‘What's that about papers? What papers?’
‘My money!’ growled the old man, drawing himself up menacingly.
‘Your money? So now it seems you've got some money? You were swearing blind that we'd cost you so much that you hadn't got a penny left! So you've got some money, you crafty old man!’
He was still rocking on his chair with an amused grin on his face, pleased at his own cleverness, because he had been the first to sniff out the nest-egg, long ago.
Fouan was quivering in every limb.
‘Give it back to me.’
‘So I'm to give it back to you! Have I got it? Do I even know where it is, this money of yours?’
‘You've stolen it! Give it back to me or, by Christ, I'll make you!’
And despite his age, he seized him by the shoulders and shook him. But at this his son stood up and caught hold of his father himself, not violently but merely to shout at him:
‘Yes, I've got it and I'm going to keep it. I'm going to keep it for you, you understand, you silly old man, because you're going off your rocker! And that's the truth, it really was time to take the papers off you, you were going to tear them up. Isn't that right, Lise, he was tearing them up?’
‘Yes, sure as I stand here. When people don't know what they're doing!’
On hearing this, Fouan was shocked and frightened. Was he really mad and not able to remember things? If he had tried to destroy the papers, like a little boy playing with picture-cards, then he was fouling his own nest and ready to be put down. He subsided, defeated and in tears. He faltered:
‘Do give them back, please.’
‘No.’
‘Give them back, I'm better now.’
‘No, I won't! So that you can wipe your arse or light your pipe with them? No thanks!’
And from then on, the Buteaus persisted in refusing to hand over the bonds. Moreover, they talked about the matter quite openly, making a very dramatic scene of it, how they had come and snatched them out of the old man's hands at the very moment when he was starting to tear them up. One evening, they even showed Frimat's wife the beginning of the tear. Who could possibly hold it against them for preventing such a disaster, good money torn to pieces and lost for everybody! Other people loudly approved their action, although in their heart of hearts they suspected them of lying. Jesus Christ in particular was in a permanent state of fury: to think that this nest-egg, which he had vainly tried to find in his own home, had been uncovered by the others straight away! And he had once held them in his own hand and been stupid enough to have scruples! Really, it wasn't worth having the reputation of being a rogue! Anyway, he swore he'd make his brother settle up when the old man pegged out Fanny, too, was saying that the account would have to be settled. But the Buteaus said nothing to the contrary; unless, of course, the old man took his money back and disposed of it…
For his part, Fouan hobbled round the village telling everyone his story and would even buttonhole passers-by to complain about his miserable lot. One morning, he went into the yard next door, to see his niece.
She was helping Jean load manure into a cart. He was standing in the pit, tossing up forkfuls which she was stamping on to bed it down. The old man propped himself on his stick and began his tale of woe:
‘Well, isn't it annoying, it's my money which they've taken and refuse to give me back! What would you do about it?’
Françoise let him repeat his question three times. She was vexed that he had called on her like this and was giving him a cool reception because she wanted to avoid any possible cause of dispute with the Buteaus.
‘You know, Uncle,’ she replied in the end, ‘it's really no concern of ours, we're only too glad to have got away from that horrible lot.’
And she turned her back on him and went on treading down the manure, which reached up to her thighs and almost submerged her as her husband kept throwing up forkful after forkful. Then she disappeared in the middle of the cloud of steam, relaxed and contented in the asphyxiating fumes stirred up from the dung-pit.
‘Because I'm not mad, am I?’ Fouan went on, seeming not to have heard her. ‘You can see I'm not. They ought to give me back my money. Do you think I'd be capable of destroying it?’
Françoise and Jean made no reply.
‘I'd have to be mad, wouldn't I? And I'm not mad, you could bear witness to that, couldn't you?’
She suddenly straightened up on top of the load of manure, looking very tall, strong and healthy, as if she had been growing in it and giving off this rich, fertile smell from her own person. With her arms akimbo and her rounded bosom, she had become every inch a woman.
