Then, when the maid announced the visit of Delhomme and his son, Jean was forgotten.
Since that morning, important business was afoot for the Charles. After leaving the churchyard, Nénesse had gone along with them back to Roseblanche and, while Madame Charles went in with Élodie, he had stayed behind with her father and bluntly offered to take over No. 19 if an agreement could be reached. According to him, the brothel, which he knew, was going to be sold for a ludicrously small sum. Under Vaucogne, it had reached such a parlous state that he wouldn't get five thousand francs for it; everything needed changing, the shabby furniture as well as the unsuitable staff, who were so hopeless that even the military had started going elsewhere. For a good twenty minutes, he had slated the establishment, to the bewilderment of his uncle, quite taken aback by his grasp of the whole business, his bargaining skills and the extraordinary gifts he showed for one so young. What a fellow! He'd certainly be able to cope! And Nénesse had said that he'd come back with his father after lunch to discuss the matter seriously.
Monsieur Charles went in to talk it over with his wife and she too was amazed at the young man's talents. If only their son-in-law Vaucogne had had half his gumption! They'd have to go carefully to make sure he didn't take them in. The point was that Élodie's dowry was at risk. But beneath all their fear was their irresistible liking for Nénesse and their wish to see No. 19 in the hands of some skilful and energetic owner who would restore its prestige even if they lost money by it. So when the Delhommes came in, they greeted them very cordially.
‘You'll have some coffee, won't you? Fetch the sugar, Élodie!’
Jean pushed back his chair and they all sat down round the table. Freshly shaven, his tanned face quite inscrutable and full of diplomatic caution, Delhomme did not utter a word, whereas Nénesse, all dressed up in patent leather shoes, a mauve tie and a waistcoat with a gold floral design, seemed very much at his ease and full of ingratiating smiles. When Élodie blushingly offered the sugar-bowl, he looked at her and tried to pay her a compliment:
‘What big lumps of sugar you've got, cousin.’
She blushed even more and in her innocence could not find anything to say, so put out was she by this remark from such a charming young man.
That morning, Nénesse, sly fox that he was, had put only half his cards on the table. Ever since the funeral, when he had caught sight of Élodie, his plans had become more ambitious: not only would he get No. 19, he wanted the girl as well. The transaction was a straightforward one in the first place; no money need change hands, he'd only take her with the brothel as dowry: furthermore, even if her only dowry for the moment was this house, a speculative proposition, later on she would be inheriting a lot of money from her parents. And so he had brought his father along, determined to make his proposal straight away.
For a moment, they talked about the weather, which was extremely mild for the time of year. The pears had plenty of blossom but would it set? Their coffee was almost drunk, the conversation flagged.
‘Élodie my pet,’ said Monsieur Charles suddenly, ‘why not go for a little walk in the garden?’
He wanted to get rid of her because he was anxious to discuss business with the Delhommes.
‘Please, Uncle,’ Nénesse interrupted, ‘I wonder if you would mind very much if Élodie stayed here with us? I've got something to say which concerns her and it's always better not to take two bites at a cherry, isn't it?’
And then he stood up and made his proposal, like a well-bred young man:
‘I just wanted to say that I'd be very happy if I could marry my cousin, if you gave your consent and she agreed, too.’
There was great surprise. But Élodie in particular seemed completely taken aback and so scared that she rushed over to Madame Charles and flung her arms round her neck, her ears crimson with modesty. Her grandmother made a great effort to calm her.
‘Come along, come along, my darling, that's enough, do be sensible! No one's going to eat you just because someone's proposed to you. Your cousin didn't say anything unkind, look at him, don't be silly.’
But soft words were not enough to make her show her face.
‘Well, young man,’ Monsieur Charles said eventually, ‘I didn't expect your proposal. Perhaps it would have been better to have mentioned it to me first, because you see how sensitive our little pet is. But, in any case, let me assure you that I have a high opinion of you because you seem to me a fine young man and not afraid of work.’
