Things started to go wrong when, one bright sunny day, coming back to his room to pick up his pipe when he was thought to have gone out, Fouan found Buteau tumbling Françoise on top of the potatoes. The girl, who had been defending herself staunchly, without uttering a word, picked herself up and left the room after collecting the beetroot that she had come to fetch for her cows. The old man, face to face with his son, expressed his annoyance:
‘You dirty pig, with that girl and your wife round the corner, too! And she didn't want to, I could see her struggling.’
But Buteau, still red in the face and panting, refused to accept the rebuke:
‘What the hell are you interfering for? Look the other way and keep your trap shut or there'll be trouble!’
Ever since Lise's confinement and the fight with Jean, Buteau had once more been furiously pursuing Françoise. He had waited until his arm was properly set and now he would leap on her in every corner of the house, certain that if he could have her just once she would then be his as often as he wished. Wasn't that the best way of putting off her marriage and keeping both the girl and the land as well? These two desires were even becoming fused into a wild refusal to give up anything he held, so that his passion to own the field was matched by his frustrated lust and exacerbated by the girl's resistance. His wife was becoming enormous, a great lump of a woman; and she was breast-feeding so that Laure was always sucking away at one nipple or the other, whereas this other girl, his little sister-in-law, smelt fresh and young and her breasts were as firm and supple as the udders of a heifer. In any case, he wouldn't sneeze at either of them: that would give him two, one soft one and one hard, each agreeable in her own way. He was a good enough cock for two hens and he saw himself as a pasha, pampered and petted and surfeited with pleasure. Why shouldn't he marry both the sisters if they agreed? That would be a proper way to cement their friendship and avoid dividing their property, which he viewed with dread, as though someone were threatening to cut off one of his limbs.
And so, as soon as they were alone anywhere for a minute, in the cowshed or the kitchen, Buteau would spring to the attack and Françoise would defend herself tooth and nail. And there was always the same scenario: he pushed his arm up her skirt and caught hold of a handful of naked flesh and hair, as when mounting an animal; she, sombre-eyed and clenching her teeth, would force him to let go with a well directed punch between the legs. And no word was ever spoken, the only sound was their panting breaths and muffled gasps, their quiet scuffling; he restrained his cry of pain and she would pull down her skirts and go limping off, her parts bruised and tingling, still with the feeling of his five fingers digging into her flesh. And this would happen with Lise in the room next door, or even in the same room, with her back turned as she tidied away some sheets in a cupboard, as though his wife's presence excited him. He was certain that the proud obstinate young girl would never utter a sound.
But ever since old Fouan had seen them on the heap of potatoes, quarrels had arisen. He had gone and told Lise bluntly what he had seen so that she could prevent her husband from continuing, but she, after telling him roundly to mind his own business, had flared up and blamed her young sister: it was her fault if she excited men! Because everyone knew that all men were beasts! That night, however, she had such a row with Buteau that next morning she appeared with a half-closed black eye as the result of a badly aimed punch in the course of the argument. From that moment onwards, tempers rose and this spread to all concerned; there were always two of them squabbling, either the husband or the sister and the other sister, unless they were all three at each other's throats.
And at the same time, Lise's and Françoise's unconscious hatred for each other slowly grew. For no apparent reason their former fondness was turning into resentment, leading to continual clashes between them. Basically the only cause was Buteau, whose presence had become a hidden seed of destruction. Françoise would have long since succumbed to the excitement he aroused in her had she not sworn to herself never to give in to her feelings each time he laid hands on her. It was her obstinate sense of justice, never to give up anything of her own and never to take anything from anybody else; but it was costing her dear. Also, she was angry at feeling jealous and loathing her sister because she had the man whom she would have died rather than share with anyone else, had he been hers. When he used to pursue her with his trousers undone, exposing himself, she would spit on it and tell him to take it back to his wife, spit and all: it was her way of relieving the desire which she was holding back, as if to show her anguish and contempt for a pleasure that could not be hers by spitting in her sister's face. As for Lise, she was not jealous because she was certain that Buteau was merely boasting when he had screamed that he enjoyed the services of both of them; not that she thought him incapable of doing it, but she was convinced that her sister's pride would never let her give in. And her only grudge against her was that her continued refusal was turning the house into a hell. The stouter she became, the more she settled down comfortably into her fat, satisfied with life and selfishly greedy in her enjoyment, wanting to be the centre of cheerfulness all around her. How could you possibly squabble like that and poison your existence when you had everything to make you happy? Oh, what a silly little bitch, whose cussedness was the only fly in the ointment!
Every night as she went to bed she would exclaim to Buteau:
‘She's my sister but she'd better not start leading you on again or I'll chuck her out!’
But he did not see things like that.
‘That'd be a fine thing! The whole village would be after us. Bloody women! I'll give you both a ducking in the pond to cool you off together!’
Two months went by and Lise, all upset and driven to distraction, could have sugared her coffee twice and still not enjoyed it, to use her own expression. She could recognize the days when her sister had resisted a fresh attack by her husband by his increasing foul temper, so much so that she lived in fear of Buteau's failures, watching anxiously when he slyly crept up behind her sister's skirts because she knew that he would then reappear bullying, letting fly all round and turning the whole house upside-down. Days such as these were quite unbearable and she could not forgive that obstinate little hussy who did nothing to smooth things down.
