While La Grande stayed behind to drink the coffee provided for the wake, the others left rudely, as a sign of their contempt. But the Buteaus were grinning to themselves now that their money was safe and they knew that their troubles were over. Lise started putting on airs while Buteau, deciding to do things properly, ordered the coffin and went to the cemetery to make sure they were digging the grave in the right place. It must be explained that in Rognes peasants who have thoroughly detested each other in their lifetimes do not fancy lying side by side when they are dead. The rows are filled up as space is needed, at random. So when it happens that two enemies die in quick succession, it causes the authorities considerable embarrassment because the second family will say that they will hang on to their body rather than let it rest next to the other one. In fact while Macqueron was mayor he had taken advantage of his position to buy a separate plot of land, out of the normal order; unfortunately this plot was next to the grave of Lengaigne's father, where Lengaigne had booked a plot for himself. The latter had borne a grudge ever since, for the thought that his corpse would be rotting next to that of that bastard added fuel to their long-standing rivalry and was poisoning the remaining years of his life. Similarly Buteau was furious when he inspected his father's plot. It was to the left of Françoise's, which was right and proper, but, by sheer bad luck, in the row parallel to hers, just opposite, was the grave of the wife of old Saucisse, who had reserved the next plot for himself; so when that old rogue Saucisse finally pegged out, his feet would be on top of old Fouan's skull. Could such a thought be entertained for one single second? Two old men who had loathed each other ever since that dirty trick over the annuity; and now the scoundrel of the piece, the one who'd diddled the other, would be able to kick him about for all time! Christ Almighty! If the family was feeble enough to put up with that sort of thing, old Fouan's bones would turn in their grave against old Saucisse's. Boiling with fury, Buteau went raging down to the town-hall and descended on Delhomme to force him to allocate another plot since he was in a position to do so. Then, when his brother-in-law refused to depart from custom, quoting the deplorable example of Macqueron and Lengaigne, he called him a coward and a traitor and stood shouting in the middle of the street that he was the only good son of the family because the others didn't care a bugger whether their old father would rest quietly in his grave or not. He collected a sympathetic crowd and then went home bursting with indignation.
Delhomme had just had to handle a more serious embarrassment. Father Madeline had left two days ago and once again Rognes was left without a priest. The attempt to provide one of their own, an expensive luxury for the parish, had in fact been so unsuccessful that the town council had voted to cancel this item of expenditure and return to the former arrangement of sharing the parish priest of Bazoches-le-Doyen. But despite his bishop's persuasion, Father Godard refused ever to take the sacraments in Rognes again, infuriated at his colleague's departure and accusing the villagers of having half-killed him purely in order to force him, Father Godard, to come back. He was going about saying loudly that next Sunday Bécu could toll the bell until Vespers when suddenly Fouan's death had complicated the issue and brought it to a head. A funeral's not like a Mass, you can't put it off indefinitely. Secretly pleased at the opportunity, Delhomme, whose judicious nature did not exclude a touch of malice, decided to go to Bazoches to see the priest personally. As soon as the latter caught sight of him, his face went purple and started swelling at the temples. Even before Delhomme opened his mouth, he waved him away. No! Absolutely not! Never! He'd sooner give up his own parish. And when he learnt that it was for a funeral, he stuttered with fury. Ah, so those heathens were deliberately dying because they thought that was the way to force his hand! Well, they could bury their own dead, he was hanged if he would help them on their way to heaven! Quietly, Delhomme waited for the first outburst to subside before putting forward his own point of view: only dogs died without a blessing and you couldn't leave a family with a dead man on their hands, and, finally, he drew attention to his personal reasons: the dead man was his father-in-law, the father-in-law of the mayor of Rognes. Now, how about tomorrow at ten o'clock? No! Never! Spluttering and floundering, Father Godard stuck to his guns, and the farmer had to leave without persuading him to change his mind but in the hope that he might think it over.
‘I'm telling you: never!’ the priest flung at him for the last time from his doorway. ‘Don't toll the bell. There's no point! Never!’
Next morning, Bécu was told by the mayor to start ringing at ten o'clock. They would see. At the Buteaus', everything was ready; the body had been coffined the night before, under the expert eye of La Grande. The bedroom had already been washed and no sign of the fire remained, except their father in his wooden overcoat. And the bell was tolling when the family, assembled in front of the house for the funeral procession, saw Father Godard coming up Macqueron's street, out of breath from running and so red and furious that he had taken off his hat and was vigorously fanning himself with it for fear of having an attack. He looked neither right nor left but disappeared into the church, coming out a moment later in his surplice, preceded by two choirboys, one bearing the cross and the other the holy water. He gabbled a few hasty words over the corpse and, without bothering to see if the bearers were following him with the coffin, he went back into the church, where he started to say Mass at top speed. The bewildered Clou with his trombone and the two startled choristers were hard pressed to keep up with him. The family sat in front: Buteau and Lise, Fanny and Delhomme, Jesus Christ and La Grande. Monsieur Charles was honouring the funeral with his presence and had offered his wife's apologies: she had gone to Chartres two days before with Élodie and Nénesse. As for La Trouille, just as she was setting out, she had noticed that three of her geese were missing and had slipped away to look for them. Behind Lise sat her two children, Laure and Jules, as still as mice, with their arms folded, dark-eyed and staring. And there were many acquaintances in the other pews, especially the women, the wives of Frimat and Bécu, Coelina and Flore; in a word, it was a really good turn-out. Before the preface, when the priest turned towards the congregation, he stretched his arms out wide in a terrifying gesture, as if about to strike them in the face. Bécu, very drunk, continued to toll the bell.