Delhomme, whose features had not moved one iota throughout, uttered two words:
‘Of course!’
And realizing that he must be polite, Jean added:
‘Yes, he is indeed!’
Monsieur Charles was collecting his thoughts and had already reached the conclusion that Nénesse was not a bad match: he was young, active and the only son of rich peasant smallholders. His granddaughter wouldn't find anyone better. So, after exchanging a glance with his wife, he went on:
‘It's a matter for her to decide. We would never go against her wishes, she must make up her own mind.’
So Nénesse gallantly repeated his proposal:
‘Cousin, will you do me the honour and pleasure…?’
Still burying her face in her grandmother's chest, she did not give him time to finish but nodded vigorously three times, tucking her head still further down, no doubt keeping her eyes hidden gave her courage. The whole company was struck dumb, amazed at the speed with which she had said yes. So she must be in love with this young man, whom she hardly knew? Or was it that she wanted any man, as long as he was good-looking?
Madame Charles smilingly kissed her hair, saying:
‘Bless her little heart! Bless her little heart!’
‘Well,’ said Monsieur Charles, ‘since she's willing, so are we.’
But a misgiving crossed his mind. His heavy eyelids drooped and he added with a gesture of regret:
‘Of course, my dear young man, we shall have to give up the other idea, the one you suggested to me this morning.’
Nénesse looked surprised:
‘Why should we?’
‘What do you mean, why should we? Well, because, well, really, you must understand that… we didn't leave her to be brought up in a convent until she was twenty for her to… No, it wouldn't be possible.’
He was blinking uneasily and chewing his lips in his efforts to express his meaning without being too explicit. His little girl in the Rue aux Juifs! A young lady who had been so well educated, who was so completely innocent, who'd been brought up knowing absolutely nothing!
‘I'm sorry,’ said Nénesse bluntly, ‘that's not how I see it. I'm getting married in order to set myself up, I want my cousin and the house at No. 19.’
‘The confectioner's!’ exclaimed Madame Charles.
Once this word had been uttered, the discussion seized on it and it was bandied about to and fro between them. Really, was it reasonable to include the confectioner's shop? The young man and his father insisted on it as the dowry, pointing out that it was the bride's one really valuable possession and they couldn't possibly give it up; and they appealed to Jean to support them, which he did with a jerk of his chin. In the end, they all began to shout and, forgetting themselves, started to spell out the details in crude terms, when they were silenced in a most unexpected way.
Élodie finally revealed her face and stood up, looking as always like a tall slim lily planted in some shady corner, pale, bloodless and virginal, with her vacant look and mousy hair. She faced them all and said quietly:
‘My cousin's right, we can't let it go.’
Aghast, Madame Charles faltered:
‘But my little pet, if you knew…’
‘I do know. Victorine told me all about it a long time ago, the maid you dismissed because of her men. I do know about it and I've thought about it and I'm absolutely sure we can't let it go.’
The Charles sat down dumbfounded, rooted to their seats, staring at her with wide-open
eyes, completely bewildered. So she knew about No. 19, what took place there, the money they earned from it, the whole business in fact, and she could still speak about it so calmly? What wonderful innocence, shrinking at nothing!
‘We can't let it go,’ she repeated. ‘It's too good and too profitable. And anyway, how could we let a house like that, which you've built up with hard work from nothing, go out of the family?’
Monsieur Charles was completely dumbfounded. But underneath the shock he could feel an indescribable emotion welling up inside his heart and bringing a lump to his throat. He stood up, swaying and steadying himself against his wife, who had also stood up, trembling and choking with emotion. They both thought that their granddaughter was sacrificing herself and distractedly started trying to dissuade her:
‘Oh you darling, no, dearest, you mustn't!’
But Élodie's eyes filled with tears and she kissed her mother's old wedding-ring which she wore on her finger, the wedding-ring scratched and worn by all her toil in No. 19.
