‘So there's no decency left anywhere when even you go back and do it, like the others! Well, do her the favour of warning her to keep her trap shut if she doesn't want me to open mine. Ah, there'll be ructions, you'll see!’
But refusing to have anything to do with the matter, Jean thrust his way past. He felt thoroughly ashamed and irritated at what he had just been prevented from doing. He thought that he was fond of Françoise but never had he felt such wild bursts of desire for her. Could it be that he was fonder of Jacqueline? Was his desire for that shameless little hussy so deep? And as his whole past came back to him, his anger increased when he realized that, despite his struggles, he would still go back and see her. His mind in a turmoil, he flung himself on his horse and galloped off to reach Rognes as quickly as possible.
It so happened that on that very afternoon, Françoise thought she would go and cut a bundle of lucerne for her cows. This was one of her normal tasks and she imagined that she would find her husband up there ploughing, since she did not much care to go there by herself, for fear of running into the Buteaus, who were furious at no longer owning the whole field and kept continually trying to pick a quarrel as a result. She took her scythe with her: the horse would be able to bring the bundle of grass down on his back. But as she came up to Cornailles, she was surprised at not seeing Jean, although she had not warned him of her plans: his plough was there, where on earth was he? Her final shock came when she recognized Buteau and Lise standing beside the field, angrily waving their arms about. They were in their best clothes and were carrying nothing in their hands; no doubt they had just stopped on their way back from a visit to a near-by village. For a moment she was on the point of turning back. Then she felt annoyed with herself for being scared: she had every right to go and visit her own land. So she continued on her way, carrying her scythe over her shoulder.
The truth was that whenever Françoise met Buteau like this, particularly on his own, she became completely flustered. She had not spoken to him for two years; but she still could not look at him without a thrill running through her whole body. It could have been a thrill of anger but it might have been something else as well. Several times when she had been going along this self-same road on her way to her field of lucerne, she had caught sight of him in front of her. He would turn his head two or three times to look at her through his grey eyes flecked with yellow. A shiver would run through her and despite herself she would quicken her pace while he slowed down; and as she had passed beside him for a second, their eyes had looked deeply into each other's. And then she had had the uncomfortable sensation that he was behind her; she felt stiff and awkward and could not walk properly. The last time they had met she had been so put out that, in trying to jump off the road into her own field, unbalanced by her swollen belly she had fallen flat on her face. He had burst out laughing.
That evening when Buteau gleefully told Lise how her sister had tripped over, their eyes glinted with the same thought: supposing the little bitch had been killed and her brat with her, then her husband would have been left with nothing and the land and the house would have come back to them. La Grande had told them all about the business of the unmade will, which would now be pointless, in view of Françoise's pregnancy. But they'd never had any luck, there was no chance of some mishap removing the mother and her child for their sake! But they returned to the subject as they were going to bed, just to talk about it, because discussing a person's death never killed anybody. Supposing Françoise died without leaving an heir, wouldn't that be wonderful, a real godsend! In her venom, Lise even went so far as to swear that she didn't consider Françoise as her sister anymore; she would hold her head on the block if necessary, so that they could get back their home which that slut had driven them out of in such a disgusting way. Buteau was not quite so greedy, he said he'd be quite happy if the baby died before it was born. It was the pregnancy that stuck in his throat, because any child would put an end to the hopes that he was still harbouring, for in that case he would lose the property for good and all. Then, as they were both getting into bed and she was blowing out the candle, she gave a strange little giggle and said that as long as babies haven't actually come, they may never come. There was silence in the dark and then he asked why she was saying that. Lying close beside him she made a whispered confession: last month, she'd been annoyed to discover that she'd been caught out again, so that without saying anything to him she'd gone off to see a woman from Magnolles, an old witch called Sapin. No more pregnancies, thank you very much! Buteau would've given her a hot reception! So the Sapin woman had quite simply got rid of it for her with a needle. He listened without expressing either approval or disapproval; the only sign of satisfaction was the jocular way in which he said that she ought to have got a needle for Françoise. This amused her too, and, cuddling up to him, she whispered that the Sapin woman had told her about another way, such a queer one! What was it? Well, what a man had done, a man could undo, all he had to do was to have the woman and while having her make three signs of the cross on her stomach and say three aves backwards. And then, if there was a baby, it would go away like wind. Buteau stopped laughing and, although they pretended not to believe it, the superstition bred in their bones sent a little shudder through their frame, because everybody knew that the old woman from Magnolles had changed a cow into a weasel and brought a dead man back to life. If she said it, then it must be true. Then Lise coaxed him to try it out on her and recite the ave backwards and make the sign of the cross three times to see if she felt anything. No, not a thing, that meant that the needle had done the trick. But what a lot of harm that would have done to Françoise! He grinned and wondered if he could. Well, why not, since he'd already had her once? No, he never had! He denied it while Lise, now feeling jealous, dug her nails into his flesh. They went to sleep in each other's arms.