On the whole, it was a reasonable Mass, even if it was taken too fast. People were being tolerant, smiling at the priest's anger and excusing him; after all, it was natural for him to be upset by his defeat, just as everyone was delighted at Rognes's victory. Faces were beaming with amused satisfaction at having had the last word in this matter of the sacraments. They had certainly forced him to bring the word of God to them, even if, in their heart of hearts, they didn't give a damn for Him.
When the Mass was over, they passed round the aspergillum and the procession reformed: the cross, the choristers, Clou and his trombone, the priest breathless with haste, the coffin carried by four peasants, the family and the other mourners. Bécu started tolling the bell again so violently that the rooks all flew out of the belfry, cawing in distress. The procession had only to go round the corner of the church to reach the graveyard. The singing and music rang out more loudly against the profound silence of Nature, amidst the weeds peacefully fluttering in the breeze, warmed by the misty sun. And in the open air the coffin seemed suddenly so small that everyone was struck by it. Jean, still standing there, was quite startled. Poor old man, so emaciated by age, so reduced by his wretched life, that he fitted comfortably into this toy box, such a tiny little box, hardly any size at all! He wouldn't take up much room, he would be no great encumbrance in his corner of this vast expanse of land which had been his sole passion and which had burnt his body to a cinder. The body had arrived at the edge of the gaping grave and Jean's gaze followed it and looked beyond, over the wall, from one end of Beauce to the other; and on the ploughed lands sweeping away into the infinite distance, he could once more see the sowers, swinging their arms in the same steady gesture, and t
he living cloud of seed raining down into the open furrows.
When the Buteaus caught sight of Jean they exchanged an anxious glance. Was that bastard waiting there in order to make a fuss? As long as they felt that he was in Rognes they would never sleep peacefully. The choirboy holding the cross had just set it down at the foot of the grave and, standing beside the coffin resting on the grass Father Godard was rapidly reciting the last prayers. But the mourners were distracted by the late arrival of Macqueron and Lengaigne, who kept on looking up towards the plain. They followed their gaze and were intrigued to see a large cloud of smoke billowing up into the sky. It must be at La Borderie, it seemed like haystacks on fire behind the farmhouse.
‘Ego sum,’ the priest snapped angrily. Their faces turned back towards him and their gaze returned to the coffin; only Monsieur Charles continued talking in an undertone to Delhomme. That morning he had received a letter from Madame Charles and he was in the seventh heaven of delight. Hardly had she arrived in Chartres than Élodie had shown herself outstanding, as energetic and crafty as Nénesse. She had diddled her father and was already in charge. A sheer gift, that's what it was, a sharp eye and plenty of drive! And Monsieur Charles talked sentimentally about settling into a happy old age in his Roseblanche estate with his collection of roses and carnations, now flourishing better than ever before, his birds, all quite recovered and singing merrily, so that it did your heart good to hear them.
‘Amen!’ said the choirboy with the holy water sprinkler, very loudly.
Father Godard immediately launched into the De profundis clamavi ad te Domine, still in the same angry voice. And he continued while Jesus Christ drew Fanny to one side and started fiercely attacking the Buteaus again:
‘If only I hadn't been so drunk the other day. It's really too idiotic to let ourselves be done down like this.’
‘Well, we certainly have been,’ agreed Fanny, keeping her voice low.
‘Because in fact,’ he went on, ‘those swine have got the bonds. And they've been enjoying the proceeds for a long time, they'd come to an arrangement with old Saucisse, I know all about it. For Christ's sake, aren't we going to take them to court?’
She drew away from him and said fiercely:
‘Oh no, not me! I've got other things to do. You can do it if you like.’
It was Jesus Christ's turn to look scared and hold back. If he was unable to persuade his sister to take the lead, he was not at all sure about his own relationship with the law.
‘Ah well, I suppose I'm imagining things. Anyway, when you're honest at least you have the consolation of being able to walk with your head high.’
La Grande, who was listening, saw him straighten his back with an air of dignified respectability. She had always accused him of being a simpleton for the beggarly existence he led. She thought it pitiful that a strapping fellow like him didn't go and make a row at his brother's to claim his share. And happy to be able to lead him and Fanny up the garden path, quite irrelevantly, with an innocent air, she repeated her usual promise:
‘Well, you can be sure that I'll never do any harm to anyone, I've got it all settled a long time ago. Equal shares for all, I'd not die happy if I didn't treat everyone alike. Hyacinthe's there and you too, Fanny… I'm ninety, my turn will come one day!’