‘Yes, I will, you must let me do what I feel. I want to be like Mummy. If she could do it, so can I. There's no disgrace in it, since you did it yourselves. I'm looking forward to it, I promise you. And you'll see how I'll help cousin Nénesse and how quickly we'll put the house on its feet again, the two of us together. We'll get it going, you don't realize what sort of person I am!’
At this they could restrain themselves no longer and tears poured down their cheeks. Completely overcome by emotion, they sobbed like children. They had hardly brought her up with such a thing in mind, but what could you do? Blood will out. They could recognize a vocation when they saw one. It was exactly the same with Estelle: they'd shut her up, too, in the convent with the Sisters of the Visitation and left her ignorant and imbued with the highest principles of morality; and she had still turned out to be an incomparable brothel-keeper. Upbringing wasn't all that important, it was intelligence which mattered. But even more than that, the Charles' deep emotion and their uncontrollable tears sprang from the glorious thought that No. 19, their own creation, flesh of their flesh, was going to be saved from ruin. With the enthusiasm of youth, Élodie and Nénesse would hand on the torch. And they could already see it restored to public favour, in all its pristine brilliance, as in the finest hours of their own régime.
When Monsieur Charles was at last able to speak, he took his granddaughter into his arms.
‘Your father caused us many anxious moments, but you've consoled us for everything, my little angel.’
Madame Charles hugged her too, and they stood in one single group, mingling their tears.
‘So it's a deal?’ asked Nénesse, anxious for a firm commitment.
‘Yes, it's a deal.’
Delhomme was beaming, like a father delighted to have set up his son in a way he could scarcely have expected.
With his usual caution, he stirred himself to express his opinion:
‘Well, that's that! And if you never regret it, I know we shan't. No need to wish the young couple good luck. As long as the money's coming in, everything's always all right.’
And on that conclusion everyone sat down again, to discuss the details in peace.
Jean realized that he was in the way. During these sentimental outbursts, he had been embarrassed to be there and would have slipped away earlier if he had known how to do so. Eventually he drew Monsieur Charles aside and asked about the gardening job. The wealthy man immediately froze: offer a job to a relative? Impossible! It's never any good employing a relative, you can't tell them off! Anyway, he'd filled the job the day before. So Jean went away, hearing Élodie saying in her toneless voice that if Daddy was going to be naughty she'd make him see reason.
Once outside, he walked slowly away, not knowing where to turn now for work. Out of his one hundred and twenty-seven francs, he'd already paid for his wife's funeral, the cross and the surround at the graveyard. He was not left with much more than half the sum; but he could still manage for three weeks on that and afterwards he'd see. He was not afraid of hardship, his only worry was being unable to leave Rognes because of his lawsuit. Three o'clock struck, then four, then five. For a long time, he wandered aimlessly about the countryside, with strange, confused notions churning around inside his head, going back first to La Borderie, then to the Charles'. It was the same story everywhere, money and women, the kiss of death and the breath of life. It was not surprising if they were the source of all his troubles. His legs began to flag and he remembered that he hadn't yet eaten. He went back to the village, deciding to put up at the Lengaignes', who let rooms. But as he was crossing the square in front of the church, the sight of the house they had driven him out of that morning awakened his wrath again. Why should he let those swine have his two pairs of trousers and coat? They were his and he wanted them, even if it meant another fight.
Night was falling and Jean could barely distinguish old Fouan sitting on the stone bench. He was just coming up to the kitchen door in which there was a lighted candle when Buteau recognized him and rushed out to block the way.
‘Christ Almighty, it's you again. What do you want?’
‘I want my coat and my two pairs of trousers.’
A furious quarrel arose. Jean stood his ground and wanted to look inside the wardrobe cupboard while Buteau picked up a bill-hook and was swearing he would slit his throat if he tried to come in. In the end Lise's voice was heard shouting inside the house:
‘Oh, go on, let him have his old rags. You'll never wear them, he's contaminated them!’