One day in particular things were dreadful. Buteau had gone down into the cellar with Françoise to fetch some cider and he came up in such a state and so infuriated that for a trifle, just because his soup was too hot, he smashed the plate against the wall and went off after giving Lise a backhander that would have felled an ox.
She picked herself up in tears, bleeding and with a swollen cheek, and flung herself on her sister, shrieking:
‘You bitch! Why won't you go to bed with him? I've had enough, I'm going to leave if you're so pigheaded and I get beaten up because of it!’
Françoise was listening to her, pale and shocked.
‘As sure as God's my witness, I'd sooner do that! Perhaps then he'll leave us alone!’
She had fallen into a chair, whimpering; and her whole fat, collapsing body showed that she was giving up the struggle and had only one wish: to be happy even if it meant sharing with Françoise. She wouldn't feel deprived as long as she had her share. People had silly ideas about that sort of thing. It wasn't as if it was like a piece of bread that is used up if you eat it. Oughtn't they to reach an agreement, come together for the sake of harmony, in fact live like one family?
‘Look, why don't you want to?’
Choking with anger and disgust, Françoise merely cried:
‘You're more revolting than him!’
And she went off sobbing into the cowshed where Coliche watched her with her large cloudy eyes. It wasn't the thing itself that made her so indignant, but the easy acceptance of it, the willingness to let him have his fun for the sake of peace and quiet. If she had had a man of her own, she would never have given an inch, not one little bit! Her resentment against her sister turned into contempt and she
made the vow that she would rather die than give in now.
But from that day onwards, things grew worse and Françoise became the household drudge, the beast of burden which gets all the kicks. She was reduced to the role of skivvy, loaded with all the heavy work, continually grumbled at, bullied and knocked about. Lise now allowed her not one single hour of leisure, she had her out of bed before dawn and kept her up so late at night that the poor girl sometimes was too tired to undress before she fell asleep. Buteau slyly tormented her and took liberties with her, slapping her bottom, pinching her thighs, all sorts of excruciating attentions which left her bleeding and with her eyes full of tears but still obstinately silent. He would snigger and take some consolation from it when he saw her weakening and holding back a cry of pain at his brutal treatment. Her whole body was black and blue, covered in scratches and bruises. When her sister was there, she made it a point of honour not even to flinch in order to deny the fact, as if it were not true that this man's fingers were digging into her flesh. But sometimes she was unable to control the instinctive reaction of her muscles and she would swing a blow at his face, and then there were scuffles and Buteau gave her a thrashing while Lise would belabour the pair of them with her clog on the pretence of separating them. The baby girl Laure and her brother Jules would scream. All the dogs around barked and the neighbours would feel sorry. Ah, poor girl, she needed a lot of pluck to stay on in that inferno!
Everyone in Rognes was in fact astonished that Françoise did not run away. Some wiseacres wagged their heads with a knowing look: she was not yet of age, she still had eighteen months to wait; and if she ran away and put herself in the wrong, without taking her property with her, well, it was sensible of her to think twice about it. If only old Fouan, her guardian, would support her! But he himself was hardly sitting pretty in his son's house. He was keeping quiet because he was afraid of getting his nose dirty. In any case, the plucky, defiant young girl, proud to rely only on herself, had forbidden him to interfere in her affairs.
By now, every quarrel ended with the same abuse.
‘But why don't you bugger off? Just bugger off!’
‘Yes, I know that's what you're hoping. Earlier on I was stupid, I wanted to go. But now I'll stay on even if you kill me. I'm waiting for my share, I want my land and my house and I'm going to have them, I'll have the lot!’
In the early days, Buteau had been afraid that Jean had given Françoise a baby. Since he had caught them in the straw, he had been calculating the days, he kept casting sidelong glances at her to see if there was any sign of a bulge, for the arrival of a child would have meant marriage, which would have spoilt everything. She remained unworried because she knew quite well that she could not be pregnant. But when she noticed that he was interested in her waistline, she was amused and deliberately pushed her stomach out to make him believe that it was getting bigger. Now each time he caught hold of her she could tell that he was feeling her and measuring her with his fingers; so, in the end, she would say firmly:
‘Yes, there it is! He's growing bigger!’
One morning she even padded herself round the waist with some folded dusters. That evening there was almost a slaughter and she was seized by terror when she saw the murderous looks he gave her. If she really had a baby on the way, the brute would certainly have given her a foul blow in order to kill it. So she stopped her tricks and held her stomach in. She even caught him once in her room, rummaging in her underwear, to make sure all was well.
‘Why not have one?’ he jeered.
And, pale-faced and furious, she retorted:
‘If I don't have one, it's because I don't want to.’