She did not believe a word of what she was saying, being quite determined to go on enjoying her possessions without end. She'd bury the lot of them. And now she'd seen one more on his way, her brother. Everything that was happening before her eyes, this corpse beside the open grave, the final ceremony, seemed something put on for the neighbours' benefit, not for hers. Tall and thin, with her stick under one arm, she stood bolt upright amidst the graves, feeling nothing except curiosity at this tiresome business of dying which affected others.
The priest was gabbling the last verse of the psalm:
‘Et ipse redimit Israel ex omnibus iniquitatibus ejus.’
He took the holy water sprinkler and shook it over the coffin, raising his voice as he said:
‘Requiescat in pace.’
‘Amen,’ replied the two choristers.
And the coffin was lowered into the grave. The gravedigger had attached the ropes and only two men were needed, for it weighed no more than the body of a little child. Then they all filed past, handing the sprinkler from one to the other, each making the sign of the cross over the grave.
Jean came up and took the sprinkler from Monsieur Charles: he looked down into the hole. His eyes were dazzled by gazing for so long over the vast plain at the sowers burying the future bread, from one end of Beauce to the other, until their figures were lost in the distance on the bright, hazy horizon. However, down below, in the earth, he could discern the coffin, looking even smaller with its plain narrow wooden lid the colour of golden wheat; and lumps of this rich earth were sliding down, half covering the coffin so that he could see only a pale mark at the bottom, like a handful of that wheat which his former fellow farm-hands were casting into the furrows out there on the plain. He shook the sprinkler and handed it to Jesus Christ.
‘Father Godard! Father Godard!’ Delhomme called discreetly, running after the priest who, having finished the ceremony, was storming away, forgetting the two choirboys.
‘What is it now?’ he asked.
‘I wanted to thank you for your kindness. So next Sunday we'll ring the bell for Mass at nine o'clock, as usual, shall we?’
And as the priest glared at him without replying, he hurriedly added:
‘There's a poor woman here, very sick and quite alone and penniless… You know her, it's Rosalie, the one who mends the chairs. I've sent her a bowl of soup but I can't do everything.’
Father Godard's face softened and relaxed into an expression of tenderness and charity. He rummaged desperately in his pockets but could find only twenty-five centimes.
‘Lend me five francs, I'll let you have them back next Sunday. Till Sunday, then.’
And once more he rushed breathlessly away. Well, they might be forcing him to bring God's word to Rognes again but the good Lord would condemn them all to everlasting hellfire, there was no doubt about that. But there was nothing he could do and that was no reason for letting them suffer too much on earth.
When Delhomme came back to the others, he became involved in a terrible squabble. First of all the mourners had watched with interest the spadefuls of earth which the gravedigger was throwing onto the coffin. But finding himself by chance side by side with Macqueron, Lengaigne had bluntly tackled him on the subject of the plot. The family, about to disperse, stayed to watch and soon became involved in the battle, which was punctuated by the steady thud of the spadefuls of earth on the coffin.
‘You hadn't got the right to do it!’ Lengaigne was shouting. ‘You shouldn't have jumped the queue, even if you were the mayor. It was just to annoy me that you wanted to get a place next to my father, wasn't it? But you're not there yet, by God!’
‘Oh, for Christ's sake leave me alone!’ Macqueron retorted. ‘I've paid for the plot and it's mine. And there I'll go and no dirty pig like you is going to stop me!’
They were jostling each other as they stood beside their concessions, the few feet of earth where they would sleep for ever.
‘But doesn't it mean anything to you, you low bugger, that your bloody carcass will be next to mine, just as if we were real friends? It gets my goat. We've always loathed each other's guts and now we're supposed to make our peace and lie side by side happily ever after. No, not for me, I'm never going to make it up with you.’
‘I don't give a damn! You can lick my arse and go on licking it beside me as far as I'm concerned!’
This contemptuous remark was the last straw for Lengaigne. He stuttered angrily that if he pegged out last he'd sooner come along at night and dig Macqueron's bones up. The other man sneered that he'd like to see that: and then their wives intervened. The thin and swarthy Coelina furiously contradicted her husband.
‘You're wrong, I'v
e told you you're heartless. If you persist, you can lie in your hole by yourself! I'll go somewhere else where I won't be messed about by that bitch over there.’
She jerked her chin in the direction of the peevish and spineless Flore, who retorted sharply:
‘We'll see who does the messing about. Don't get worked up, dearie, I don't want your stinking corpse contaminating mine.’
Bécu's and Frimat's wives intervened and separated them.
‘Come on, come on,’ Bécu's wife kept saying. ‘You're both agreed, you won't be side by side! Everyone's got the right to his own ideas, you're free to choose your own company.’
Frimat's wife approved.
‘Of course, it's natural. Look, my old man who's going to die soon, I'd sooner keep him with me than let him be put next to old Couillet, he'd had words with him in the past.’
Tears had come to her eyes at the thought that her paralysed husband would perhaps not survive the week. The day before, trying to put him to bed, she had stumbled with him and certainly, once he was gone, she would not be long following him.
But Lengaigne suddenly tackled Delhomme, who had just come up.
‘Look, you're a fair man, you must make him move out and send him back to the end of the queue, like the others.’