The two men stopped shouting. Jean stood waiting and at that very moment, behind his back, he heard old Fouan, dreaming to himself and rambling in his mind, mumble out loud:
‘Get away quick! They'll be after your blood just as they were after the girl's.’
In a blinding flash, Jean understood everything, Françoise's death as well as her obstinate silence. He already had his suspicions and now he no longer had any doubt that she had saved her family from the guillotine. His hair stood on end and he could find nothing to say or do when Lise flung his coat and trousers straight at his face through the open door.
‘Here, take your filthy rags! They're so foul they'd've stunk the place out!”
He picked them up and went off. And not until he was out of the yard and on the street did he wave his fist at the house, shattering the silence with one single word:
‘Murderers!’
Then he disappeared into the darkness. Buteau was shaken to the core. He had heard old Fouan muttering and rambling and Jean's last word struck home like a bullet. What now? Were the police going to start interfering just when he thought that the affair had been buried with Françoise's dead body? He had been breathing freely ever since he had seen her disappearing into the earth that morning and now the old man knew everything! Was he just pretending to be stupid in order to keep them under observation? This thought added the final drop to Buteau's cup of bitterness and made him feel so ill that he left half his supper, and when he told Lise, she started shivering too and could not eat anything either.
They had both been looking forward to their first night in their newly won home, but it turned out to be a night of horror and misery. They had put Laure and Jules to bed on a mattress in front of the chest of drawers, until such time as they could find somewhere else, and had gone to bed and blown out their candle before the children were asleep. But they could not sleep a wink themselves and lay tossing and turning as though on hot coals. Finally they started talking in an undertone. What a burden this old father of theirs had become since he'd fallen into his second childhood! A real burden who could ruin them with what he cost to keep. You couldn't imagine the amount of bread he ate and a real glutton as well, picking his meat up in his fingers, spilling his wine all over his beard and so filthy it made you sick to look at him. And now he always went about with his trousers undone, he'd been caught exposing himself to little girls like a worn-out, half-dead animal. What a disgusting obsession f
or an old man who in his youth hadn't been any filthier than anyone else in his habits. Really, it was enough to make you want to pole-axe him, for he didn't seem ready to go of his own accord.
‘When you think that he'd topple over if you blew on him,’ muttered Buteau. ‘And he won't give up, he doesn't care a damn about mucking us up! Those old buggers, the less they work and the less they earn, the harder they cling on! He's never going to kick the bucket.’
Lying on her back, Lise added:
‘It's a bad thing for him to have come back here. He'll be too comfortable, he'll take on a new lease of life. If I'd had anything to say about it, I'd've prayed God not to let him sleep a single night here.’
Neither of them mentioned their real concern, the thought that their father knew everything and could give them away, quite innocently. This was the last straw. The fact that he cost them money, that he was an encumbrance, that he was preventing them from freely enjoying the stolen bonds, was something they had been putting up with for a long time. But the thought that one word from him could bring them to the guillotine, that was really going too far. They'd have to do something about it.
‘I'm going to see if he's asleep,’ Lise said suddenly.
She relit the candle, made sure that Jules and Laure were sound asleep and slipped along in her shift to the room where they stored the beetroot and where they had set up the old man's iron bedstead again. When she came back she was shivering, her feet frozen by the tiled floor. She slid under the blanket again and snuggled up to her husband, who held her in his arms to warm her.
‘Well?’
‘Well, he's sleeping with his mouth wide open like a trap-door because he can't breathe properly.’
Silence fell but, although they said nothing as they lay in each other's arms, they could sense their thoughts in the beating of their hearts. This old man who always had difficulty in breathing would be so easy to finish off, some little thing pushed gently into his throat, a handkerchief or just fingers, and they'd be rid of him. They'd even be doing him a favour. Wouldn't he be better sleeping peacefully in the churchyard than being a burden to everyone, himself included?