الفصل الفصل 15 · PART III. CHAPTER III.

. PART III. CHAPTER III.

For a whole year Fouan lived in this fashion, silent and alone, in

the empty house. He was ever to be found there on his legs, roaming

hither and thither with trembling hands and doing nothing. He would

stay for hours in front of the mouldy troughs in the cow-house; and

then he would turn and station himself at the door of the empty barn,

as if riveted there in profound reverie. The garden still gave him some

occupation; but he was growing weaker, and stooped more and more, as

though the soil were recalling him little by little to herself. Twice

had he been picked up lying face downwards among his young salads.

Since those twenty francs had been given to Hyacinthe, Delhomme alone

paid his share of the allowance. Buteau stubbornly refused a single

copper, declaring he would rather go into a court of law than see his

money pass into the pockets of his disreputable brother. The latter

did, indeed, from time to time, wring some alms from his father, whom

his tearful heroics prostrated.

Then it was that Delhomme, seeing the old man's growing distress, his

enfeeblement and forlornness, conceived the notion of taking him into

his own home. Why should not Fouan sell the house and live at his

daughter's? He would want for nothing there; and they would no longer

have to pay him the two hundred francs' allowance. The next day Buteau,

having heard of this offer, hastened to make a similar one, with an

elaborate display of filial affection. Money to fling away--no, no,

indeed! But if it were merely a question of caring for his father,

why the latter could come and eat and sleep and enjoy himself. At

bottom, no doubt, Buteau's idea must have been that his sister was only

trying to get hold of the old man with the intention of grabbing the

suppositious hoard. Yet even he was beginning to doubt the existence

of that money, which he had hunted after in vain. And he was in two

minds--offering his father a shelter out of pride, expecting that the

old man would refuse, and yet exasperated at the notion that he might

accept Delhomme's hospitality. Fouan, on his side, displayed great

repugnance, almost dread, as regards both proposals. No, no! Better dry

bread in his own house than roast meat at other people's; it was less

bitter. He had lived there and there he would die.

So things went on till mid-July--Saint Henri's day, which was the

patronal feast-day of Rognes. A travelling ball-room, under canvas,

was usually set up in the meadows of the Aigre; and on the road, in

front of the municipal offices, there were three stalls, one kept by a

cheap-jack, who sold everything down to ribbons; a shooting-gallery,

and a game of turn-about, at which sticks of barley-sugar could be won.

That day Monsieur Baillehache, who was breakfasting at La Borderie,

profited by the occasion to go and have a chat with Delhomme, who

begged him to accompany him to Fouan's, and persuade the old man to

listen to reason. Since Rose's death the notary also had advised Fouan

to take up his abode with his daughter and sell the house, which was

now uselessly large. It was worth some three thousand francs; and he,

the notary, even offered to take care of the money and to pay Fouan the

interest on it in little sums, according to his humble wants.

They found the old fellow in his customary bewilderment, trudging about

at random in a state of stupor, in front of a heap of wood, which he

wanted to saw up without having the strength to do so. That morning

his poor hands shook even more than usual, for on the night before he

had undergone a terrible onslaught from Hyacinthe, who, to get hold of

twenty francs, in view of the morrow's festivity, had brought all his

resources into play, bellowing maddeningly, crawling on the ground,

and threatening to kill himself with a knife which he had purposely

concealed up his sleeve. At this the old man had given the twenty

francs, as he at once confessed, with an air of anguish, to the notary.

"Tell me, would you do otherwise? I'm dead beat, dead beat!"

So Monsieur Baillehache took advantage of the circumstance.

"I've not come to talk about all that," said he. "You can't keep on

like this. You won't even have your own skin left you. At your age it

isn't prudent to live alone; and if you don't want to be eaten alive,

you must listen to your daughter. Sell this place and go and live with

her!"

"Ah! so that's your advice, too?" muttered Fouan.

He glanced askance at Delhomme, who affected to hold himself aloof.

However, remarking the old man's look of distrust, he spoke out.

"You know, father," he began, "that I say nothing, because you perhaps

imagine that I have some selfish object in inviting you. Good gracious,

no! You'll give us extra work at home, but then it annoys me to see you

so uncomfortably situated when you might be living at ease."

"Well, well," replied the old fellow, "we must think it over. As soon

as I make up my mind, I'll be sure and let you know."

