For a second, Jesus Christ thought of pocketing everything, the agreement as well as the bonds. But then his courage failed him; after doing something like that he would have to go underground. It wouldn't be like money that you can make off with, knowing that there'll be more later on; so he infuriatedly put the papers back under the lentils in the saucepan. But he was so exasperated that he could not keep the matter to himself. By next day, Rognes knew all about old Saucisse and the seventy-five centimes a day he was getting for an acre of rather ordinary land which was certainly not worth three thousand francs; and over five years, that meant that fourteen hundred francs had already been paid, and if the old rascal were to survive another five years, he would have his field as well as the money. They pulled Fouan's legs; but whereas no one had bothered to look at him ever since his sole possession in the world had been his old body, people now greeted him and showed him consideration because he was known to be
man of substance, with land and private means.
The family's attitude in particular seemed to have swung round. Fanny, who had been very cool towards her father since he had offended her by going to live with her rascally elder brother instead of coming back to live with her, brought him some linen, some of Delhomme's discarded shirts. But Fouan harshly reminded her of the remark that was still rankling with him – ‘Dad'll be round on bended knees to ask us to take him back’ – by welcoming her with the comment: ‘So you're coming on bended knees to have me back.’ The phrase stuck in her throat. When she was home, in her pride, she wept for shame and vexation, for this farmer's wife was so sensitive that a glance could offend her. Decent, hard-working and rich, she was coming to dislike the whole village. Delhomme had to promise that in future he would hand over their allowance to the old man, because she swore she would never speak to him again.
As for Buteau, he astounded everyone by visiting the Castle one day, in order, so he said, to pay his respects to his father. Jesus Christ, with a grin, produced a bottle of spirits and they all had a drink together. But his amusement turned to sheer amazement when his brother spread a row of ten five-franc pieces on the table, saying:
‘Father, we really must settle our accounts. Here's your last quarter's allowance.’
The bloody sharper! When he hadn't given his father a penny for years, he must surely be intending to swindle him by showing him the colour of his money once again! Anyway, Buteau immediately warded off the old man's hand as he was about to catch hold of the coins and picked them up again himself.
‘Not so fast! It was just to show you that I've got them. I'll keep them for you; you know where to find them.’
Jesus Christ was beginning to see what was happening and he became annoyed:
‘Look, if you're trying to entice Dad away…’
Buteau passed the matter off lightly:
‘You're not jealous, are you? If I had Father one week and you the next, it would only be natural, wouldn't it? Eh, Father, how about cutting yourself in two? And meanwhile, your very good health!’
As he was leaving he invited them to join in the grape-picking in his vineyard the following day. They'd stuff themselves with grapes until they were bursting. In fact, he was so pleasant that the other two conceded that, though a real rogue, he was an amusing one as long as you didn't let yourself be taken in by him. They showed their pleasure by going part of the way home with him.
And as it happened, at the bottom of the hill they met Monsieur and Madame Charles and Élodie, going back to Roseblanche, their estate, after taking a walk along the Aigre. All three were in mourning for Madame Estelle, as they called the little girl's mother, who had died in July, of overwork, for every time her mother came back from Chartres she would say that her daughter was really working herself to death in her efforts to maintain the good reputation of the establishment in the Rue aux Juifs which her slacker of a husband was neglecting more and more. And how moving the funeral had been for Monsieur Charles who had not dared bring Élodie along, and indeed had not told his granddaughter the news until three days after her mother had been laid to rest. What a pang he had felt that morning when, after years of absence, he had seen the house on the corner of the Rue de la Planche-aux-Carpes, No. 19, with its yellow distempered walls and green shutters, always kept shut, his whole life's work in fact, now draped in black, its little door open and its entrance blocked by the coffin, with candles at each corner. What really touched him was the sympathy shown by the whole quarter. When the coffin was carried out of the entrance onto the pavement, all the women neighbours made the sign of the cross. They went to the church amid scenes of much devotion. The five inmates of the house were there, dressed in dark clothes and looking most respectable, as was commented on that evening in Chartres. One of them even wept at the graveside. In a word, Monsieur Charles was completely satisfied from that point of view; but imagine how unhappy he was the following day, when he questioned his son-in-law Vaucogne and went round the house. It was already looking shabby and you could sense the lack of male authority from all sorts of abuses that he would never have tolerated in his day. All the same, he was pleased to see that the decent attitude of the five women in the funeral procession had been favourably noticed in the town and that the establishment did a roaring trade that whole week. When he left No. 19, full of anxious thoughts, he did not hide them from Hector: now that Estelle was no longer at the helm, it was up to him to mend his ways and get down to work if he did not want to squander his daughter's estate.