‘Now, Uncle, that's enough! I told you not to get us mixed up in all this nasty business. And, incidentally, since we're talking about it, I think you'd do as well not to call on us any more.’
‘So you're sending me away?’ the old man asked, trembling as he spoke.
Jean felt he ought to intervene.
‘No, it's just that we don't want any squabbles. We'd be at each other's throats for three whole days, if they were to see you here. Everyone wants a quiet life, don't they?’
Fouan did not stir, looking from one to the other with his poor pale eyes. Then he went off.
‘Well, if I need any help, I shall know where not to come.’
So they let him go away, not very happily because they were not really lacking in heart. But what could they do? It wouldn't have helped him at all and it would certainly have made them lose their appetite and given them sleepless nights. While her husband went to fetch his whip, she carefully shovelled up the odd pieces of manure from the ground and tossed them into the cart.
Next day a violent row broke out between Fouan and Buteau. In any case, the altercation over the bonds kept recurring every day, with one of them obstinately repeating his eternal ‘Give them back’ like an obsession and the other man refusing with his equally invariable ‘Sod you!’ But things were gradually growing worse, above all since the old man had started searching to see where his son might have hidden the nest-egg. Now it was his turn to go through the whole house, probing the woodwork of the cupboards and tapping the walls, to see if they sounded hollow. His eyes kept continually darting from one corner to the other, with one single idea in mind; and as soon as he was on his own, he would get the children out of the way and start rummaging again with the passion of a young lad who suddenly hurls himself on the maid as soon as his parents have gone out. On this particular day, as Buteau came home unexpectedly, he saw Fouan lying flat on the floor with his head under the chest of drawers, looking to see if there was a hiding-place there. Buteau was beside himself with rage, because his father was getting warm: what he was looking for underneath was in fact hidden on top, as it was sealed beneath the heavy marble slab.
‘Christ Almighty, you crazy idiot! You're turning into a snake now! For God's sake get up!’
He pulled him out by his legs and jerked him to his feet.
‘Have you finished poking your nose into every little hole, confound you? I've had enough of you, combing the whole house through!’
Annoyed at having been caught, Fouan looked at him and in a sudden outburst of rage said;
‘Give them back to me!’
‘Sod you!’ Buteau bawled back.
‘Well, I can't stand it here, I'm going.’
‘Good, so sod off, and the best of luck! And, by Christ, if you come back, it's because you've got no guts!’
He took him by the arm and hustled him out.
Chapter 2
FOUAN went off down the slope. His anger had suddenly evaporated and, when he reached the road at the bottom, he stopped, bewildered at finding himself out of doors and not knowing where to go. The church clock chimed three; the wind struck cold on this dull, raw, autumn day; and he was shivering because in his hasty departure he had not even picked up his hat; fortunately he had his stick. First he set off along the road to Cloyes; then, after a moment, he asked himself what he
would do in that direction and turned back towards Rognes, shuffling along as usual. When he reached Macqueron's he thought of having a drink; but, on feeling in his pockets, he realized he hadn't a penny on him, and being scared that people might have already heard what had happened he felt loath to show his face. And in fact it seemed to him that Lengaigne, who was standing in his doorway, was looking at him superciliously, as people look at tramps. Lequeu was watching him through one of the school windows but made no sign of greeting. It was understandable, everyone would be despising him again now that he had once more been stripped of everything – and this time not only stripped but skint.
When he reached the bridge, Fouan leant back for a moment against the parapet. He was worried that it would soon be nightfall. Where could he sleep? Not even a roof over his head. As the Bécus' dog went by, it filled him with envy: there at least was an animal that knew of a hole in the straw to crawl into. He thought confusedly, his mind dulled now that his anger had passed. He had closed his eyelids and was trying to recall some sheltered corner, protected from the cold. Everything was becoming nightmarish, the whole countryside kept flitting through his mind, bare and swept with icy blasts. But in a sudden burst of energy he shook his head and roused himself. He mustn't give up like this. They wouldn't let an old man die in the streets.