Neither his son-in-law nor the notary could get anything more out of

him. He complained of being bustled. His authority, which had gradually

died out, just lingered in this obstinacy of old age--this obstinacy

which made him regardless even of his own comfort and well-being. In

addition to his vague dread at the idea of no longer having a house of

his own--a dread which was by no means unnatural, seeing how much he

already suffered from having no land left him--he said "no," because

they all wanted to make him say "yes." The brutes had something to gain

by it, then? Well, he would say "yes" when he chose to do so, and not

before.

On the evening before, Hyacinthe having been weak enough in his

rapture to show La Trouille his four five-franc pieces, had gone to

sleep clutching them in his hand, for on the last occasion the minx

had stolen one from under his bolster, taking advantage of the fact

that he had come home drunk to assert that he must have lost it out

of doors. On awaking he had a fright, the coins having escaped from

his grasp during his sleep; but he found them again, quite warm, under

his buttocks, and was then thrilled with a mighty joy. His mouth was

already watering at the thought of how he would spend the cash at

Lengaigne's. It was the village fête, and no one with any decency would

go back home at night-time with any change left in his pocket. During

the morning La Trouille vainly coaxed her father to give her one of the

five-franc pieces, just a little one, she said; but he repulsed her,

and was not even grateful for the stolen eggs with which she made him

an omelette. No, no! It didn't suffice that she was fond of her father;

money was made for men. Then in a fit of wrath she put on her blue

poplin dress--a present dating from the period of plenty--saying that

she, too, was going to enjoy herself. She hadn't got twenty yards from

the door when she turned round and called out:

"Father, father, look!"

Her hand was raised, and she displayed between the tips of her slender

fingers a five-franc piece which shone like a sun.

Hyacinthe fancied that he had been robbed, and, growing pale, he

fumbled in his pockets. But the twenty francs were there all right. The

hussy must have sold some of her geese, and the dodge striking him as

funny, he chuckled paternally and let her go.

He was only strict on one point: morality; and it was on that account

that, half-an-hour later, he fell into a violent passion. He also was

going out, and was on the point of fastening the door, when a peasant,

in holiday garb, passing along on the road below, hailed him.

"Hyacinthe, ahoy! Hyacinthe!"

"What is it?"

"I have just seen your daughter."

"What of it?"

"Well, there's a fellow with her."

"Whereabouts are they?"

"In the ditch over there, at the corner of Guillaume's field."

On hearing this Hyacinthe raised both hands furiously to heaven.

"All right; thanks," said he to the peasant. "I'll fetch my whip. The

dirty drab! Bringing dishonour on me like this, indeed!"

Having returned into his house, he took down from behind the door, on

the left, a long horse-whip which he only used on these occasions; then

with the whip under his arm he set out, creeping past the bushes as if

after some game, so as to come upon the guilty couple unawares.

When, however, he turned round the bend of the road, Nénesse, who was

keeping watch on a heap of stones, caught sight of him. It was Delphin

who was with La Trouille. The two were taking turns, the one acting as

outpost while the other amused himself.

"Look out!" cried Nénesse; "here's Hyacinthe."

He had seen the whip, and he started off across country like a hare.

La Trouille and Delphin were in the grassy ditch. What a nuisance! So

here was her father coming! Still she had her wits sufficiently about

her to hand Delphin her five-franc piece.

"Look here," said she, "hide this somewhere. You can give it me back

again. Quick, cut away, hang you!"

Hyacinthe came up like a hurricane, shaking the ground as he ran, and

brandishing his whip, which smacked with a sound like that of crackling

flames.

"Oh, you foul drab, you!" he shouted; "I'll rouse you!"

He was so infuriated, on recognising the rural constable's son, that

he missed the lad, as the latter scuttled off on all fours through the

brambles. La Trouille, hampered by her petticoats, could neither escape

nor plead innocence. A lash of the whip soon set her upright, and

brought her out of the ditch. Then the sport began.

"Take that, you dirty troll! See if that won't quiet you!"

La Trouille, without saying a word, accustomed to these races, leapt

away like a goat. Her father's usual tactics were to bring her back

home like that, and then lock her up. So she tried to make her escape

towards the plain, hoping to tire him out; and on this occasion she all

but succeeded, thanks to a chance encounter. For the last moment or so,

Monsieur Charles and Elodie, whom he was taking to the fête, had been

standing there stock-still, in the middle of the road. They had seen

everything; the young girl staring wide with innocent stupefaction,

the father red with shame and bursting with indignation. The worst was

that as that shameless hussy La Trouille recognised him she tried to

obtain his protection. He repulsed her, but the whip was within range,

and, to avoid it, she took to dodging round her uncle and cousin;

while her father swore more loudly than ever, coarsely reproaching her

with her misbehaviour. Meantime he also dodged round Monsieur Charles,

and launched forth a volley of lashes, with all his might. Monsieur

Charles, dumbfounded and aghast at being thus encircled, could only

bury Elodie's face in his waistcoat, so that she might not see or hear

anything. To such an extent did he lose his wits, that he himself

became very coarse.

