by saying nothing.
‘You've no idea the trouble old people cause you. They're full of fads and bad habits and they'd sooner die than change them. He's no longer got the strength to make himself really unpleasant. All the same, I'd sooner have four cows to look after than one old man.’
Jean and Delhomme nodded agreement. But she was interrupted by the sudden arrival of Nénesse, dressed like a young man-about-town in a jacket and fancy trousers, bought off the peg from Lambourdieu, and wearing a tiny stiff felt hat. He had a long neck, hair cut short at the back and, with his swagger, blue eyes and flabby face, he had the shady look of a tart. He had always had a horror of the land and he was off to Chartres next day to work in a restaurant with a dance band. His parents had long been opposing his refusal to follow in his father's footsteps but his mother had at last been prevailed upon to persuade his father. And ever since the morning Nénesse had been celebrating his imminent departure with the lads of the village.
For a split second he seemed rather put out at seeing a stranger. Then he took the bull by the horns:
‘I say, Father, I'm going to invite them to dinner at Macqueron's. I'll need some money.’
Fanny glared at him and opened her mouth to refuse. But she was so vain that Jean's presence held her back. Of course they could find twenty francs for their son without trouble! And without a word she went off, with a disapproving look.
‘Are you with friends, then?’ his father asked him.
He had caught sight of a shadow in the doorway. He went over and, recognizing the young man who was standing outside, he said:
‘Ah! It's you, Delphin, come on in, my boy.’
Delphin sidled in, with an apologetic air. ‘Good evening all.’ He was in a blue smock and overalls and heavy ploughing shoes, tieless, and with his face already weather-beaten.
‘Well, my lad,’ said Delhomme, who thought highly of him, ‘are you going to be off to Chartres one of these days, too?’
Delphin stared in surprise, then he said forcefully:
‘Good God no! I'd die if I had to live in a town!’
As Delhomme glanced sideways at his son, the other boy, not wanting to let his friend down, went on:
‘It's all right for Nénesse to go because he likes fine clothes and he can play the cornet!’
Delhomme gave a smile because he was inordinately proud of his son's skill on the cornet. And Fanny now came back with a handful of two-franc pieces and slowly counted out ten of them into Nénesse's palm. They were all white, having been hidden in a pile of wheat. She did not trust her cupboard and she used to secrete her money in small sums all over the house, in the corn, in the charcoal, in the sand; the money was sometimes one colour and sometimes another, white, black or yellow.
‘That'll do,’ said Nénesse, as a form of thanks. ‘Coming, Delphin?’
And the two lively lads made themselves scarce and you could hear them laughing as they went off.
Jean emptied his glass, seeing that Fouan, who had kept his back to the room all the time, was leaving his post at the window to go into the yard. He took his leave and found the old man standing outside in the pitch-black darkness.
‘Look, old Fouan, will you go and see Buteau to get Françoise for me? You're the boss, all you need to do is to speak up.’
In the gloom, the old man was repeating in a jerky voice:
‘I can't, I can't.’
Then he exploded and confessed he'd had enough of the Delhommes, tomorrow he'd go and live with the Buteaus, who had offered to take him in. If his son beat him it would hurt him less than his daughter's constant pinpricks, which were killing him.
Exasperated at this new complication, Jean finally told the truth:
‘I must tell you, old Fouan, Françoise and I went to bed together.’
The old man merely exclaimed:
‘Ah!’
Then after a moment's thought:
‘Is she pregnant?’
Although he was certain that she couldn't be, because he'd cheated, Jean replied:
‘She might be.’
‘In that case, you only need wait. If she's pregnant, we'll see.’
At that moment, Fanny appeared in the doorway to tell her father the soup was ready. But he turned round and yelled at her:
‘You can shove your soup up your arse! I'm going to bed!’
And he went up to bed, supperless, furious with pique.
Jean made his way slowly back to the farm, in such a torment of grief that he found himself up on the plateau without realizing how he had reached it. It was sultry and the dark blue sky was spangled with stars. In the still air you could once again sense a storm approaching and passing by far away to the east, where you could see sheet-lightning. And lifting his head he saw hundreds of glowing eyes looking at him on his left, like flaring candles, following the sound of his footsteps. It was the sheep in their pens beside which he was passing.
Soulas called out in his slow voice:
‘Well, my boy?’
The dogs stretched out on the ground had not stirred, scenting that it was someone from the farm. Driven out of the hut by the heat, the little pigherd had gone to sleep in a furrow. And only the shepherd remained on his feet in the level plain wrapped in darkness.
‘Well, my boy, what happened?’
Without even stopping, Jean replied:
‘He said that if the girl's pregnant, we'll see.’
He was already past the pen when old Soulas's voice, sounding solemn in the vast silence, caught up with him:
‘He's right, you'll have to wait.’
And so Jean continued on his way.
Plunged in leaden slumber, Beauce stretched out endlessly. The smell of burning in the air and the chirping of crickets spluttering like embers on their ash told of scorched stubble and stripped baked earth, of silent desolation. Only shadowy haystacks reared up against the bare and melancholy plain. Every twenty seconds, sudden purple streaks of lightning flashed sadly on the distant horizon.
Chapter 2
NEXT day, Fouan moved in with the Buteaus. His move caused no upheaval: two bundles of old clothes which the old man insisted on carrying himself, in two trips. The Delhommes tried to extract an explanation but in vain. He left without uttering a word.
The Buteaus gave him the large d
ownstairs room behind the kitchen which till then had been used for storing potatoes and beetroot for the cows. The worst thing was that the only light came from a fanlight set high in the wall, which made the room as dim as a cellar. And the earth floor, the heaps of vegetables and the rubbish in the corners made the bare damp plaster walls stream with yellow beads of moisture. Nor did they bother to move anything but merely cleared a corner to put the iron bedstead, chair and plain wooden table. The old man seemed delighted.
Buteau was triumphant. He had been wild with jealousy ever since Fouan had been with the Delhommes, because he knew what people were saying in Rognes: of course it was no hardship for the Delhommes to board and lodge their father; but as for the Buteaus, well, they just didn't have the wherewithal. So at the beginning they kept urging him to eat, merely to fatten him up and prove that there was no shortage of food in their house. And then there was the hundred and fifty franc annuity from the sale of his house which he would certainly pass on to the child who had been looking after him. In addition, now that he was no longer keeping him, Delhomme would no doubt start paying him the annual two hundred franc pension again, which he in fact did. Buteau was relying on those two hundred francs. He had worked everything out and he had said to himself that he would have the credit of being a good son without having to put his hand in his pocket and with the expectation of further reward later on – apart from the nest-egg that he still suspected his father of possessing, although he had never succeeded in ascertaining whether it in fact existed.
For Fouan, it was a real honeymoon. He was well treated and paraded before the neighbours: how about that? Wasn't he in fine fettle? Did he look as if he was fading away? The two children, Laure and Jules, were always scrambling round his feet and wrapped themselves round his heart, giving him something to do. But above all he was happy to be able to go back to his old man's fads and fancies and to feel freer in a household which was more easy-going. Although she was a good housewife, and clean, Lise was much less fussy and sensitive than Fanny and he could spit where he wanted, come and go as he pleased and eat at all hours, having the peasant habit of never passing by a loaf of bread without cutting himself a slice, according to the way his work was going. Three months went by like this; then December came and in the terrible frosts the water in the jug at the bottom of his bed froze; but he made no complaint, not even when with the thaw his room became soaking wet, with water streaming off the walls like a downpour of rain. He thought all this perfectly natural, having spent his whole life in similar hardship. As long as he had his baccy, his coffee, and no one to bother him, he used to say, he was the king of the world.