Without thinking he crossed the bridge and found himself standing beside the Delhommes' little farmhouse. As soon as he realized this, he turned and went round to the back of the house in order not to be seen. Once there, he stopped again and leant against the wall of the cowshed in which he could hear his daughter Fanny talking. Could he have been thinking of going back to her? He himself would have been unable to answer the question; his feet had carried him there automatically. He could see the inside of the house as clearly as if he had gone in, the kitchen to the left, his bedroom on the first floor, at the end of the hayloft. He was overcome by emotion, his legs gave way and he would have collapsed had he not been supported by the wall. For a long time he stood motionless, his old back braced against the house. Fanny was still talking in the cowshed but he could not distinguish what she was saying: perhaps it was this loud, muffled noise which had stirred his feelings. But she must have been berating a servant, for she raised her voice and he heard her sharp grating tone as, without resorting to abuse, she addressed the unfortunate girl so insultingly that she was sobbing. And he was suffering; his moment of emotion had passed and he steeled himself, certain that, had he pushed open the door, his daughter would have greeted him in that same acid voice. He could still hear her saying: ‘Father will be back on his hands and knees asking to be taken in!’ – the remark which had cut every link between them for ever, like the stroke of an axe. No, he'd rather starve or sleep under a hedge than see her triumphant look, the look of a righteous woman.
In order to keep away from the road, since he felt that everyone was spying on him, Fouan walked up the right bank of the Aigre beyond the bridge and was soon amongst the vineyards. He must have been thinking of making for the plain, thereby avoiding the village. However, on the way he had to pass by the Castle, to which his legs seemed to have carried him instinctively, like those old carthorses who find their way back to the stables where their oats await them. The climb had left him out of breath, so he sat down to recover and think things over. Certainly, if he were to say to Jesus Christ: ‘I'm going to take Buteau to court, please help me,’ the rascal would have received him with open arse and that evening they would have had a damned good blow-out. In fact, the smells of just such a feast, some drunken bout which had been going on since that morning, were reaching him in his little hideout. Tempted by hunger, he crept nearer and recognized Canon's voice and sniffed the fragrant smell of baked red haricot beans which La Trouille prepared so skilfully when her father wished to celebrate his friend's appearance on the scene. Why shouldn't he go in and enjoy himself with those two rogues whom he could hear bellowing away in their cosy smoke-laden den, so drunk that he felt envious? A sudden explosion from Jesus Christ went straight to his heart and he was reaching out to open the door when La Trouille's shrill laugh turned him to stone. It was she whom he dreaded now, and he could still see her skinny figure, stark-naked under her shift, hurling herself on him and prying into every hidden recess of his body like a vulture. So what good would it do him if her father were to help him get his papers back now? She'd be there waiting to strip him of them again. Suddenly, the door opened, the little tramp was taking a look, having sensed someone prowling around outside. He had just time to retreat rapidly behind some bushes, and as he glimpsed her green eyes glinting in the failing light he made himself scarce.
When Fouan had climbed up onto the level plateau he felt a sort of relief: here he was safe from the others and was happy to be alone, even if he died as a result. For a long time, he wandered aimlessly about the plain. Night was falling and he was buffeted by the icy wind. Some of the gusts were so strong that they took his breath away and he had to turn his back, bare-headed, with his wispy white hair blowing wildly in the wind. It struck six o'clock; everybody in Rognes would be eating; and his limbs felt so weak that he could walk only very slowly. Between the gusts a heavy shower of rain pelted down and soaked him to the skin; he walked on and was twice soaked again. Then, without knowing how he had found his way there, he realized that he was standing in the square in front of the church, beside the old family house of the Fouans.