"Now, then, you dirty troll, will you leave me alone? Whoever cursed me

with such a family in this strumpets' country?"

As soon as La Trouille was dislodged she felt that she was lost. One

lash of the whip, which curled round her up to her arm-pits, made her

spin like a top; another knocked her down, and dragged out a wisp of

her hair. After that, brought back into the right road, her only idea

was to get home as sharply as possible. She leapt over the hedges,

cleared the ditches, and cut across the vineyards, without fear of

impalement on the stakes. However, her little legs could no longer

hold out; the lashes still rained down upon her round shoulders, upon

her loins, indeed over all her precocious flesh. Not that she cared a

straw; she had got to think it rather amusing to be tickled so hard.

With a nervous laugh she finally leapt into the house, and took refuge

in a corner, where the big whip could no longer reach her.

"Hand over your five francs," said the father, "by way of penalty."

She swore that she had lost them while running home, whereupon he

sniggered incredulously, and rummaged her all over. Finding nothing, he

flew into a passion again.

"What! So you've given them to your gallant! You blessed fool! You

amuse them, and then you pay them!"

After that he went off in a towering rage, locking her in, and calling

out that she should stay there all by herself till the next day, as he

didn't mean to return.

La Trouille, when once he had gone off, made an inspection of her body,

which was just striped with two or three weals. Then she put her hair

straight, and tidied her dress. Finally, she calmly undid the lock--a

trick at which she had grown extremely skilful--and bolted off, without

even taking the trouble to refasten the door. Nicely robbed the robbers

would find themselves, if any came! She knew where to find Nénesse and

Delphin again: in a copse beside the Aigre. They were, indeed, waiting

for her there; and now it was her cousin Nénesse's turn. He had three

francs with him, the other threepence. She had got her money back,

and she decided good-naturedly that they would spend the whole lot

together. They returned to the fair, and she set them a-shooting for

macaroons, after buying herself a big bow of red satin, which she stuck

in her hair.

Meanwhile, on arriving at Lengaigne's, Hyacinthe fell in with Bécu,

who had his official badge fastened on to a new blouse. The scamp

apostrophised the constable vehemently.

"Look here, you! You've a pretty way of going your rounds! D'you know

where I found your swine of a boy?"

"Where?"

"Why, with my daughter! I'll write to the prefect and have you

cashiered, you swine's father--swine, yourself!"

This made Bécu fire up.

"Daughter, indeed! Why, she's always flourishing her legs in the

air--and so now she's led Delphin astray? Hell and thunder! I'll send

the gendarmes after her!"

"Just try it on, you thief!"

Then the two snarled in each other's faces, till, all at once, the

strain was relaxed, and their fury dropped.

"We must have an explanation; let's go in and liquor," said Hyacinthe.

"I haven't a copper," replied Bécu.

Then the other merrily produced his first five-franc piece, tossed it

in the air, and stuck it in his eye.

"Well, shall we spend it, you gay dog? Come along, my buck! It's my

turn now; you've paid often enough."

They went into Lengaigne's, chuckling for joy, and slapping each other

affectionately on the back. Lengaigne had had an idea that year. As the

owner of the strolling ball-room refused to come and pitch his tent

in the village, disgusted at not having cleared his expenses the year

before, the innkeeper had daringly made a ball-room of his barn, which

adjoined his tavern, with its front door communicating with the road.

He had even made another doorway in the party-wall, so that ball-room

and tavern communicated. This idea had brought him the custom of the

whole village, and his rival, Macqueron, was furious at having his

house empty.

"Two quarts at once; one for each of us!" yelled Hyacinthe.

As Flore, bewildered and radiant at sight of the throng of people, was

attending to his order, he noticed that his arrival had interrupted

Lengaigne, who had been reading a letter aloud, standing amid a group

of peasants. On being questioned, the taverner replied, with a deal of

dignity that, it was a letter sent by his son Victor from the regiment.

"Ah, indeed, the rascal!" said Bécu, becoming interested. "And what

does he say? You must begin it again for us."