And she was speaking the truth, for she was obstinately refusing to go with Jean again. This did not prevent Buteau from gloating in triumph. He started attacking Jean: what a fine lover he must be, I don't think! There really must be something wrong with him if he couldn't give her a baby. He could catch someone unawares and break their arm but he hadn't even got the guts to do the job properly with a girl! And he would make slighting comments and unpleasant sardonic remarks about leaks in the bottom of her pot.
When Jean learnt how Buteau was treating her, he talked about coming and punching his nose; and he was always on the look-out for Françoise and begging her to go with him: they'd see if he couldn't give her a baby, and a real whopper at that! Now his desire for her was reinforced by anger. But each time she found a new excuse, unable to overcome her reluctance to start doing that sort of thing again with him. She didn't dislike him, it was just that she didn't like him in that way; and she really could not have wanted him very much not to weaken and give herself when he took her in his arms behind a hedge, still flushed and furious from one of Buteau's onslaughts. What a beast he was! And she would talk excitedly and passionately about nothing else but his beastliness and then become all frigid as soon as Jean wanted to take advantage of her and possess her. No, she wouldn't, it made her feel ashamed! One day when she was really hard pressed, she put him off and said they would do it later, on their marriage-night. It was the first time that she had committed herself because she avoided replying directly whenever he had asked her to be his wife. From that moment, it was understood that he would marry her but only when she had come of age, as soon as she could insist on a settlement and come into possession of her property. He was struck by her sound reasoning; he started preaching patience and stopped tormenting her, except at moments when his need for a little fun became too overpowering. She was relieved and reassured by the vagueness of this distant commitment and she would merely catch hold of his hands to stop him and look at him beseechingly with her pretty eyes, like a tender-hearted woman not wanting to risk having a baby from anyone but her husband.
Although finally convinced that she was not pregnant, Buteau was now scared that she might become so if she went back to Jean. Despite his blustering comments about him, he was inwardly trembling because he heard on all hands that the latter was swearing that he would fill Françoise up to the brim until there had never been a more pregnant girl. So he kept watch on her from morning till night, demanding to know how she had spent every minute of her time, tying her down and threatening to beat her like some fractious domestic animal needing to be restrained; and this was a fresh torment, to feel either her sister or her brother-in-law always after her; she could not even go to the dung-pit to relieve herself without seeing someone spying on her. At night they would shut her up in her bedroom; and one evening after a dispute, she found the shutter of her dormer window padlocked. Then, since she still managed to slip away, she had to submit to odious scenes when she came back, interrogations and sometimes medical examinations, with her sister half undressing her while her husband held her by the shoulders. All this brought Jean and her closer together and she came to the point of making rendezvous with him, delighted at defying the other two. Perhaps she might even have given herself to him if she had felt that they were actually on her track. In any case, she finally gave him a promise of marriage and she swore on all that was sacred that Buteau was lying when he had said that he went to bed with both of them, pretending to be cock of the roost and claiming things that were not true at all. Although slightly doubtful, because basically it seemed possible and natural, Jean seemed to believe her. And when they said goodbye, they kissed each other, like very good friends, so much so that she made him her confidant and guide, trying to see him in moments of emergency and not daring to undertake anything without his approval. He now never laid hands on her at all and looked on her as just a good friend whose interests he shared.
Now, whenever Françoise came running to meet Jean behind a wall, the conversation was always the same: she would savagely undo her bodice or pull up her skirt and say:
‘Look, that beast's been pinching me again.’
He would look, while remaining cool and determined:
‘We'll pay him back for that. You must show it to the neighbours. But above all, don't retaliate. We'll get justi
ce once we've got right on our side.’
‘And my sister aids and abets him, you know! Yesterday, when he jumped on me, she just cleared off instead of throwing a bucket of cold water over him!’
‘Your sister'll come to a bad end with that bloke. It's all right. If you don't want to, he can't do it, that's for sure. And as for the rest, what's that to us? If we stick together, he can't win.’
Although he avoided interfering, old Fouan was involved in all these quarrels. If he said nothing, they forced him to take sides; if he went out, he would come back to a household all upset and his appearance was often the signal for a further outbreak. Up till then he had not really suffered, physically; but now he began to go short, his bread was meted out and the little luxuries vanished. He was no longer overfed as he was during the early days; a slice of bread cut too thick brought a sharp rebuke: what a bottomless pit! So the less you worked the more you stuffed, it seems! They kept watch and took his money off him every quarter when he came back from Cloyes with the allowance Monsieur Baillehache made him out of the three thousand francs from the sale of the house. Françoise was even reduced to stealing a few pence from her sister to buy him tobacco because they did not give her any money either. And finally the old man was very badly off in his damp bedroom ever since he had broken a pane of glass in the fanlight and it had been plugged with straw to avoid the expense of having a new piece of glass put in. Those miserable children were all the same! He grumbled from morning till night, bitterly regretting having left the Delhommes and in despair at falling out of the frying-pan into the fire. But he kept his regret to himself and only revealed it when caught off his guard, because he knew that Fanny had said: ‘Dad'll be round on his hands and knees asking us to take him back.’ And so that was the end, something he would never forget, like an ever-open wound. He would rather starve or die in anger with the Buteaus than go back humiliated to the Delhommes.