Buteau immediately invited them to come grape-picking the following day, but they refused, being in mourning. They all looked dismal and apathetic. However, they did agree to come along to try the new wine.
‘It'll be something for Élodie to do,’ said Madame Charles. ‘There's so little to amuse her here, now that we've taken her away from school. But what can one do? She can't always be at her books.’
Élodie was listening with her eyes downcast and blushing, for no reason. She had grown very tall and pale, like a lily wilting in the shade.
‘Well, what are you going to do with her now she's a grown-up girl?’ asked Buteau.
She blushed even redder as her grandmother replied:
‘Ah well, we don't really know… She'll have to think things over, we'll not try to force her.’
But Fouan had drawn Monsieur Charles on one side and asked interestedly:
‘How's the business going?’
He shrugged his shoulders disconsolately:
‘Pooh! I've seen someone from Chartres this very morning. That's why we're so fed up. It's the end. There's fighting in the corridors and they're not even paying, because there's no one keeping an eye open!’
He folded his arms and took a deep breath to recover from the shock of this new scandal, yet another grievance against his son-in-law which he had still not come to terms with since hearing of it that morning.
‘And would you believe it? The scoundrel spends his time in cafés! In cafés, when he's got one on the spot.’
‘Then it's all up,’ said Jesus Christ emphatically, who had been listening.
They stopped talking because Madame Charles came up with Élodie and Buteau. They now started talking about the deceased woman and the girl said how sad she was at not having been able to take a final farewell from her dear mother. She added in her simple way:
‘But apparently it all happened so suddenly and there was so much work at the confectioner's.’
‘Yes, for christenings,’ Madame Charles said hastily, winking at the others.
But no one smiled, they all nodded their heads sympathetically. And the girl, looking down at a ring she was wearing, kissed it with tears in her eyes.
‘This is the only thing I have of hers. Grandma took it off her finger to put it on mine. She had worn it for twenty years and I shall wear it as long as I live.’
It was an old wedding-ring, a coarse example of the jeweller's art, so worn that the ornamental bands had been almost obliterated. You
realized that the hand on which it had become so scratched had not shrunk from any kind of work, busily washing out chamber-pots and making beds, scrubbing, wiping, dusting, poking around in every corner. And the ring had so many tales to tell, its gold had rubbed up against so many secrets, that the men stared at it with flared nostrils, without a word.
‘When you've worn it out as much as your mother,’ said Monsieur Charles, in a voice suddenly choking with emotion, ‘then you'll have earned your rest. If it could talk, it would teach you how you earn money by hard work and discipline.’
In tears, Élodie once more pressed her lips to the ring.
‘You know,’ Madame Charles went on, ‘I want you to use tha' wedding-ring when we marry you.’
But when she heard that, in her highly emotional state, the very thought of marriage shocked her so much and filled her with such confusion that she flung herself distractedly upon her grandmother's chest to hide her face. The latter smiled and tried to calm her:
‘Now, now, my little pet, don't be ashamed. You must get used to the idea, there's nothing wrong in it. I wouldn't say anything nasty while you're there, you know that. Your cousin Buteau was asking a moment ago what we're going to do with you. Well, we'll start by finding you a nice husband. Come along now, don't keep rubbing against my shawl. You'll irritate your skin.’
Then, with a look of profound satisfaction, she whispered to the others:
‘See how well brought up she is! She doesn't know anything about anything!’
‘Ah, if we hadn't got our little angel,’ said Monsieur Charles in conclusion, ‘we should really have been so sad, because of what I was telling you. And I've had trouble with my roses and my carnations this year and I don't know what's happened to my aviary, all my birds are sick. My only consolation is fishing, I caught a three-pound trout yesterday. But I'm right, aren't I? People live in the country so as to be happy.’
They took their leave. The Charles again promised to come and taste the new wine. Fouan, Buteau and Jesus Christ walked on a few paces in silence and then the old man summed up their thoughts.
‘He'll be a lucky man who gets her, with the house and all, won't he?’
The town crier of Rognes had played the roll on his drum for the grape-harvest to begin and on Monday morning everyone was astir, because each villager had his patch of vine and no family would ever have thought of not going along to harvest their grapes on the hillside above the Aigre. But the final excitement for the village was that, the night before, the parish priest, whom the town council had finally decided was a luxury they could afford, had arrived at the church after dark. It was so dark, indeed, that they had not been able to see him properly. So tongues were wagging, the more so as this was really a tasty topic.