Ever since then, they had been haunted by the thought of this child growing bigger every day who would take their house and land away from them for good; and every time they met their young sister, they immediately looked straight at her waistline. When they saw her coming along the road they would measure her with their eye, shocked to see how her pregnancy was proceeding and realizing that it would soon be too late.
‘Bloody hell!’ shouted Buteau, coming back to the ploughed field which he had been examining. ‘That thief has gone a good foot over into our field. Look, you can see from the boundary stone!’
Françoise had continued to walk calmly towards them, disguising her fear. Then she realized the meaning of their furious gestures. Jean's plough must have encroached on their piece of land. This was a continual source of dispute between them; not a month would pass without some question concerning their shared boundary setting them at loggerheads. It could only end in blows and lawsuits.
‘Do you hear?’ he went on, raising his voice. ‘You're on our land, I'm going to straighten you out.’
But without bothering to look round, the young woman went on into her field of lucerne.
‘We're talking to you!’ shouted Lise, beside herself with rage. ‘Come and see the boundary stone if you think we're lying. Come and see the damage you've done.’
And infuriated by her sister's deliberate and contemptuous silence, she flew into a rage and went up to her, clenching her fists.
‘Look, are you trying to have us on? I'm your elder sister, you ought to show proper respect. I'll make you ask pardon on your knees for all the dirty tricks you've played on me!’
She was standing in front of her, furious with resentment and so purple with anger that she could scarcely see:
‘Get down on your knees, you slut!’
Still not saying a word, Françoise spat in her face, as she had done on the day they had expelled her from her house. And as Lise was shrieking, Buteau intervened, pushing her violently aside.
‘Let me handle this, I'll see to her.’
Oh, she'd certainly let him see to her! He could bend her and break her back like a rotten
tree; he could make cat's-meat of her, treat her like the slut she was, she'd certainly not stop him, she'd even help him! And now she craned her neck and started peering round to make sure that no one would disturb him. And all around, under the gloomy sky, the vast grey plain stretched out with not a soul in sight.
‘Go on, there's no one about!’
Buteau was advancing towards Françoise and from the set of his face and the taut way he held his arms, Françoise thought that he was going to give her a thrashing. She had kept hold of her scythe but she was trembling; in any case, he now caught hold of the handle, wrested it from her and flung it into the lucerne. All she could do to keep him at a distance was to retreat. So, still facing him, she walked backwards into the next field and made for the stack which was standing there as though she hoped to use it as a shield. He came slowly on and seemed even to be shooing her in that direction, gradually opening his arms while his face relaxed into a silent laugh, revealing his gums. And suddenly she realized that he was not going to beat her, he was after something else, something that she had been refusing him for so long. And now she was even more terrified, for she felt her strength deserting her, whereas she had hitherto been so plucky, so ready to give tit for tat, swearing that he would never succeed. Yet she was not a little girl any more; she had had her twenty-third birthday at Martinmas and she was a real woman now, still red-lipped and with eyes as round as saucers. But now she felt all soft and melting and her limbs seemed to be turning to water.