So Lengaigne read it over again.

"My Dear Parents,--This is to tell you that we have been here at Lille

in Flanders for a month, less seven days. The country's not bad except

for the dearness of the wine, for which we have to pay as much as

eightpence a quart."

In all the four closely-written pages there was hardly anything

else. The same detail recurred with infinite monotony, spun out into

lengthened phrases. However, they all expressed surprise each time that

the price of the wine was mentioned. So there were parts like that! How

horrid! In the last lines of the letter came an attempt at spongeing: a

request for twelve francs to replace a lost pair of shoes.

"Ah, the rascal!" repeated the rural constable. "Something like a

fellow that, good God."

After the first two quarts, Hyacinthe asked for two more: bottled

wine, at a franc apiece, paying as he was served so as to create

astonishment, and rapping his money on the table, in a way that

revolutionised the tavern. When the first five-franc piece had been

expended in drink, he pulled out a second one, screwed it into his

eye, as before, and cried out that there was plenty more where that

one had come from. So the afternoon slipped by, amid a bustle of

drinkers passing in and out, and increasing tipsiness. Dull and sedate

though they were on work-days, they were now all yelling, thumping,

and spitting vehemently. It occurred to one tall thin fellow to get

shaved, and Lengaigne sat him down forthwith in the midst of them, and

scraped his skin so roughly, that the razor was heard going over the

leathery integument as if at work on a scalded pig. A second took the

first one's place; 'twas fine sport. And how the tongues wagged! There

was Macqueron, now, who didn't dare show himself outside. Wasn't it

this fool of an assessor's own fault if the usual ball hadn't come?

Arrangements might have been made. But, sure enough, he preferred

voting roads, and getting three times as much money for his land as it

was worth. This allusion provoked a tempest of laughter. Fat Flore,

whose triumph the day was to be, kept neglecting her customers to run

to the door, bursting into insolent mirth, whenever she saw Cœlina's

jaundiced visage behind the opposite window-panes.

"Cigars! Madame Lengaigne," thundered Hyacinthe at last. "Expensive

ones, mind! Penny each!"

As night was falling, and the petroleum lamps were being lit, Madame

Bécu came in to look for her husband. But he had started on a monstrous

game at cards.

"Are you coming?" she said; "it's past eight. You must have some

dinner."

He stared at her with tipsy majesty.

"Go to blazes!" he replied.

Then Hyacinthe displayed intense delight. "Madame Bécu," said he, "I

invite you. Eh? Yes, we'll just peck a bit, between the three of us.

D'ye hear there, mistress? Give us your best: some ham, some rabbit,

and dessert. And don't be anxious. Just look here. Attention!"

He then pretended to fumble himself all over. Then he suddenly produced

his third coin, and held it up.

"Cuckoo! Aha, there it is!"

Everybody was doubled up with laughter, and one fat man all but

suffocated. That rascal Hyacinthe was thundering funny! And some of

them, by way of a joke, felt him from head to foot, as if he had had

crowns all over him.

"I say, La Bécu," he repeated a dozen times over while he was eating,

"if Bécu don't mind, we'll sleep together? What do you say?"

She was very dirty, not having known, she said, that she should stop

at the fête; and she laughed, did this dark pole-cat of a woman, wiry

and rusty like an old needle; while Hyacinthe, without further delay,

grabbed hold of her legs under the table. Meantime the husband, blind

drunk, dribbled and chuckled, shouting out that two men would be none

too many for the hussy.

It was ten o'clock when the ball began. Through the communicating

doorway the four lamps, fastened by iron wires to the beams, could be

seen blazing. Clou, the farrier, was there with his trombone, as well

as the nephew of a Bazoches-le-Doyen rope-maker, who played the violin.

The admission was free, but you paid two sous for each dance you joined

in. The beaten soil underfoot had just been watered, on account of the

dust. Whenever the instruments left off playing, the sharp, regular

detonations of the neighbouring shooting-gallery could be heard. The

road, usually so gloomy, was all ablaze with the reflectors of the two

other booths; the trinket stall glittered with gildings, while the

turn-about was bedecked with mirrors and hung with red curtains like a

chapel.

"Hallo! Why, there's my little daughter!" cried Hyacinthe, with

swimming eyes.