After his final quarrel with Rognes, Father Godard had obstinately refused to set foot there again. He baptized, confessed and married anyone who was prepared to come to see him at Bazoches-le-Doyen; as for the dead, they would doubtless have become shrivelled-up corpses while waiting for him but this will never be known, since nobody took it into his head to die during this great schism. He had told his bishop that he preferred to be unfrocked rather than take the sacraments to such an abomination of desolation, where he was so ill received, a lot of lascivious drunkards and damned, one and all, since they no longer believed in the devil; and the bishop obviously supported him, because he made no move until this rebellious flock showed contrition. So Rognes was without a priest: no more Mass, nothing at all, like heathens. At first there had been some surprise; but on the whole they didn't really seem worse off than before. They grew used to it, there was no more rain or wind than there had been before and, what is more, there was a considerable saving on the local budget. So, as a priest was not indispensable and experience showed that it did no harm to the crops nor did it cause premature death, they might just as well do without one for good. Many people held this view, not only awkward customers like Lengaigne but even sensible men who were able to work things out, like Delhomme for example. However, there were also many people who were troubled at not having a priest. Not that they were more religious than the others; why worry about a God who was just a figure of fun whom nobody would take seriously! But not having a priest made it seem as if you were too poor or too mean to pay for one, in a word, you seemed the lowest of the low, of no account at all, people who wouldn't spend a penny except when they had to. Magnolles, which had only two hundred and eighty-three inhabitants, ten less than Rognes, supported a priest, a fact which they flaunted in front of their neighbours so provocatively that it would certainly have led to blows. And then there were the women who had certain habits. Not one of them would ever have agreed to be wedded or buried without a priest. Even the men sometimes went to church, on grand occasions, because everyone went. In a word, there always have been priests and, unless you really didn't give a damn, you had to have one.
Naturally, the town council had the matter on their agenda. Hourdequin the mayor who, although not a practising Catholic, supported religion as a principle of authority, committed the political blunder of being neutral, in the hope of mediating. It was a poor commune, why should they burden the budget, already pretty large for their size, with the extra expense of doing up the presbytery? It was at this moment that Macqueron, the deputy mayor, hitherto a priest-hater, became the leader of the malcontents who felt humiliated at not having a priest of their own. Macqueron must by this time have conceived the idea of ousting the mayor and taking his place, and moreover people were saying that he had become the agent of Monsieur Rochefontaine, the factory-owner from Châteaudun who was once again going to stand against Monsieur de Chédeville at the forthcoming elections. And Hourdequin was tired, he had many problems on his farm and was taking little interest in the council meetings, leaving more and more to his deputy; so that the latter was able to carry the town council with him and they voted the requisite sum to make the commune into a parish. Ever since, at the time when the new road was being built, he had insisted on being paid for the expropriation of his land, although he had promised to hand it over for nothing, the councillors, although calling him a swindler, had started showing him great consideration. Only Lengaigne protested at this decision which would deliver the village into the hands of the Jesuits. Bécu grumbled too, now that he had to leave the presbytery and its garden and move into a hovel. It took a month for replastering, replacing the glass and mending the slate roof, and so at last, the night before, the priest had been able to settle in at the tiny, newly distempered presbytery.
By dawn, wagons were on their way to the hill, each carrying four or five big casks with the top knocked in, all sluice-gates open, as they said. Women and girls were sitting inside, with their baskets, while the men walked beside, whipping up their horses. There was a whole line of them and everyone was laughing and shouting and chatting together, from one cart to the next.
Lengaigne's happened by chance to be following the Macquerons', so that Flore and Coelina, who had not been on speaking terms for the last six months, now made up their quarrel. Flore had Bécu's wife with her and her neighbour had her daughter Berthe. The conversation at once came round to the new priest. In the cool morning air they bandied their remarks to and fro to the steady clip-clop of the horses' hooves.
‘I saw him helping to get his luggage down.’
‘Oh, what's he like?’
‘Well, it was dark. He seemed to me very long and thin, a bit dismal and not very strong. About thirty, I suppose. He looked very gentle.’
‘And from what they say, he's been in Auvergne, in the mountains, where you're snowed under for two-thirds of the year.’
‘Good Lord! Well, he's going to like it here, I should think.’
‘Certainly he will! And do you know, he's called Madeleine.’
‘No, it's Madeline.’
‘Well, Madeleine or Madeline, it's not a man's name, at any rate.’
‘Perhaps he'll come and look in on us while we're
grape-picking. Macqueron promised to bring him along.’
‘Goodness me! We must look out for him.’
The carts stopped at the bottom of the slope, on the road that followed the Aigre. And in each little vineyard, the women were busy between the rows of stakes, walking along bent double, with their bottoms sticking up in the air, cutting off the bunches with their bill-hooks and putting them in baskets. As for the men, they had enough to do emptying the baskets into their panniers and taking them down to unload them into the open casks. As soon as all the casks in a cart were full, they were taken away to be tipped into the vats and then brought back to repeat the operation.