Still forcing her to retreat, Buteau at last addressed her in a low, passionate voice:
‘We've not finished with each other and you know it! You know I want you and I'm going to get you!’
Having succeeded in backing her up against the stack, he caught hold of her shoulders and flung her onto the ground. But now she started struggling desperately, spurred on by memories of her obstinate resistance in the past. He was holding her down and dodging her kicks.
‘What's the objection now you're pregnant, you silly little bitch? I won't give you another one, that's for sure.’
She burst into tears and seemed to become hysterical; she no longer tried to defend herself, swinging her arms about wildly, with her legs twisting and turning convulsively; and each time he tried to take her, he was flung off sideways. In his fury, he lost all restraint and, turning to his wife, he called:
‘For Chris's sake, don't just stand there watching! If you want me to do it, come and hold her legs, can't you?’
Lise had been standing motionless some thirty feet away, scrutinizing the horizon and then looking down at the pair of them without the flicker of an eyelid. When her husband called out to her, she did not hesitate for a second; she came up, seized hold of her sister's left leg, dragged it sideways and sat down on it, as though trying to crush it. Pinned to the ground, her spirit broken, Françoise closed her eyes and submitted. Yet she had not lost consciousness and, after Buteau had possessed her, she was seized in her turn by such a violent spasm of pleasure that, uttering a long cry, she clasped him tightly in her arms, squeezing the breath out of his body. Some passing rooks took fright and behind the stack there emerged the livid face of old Fouan, who had been sheltering from the cold. He had seen everything and doubtless took fright too, for he hid himself once again in the straw.
Buteau had stood up. Lise was watching him narrowly. She had had but one thought in her mind, to make sure that he did the job properly; but he had gone at it so eagerly that he had forgotten everything else, the sign of the cross and the ave spoken backwards. She was shocked and beside herself with rage. So he'd done it just for the pleasure of it.
But Françoise gave her no time to tackle her husband. For a second she had remained lying on the ground, as though overcome by the violence of her orgasm, which she had never enjoyed before. Suddenly she had realized the truth: she loved Buteau, she had never loved and would never love anyone else. This discovery filled her not only with shame but, since it upset all her ideas of fairness, with fury against herself as well. Here was a man who was not hers, who belonged to her sister whom she loathed, the only man in fact whom she could never have without forfeiting all respect. And she had just let this man have his will with her and she had held him so tightly that he knew she was his! She jumped to her feet, distraught, her clothes disordered, breathless and stammering in her distress.
‘Pigs! Beasts!… You're both just pigs and beasts. You've ruined me. They send people to the guillotine for less than that. I'll tell Jean, you dirty pigs! He'll know what to do with you.’
Buteau merely grinned and shrugged his shoulders, delighted that he had finally succeeded.
‘Oh, stuff it. You wanted it badly, I could feel you wriggling. We'll do it again sometime.’
For Lise, these jocular remarks were the last straw; and in her growing exasperation with her husband she vented all her rage on her young sister.
‘It's true, you trollop, I saw you. You caught hold of him and forced him. Didn't I say that all my troubles came from you? Just you try to deny that you didn't seduce my man, yes, even as soon as we were married, when you still needed me to blow your nose for you!’
It was strange to see such an outburst of jealousy when she had been an accomplice, but it was jealousy inspired less by the act itself than by the fact that her sister had taken half of everything that belonged to her. If this girl hadn't been her sister, would she have had to share everything with her? She detested her because she was younger and fresher and more desirable.
‘That's a lie!’ Françoise shouted. ‘That's a lie and you know it!’
‘So I'm lying, am I? So it wasn't because you wanted him that you kept going after him, even when he went down into the cellar?’
‘Me? Me? And that was me a moment ago, was it? Who was the old cow holding my leg? You might have broken it! And let me tell you, I can't understand something like that, you really must be quite disgusting or else you wanted to kill me, you dirty bitch!’