No, he couldn't take refuge there, they'd driven him out. The rain was now streaming down again so hard that suddenly he lost heart. He had gone up to the side door with his eye on the kitchen from which the smell of cabbage soup was rising. Impelled by the physical need for food and warmth, the whole of. his poor old body was crying out to submit. But above the champing of jaws he heard an exchange of words that stopped him short.
‘Suppose Father doesn't come back?’
‘Forget it! He's too keen on his grub not to come back when he's hungry!’
Fouan shrank back, afraid that they might catch sight of him at the door, like a beaten dog crawling back to his platter. So overcome by shame was he that he was filled with a fierce resolve to creep into some corner and give up the ghost. They'd see if he was so keen on his grub! He went down the slope once more and collapsed on the end of a beam outside Clou's smithy. His legs were no longer able to support him and he gave himself up for lost in the dark beside the deserted road where there was not a soul to be seen, for the evening gatherings had already begun and the bad weather was keeping everyone indoors. The rain had made the wind drop and water was now teeming down in torrents. He did not feel strong enough to stand up and seek refuge. With his stick between his knees, his bare skull streaming with water, he sat motionless, stupefied by his wretched plight. He could not even think; but that was how things were when you had neither children nor home nor nothing, you tightened your belt and slept in the open. Nine o'clock struck and then ten. The rain kept pouring down, turning his old bones to water. But suddenly lamps appeared, moving rapidly down the street: the gatherings were breaking up and he roused himself again as he recognized La Grande, who had been saving the cost of a candle by spending the evening at the Delhommes'. His bones creaked as he laboriously rose to his feet and followed her at a distance, but not fast enough to catch her up before she went indoors. With sinking heart he hesitated in front of her closed door. Finally, he could not contain his wretchedness any longer. He knocked.
It must be said that he had picked the wrong moment, for La Grande was in a foul temper, as a result of an unfortunate event the previous week which had quite put her out. One evening, when she was alone with her grandson Hilarion, she had hit on the good idea of getting him to split some logs for her, a little extra chore before she sent him off to sleep in the straw; and as he showed little enthusiasm for the job, she stood beside the woodpile abusing him. Up till then, in his craven awe of his grandmother, this stupid, deformed brute with the muscles of an ox had allowed her to exploit his str
ength quite mercilessly, without even daring to raise his eyes to look her in the face. But for the last few days she should have taken warning, because beneath his gawky exterior he was seething inwardly and becoming restive under the heavy burden of work she was demanding of him. She made the mistake of trying to hurry him along by tapping the back of his neck with her stick. He dropped his axe and looked at her. Irritated by such impertinence, she had started to belabour him all over, back, thighs, everywhere, when suddenly he flung himself on her. She thought that he was going to throw her down, stamp on her and strangle her, but it was something else. Ever since the death of his sister he had been deprived of sexual intercourse and his anger took the form of wild lust, with no account of age or kinship, hardly even of gender. This brute was raping his eighty-nine-year-old grandmother, whose body was as dry as a stick and whose only feminine attribute was the curved slit in her old carcass. But the old girl was still tough and determined to resist; she managed to catch hold of the axe and split his skull open. Hearing her cries, her neighbours hurried round and she told them what had happened in detail: another second and he'd have made it, the lout was right at its very edge. Hilarion did not die until the following day. The magistrate came; then there was the funeral; in a word, a whole pack of trouble from which she had now fortunately recovered, feeling quite composed but cut to the quick by people's ingratitude and fully determined never to do any more favours for members of her family.
Fouan had to knock three times, so timorously that La Grande could not hear him. Finally, she came back to the door and decided to ask who was there.
‘It's me.’
‘Who's me?’
‘Me, your brother.’
She had doubtless recognized his voice straight away but was not hurrying herself, wanting to make him explain. Silence fell. She asked him again:
‘What d'you want?’
He was trembling, not daring to reply. Then she roughly opened the door; but as he went to go in, she barred the way with her skinny arms, leaving him in the street in the dreary, driving rain which was still streaming down.