Lise's immediate reply was a smart slap in the face. Losing control of herself, Françoise rushed at her sister. Buteau was standing there grinning with his hands thrust in his pockets, refusing to intervene, like a vain cockerel being fought over by two hens. And the fight proceeded, viciously and mercilessly, with bonnets torn off, blows and bruises exchanged, each woman trying to find some vital spot with their fingers. As they pushed and lurched, they had come back into the field of lucerne. Suddenly, Lise gave a scream: Françoise was sinking her nails into her neck. She saw red and the thought sprang into her mind, sharp and clear, that she might kill her sister. She caught sight of the scythe, to the left of Françoise, its handle lying across a tuft of thistles with its point in the air. Like lightning, she tipped Françoise sideways with the whole strength of her wrists. The poor girl stumbled, swung round and fell on her left side with a dreadful shriek. The scythe was slicing into her flesh.
‘Christ Almighty!’ stammered Buteau. And that was all. It was over in a flash and there was nothing more to be done. Aghast that what she had wanted had happened so suddenly, Lise watched the blood gushing and staining the slashed dress. Could the blade have cut into the baby, to cause such a flow of blood? Behind the stack Fouan's pale face was emerging again. He had seen what had happened and his dim eyes were blinking.
Françoise was now lying motionless and, when Buteau came nearer, he did not dare to touch her. An icy gust of wind chilled him to the marrow and his hair stood on end in horror.
‘She's dead. Christ, let's get away!’
He had taken Lise's hand and they ran off along the deserted road, their feet barely touching the ground. The low, gloomy clouds seemed to be pressing down on their skulls; the clatter of their feet sounded like a crowd pursuing them; and they ran across the flat empty plain, he with his smock billowing in the wind, she dishevelled, carrying her bonnet in her hand and both repeating the same words, grunting like hunted animals:
‘Christ, she's dead. Christ, let's get away!’
As they lengthened their stride, their cries turned into rhythmical, involuntary grunts, a sort of breathless snuffling sound in which you could distinguish the words:
‘Christ, dead! Christ, dead! Christ, dead!’
They vanished from sight.
A few moments later, when Jean came trotting back on his horse, the sight was horrible to see.
‘What's up? What's happened?’
Françoise opened her eyes, still without stirring: she gazed at him earnestly with her large eyes full of suffering. But she made no reply, as though already far away, thinking of other things.
‘You're hurt, there's blood, do tell me what it was.’
He turned towards old Fouan, who was just coming up.
‘You were here, what happened?’
Then Françoise said slowly:
‘I'd come for some grass. I fell on my scythe. Oh, it's the end of me!’
Her eyes were looking into Fouan's, telling him all those other things, the things which only the family should know. Dazed though he was, the old man seemed to understand and he repeated:
‘That's right, she fell and hurt herself. I was over there and saw it.’
They hurriedly fetched a litter from Rognes. On the way back, she fainted again. It was feared she might not reach home alive.
Chapter 4
IT so happened that on the following day, a Sunday, the young men of Rognes were due to go to Cloyes to draw lots, and as La Grande and Frimat's wife quickly rallied round to undress and put Françoise to bed with infinite care, outside in the street below the drum roll was sounding in the gloomy, fading light, a real death-knell for the poor.
Almost out of his mind, Jean was on his way to fetch Dr Finet when he met the veterinary surgeon Patoir near the church; the latter had come to look at old Saucisse's horse and, despite his reluctance, Jean forcibly insisted on his coming to look at the injured young woman. But when Patoir saw the gaping wound he bluntly refused to have anything to do with it: what was the point when there was nothing to be done? When Jean came back with Monsieur Finet two hours later, the doctor reacted in similar fashion. All he could do was to make the patient's last two hours less painful with drugs. The five months pregnancy was an added complication, for the baby could be felt stirring restlessly as it died together with its mother in the womb which had been perforated at the very moment when it was bearing fruit. After trying to apply a dressing, before he left the doctor declared that the poor woman would not survive the night, although he promised to call in again the following day. But she did survive and was still alive when, at about nine o'clock, the drum began to beat again to assemble the conscripts in front of the school.