So it was. La Trouille was just coming into the ball, attended by

Delphin and Nénesse; and the father did not seem at all surprised

to see her there, although he had locked her in. She not merely had

the red bunch of ribbons flaunting in her hair, for round her neck

there was now a heavy imitation coral necklace, formed of beads of

sealing-wax, which showed blood-red against her dark skin. All three of

them, moreover, tired of rambling about in front of the booths, were

dull and sticky with sweetmeats, of which they had eaten more than they

could digest. Delphin, who was only happy when out and about in all the

hidden nooks of the country-side, wore a blouse, and his shaggy round

savage-like head was bare. Nénesse, on the other hand, already yearning

after the refinements of town life, was clad in a suit of dittos bought

at Lambourdieu's, one of those scant outfits turned out wholesale

by cheap Paris clothiers; and he wore a round felt hat, to mark his

contempt of the village, which he looked down upon.

"Petty!" called Hyacinthe. "Little daughter, come and taste this.

First-rate, ain't it?"

He let her drink out of his glass, while Madame Bécu asked Delphin

sternly:

"What have you done with your cap?"

"Lost it."

"Lost it? Come here, and and I'll cuff you!" But Bécu interposed,

chuckling complacently at the recollection of his son's precocious

gallantries.

"Let him be! He's getting a big boy now. And so, you scum of the earth,

you've been amusing yourselves together? Ah! the lickerish dog."

"Go and play," concluded Hyacinthe paternally. "And mind you're to be

good."

"They're as drunk as pigs," said Nénesse, with an air of disgust, as he

went back to the ball-room.

La Trouille laughed.

"I should just think so! I quite expected it. That's why they're so

amiable."

The dancing was getting lively. The explosive blasts of Clou's

trombone, which smothered the faint music of the little fiddle,

were all that could be heard. The ground, watered over copiously,

was turning to mud under the thick-soled boots of the dancers; and

presently, from all the shaken petticoats, from the jackets and bodices

that grew moist under the arm-pits with broad stains of sweat, there

uprose a strong goat-like smell, accentuated by the smoky acridity

of the lamps. Between two quadrilles, a sensation was created by the

arrival of Berthe, Macqueron's daughter, arrayed in a foulard dress,

exactly like those that the tax-collector's young ladies had worn at

Cloyes, on Saint Lubin's day. Could her parents have given her leave

to come? Or had she slipped out behind their backs? It was observable

that she danced all the time with the son of a wheelwright, whom her

father had forbidden her to speak to, on account of a family quarrel.

Jests were bandied about. Apparently she was no longer content with her

pernicious solitary habits.

Hyacinthe, tipsy as he was, had, for the last moment or so, noticed

that beast Lequeu, stationed beside the communicating doorway, and

watching Berthe as she curvetted about in her gallant's arms. He could

not restrain himself.

"I say, Monsieur Lequeu," he exclaimed, "you're not leading your

sweetheart out?"

"What sweetheart?" asked the schoolmaster, green with bile.

"Why, the pretty dark-ringed eyes, over there!"

Lequeu, furious at having been detected, turned his back, and stood

motionless, in one of those haughty spells of silence in which he

enwrapped himself, out of prudence and disdain. Lengaigne having

come forward, Hyacinthe buttonholed him. "Aha! he had given that

paper-stainer over there one for his nob! Rich girls for him, indeed!

Not that Berthe was such a catch, for she had a peculiar physical

defect." Being now thoroughly aflame, he swore to the truth of his

assertion. It was current talk from Cloyes to Châteaudun. Stupefied

by this information, the others craned over to look at Berthe, making

slight grimaces of repugnance whenever her white skirts came flying

round that way, in the course of the dance.

"You old rogue," resumed Hyacinthe, beginning to address Lengaigne

familiarly, "your girl's all right."

"Rather!" replied the taverner, complacently.

Suzanne was now in Paris, in the swell set, people said. Lengaigne,

acting discreetly, used to hint at a good situation she had there.

Meanwhile peasants still kept coming in, and a farmer having asked

after Victor, the letter was produced again. "My dear Parents,--This is

to tell you that we have been here, at Lille in Flanders ..." They all

listened anew; even people who had already heard the letter read five

or six times over, gathered round again. Not really eightpence a quart?

Yes, really; eightpence!

"A beastly country!" repeated Bécu. At that moment Jean made his

appearance; at once going to glance into the ball-room, as if he were

looking for some one. Then he returned looking disappointed and uneasy.

For the last two months he had not dared to pay such frequent visits

to Buteau, for he felt that the latter was cool, not to say hostile.

Doubtless he, Jean, had ill-concealed his feelings for Françoise, the

growing affection which now fevered him, and his comrade had noticed

it. It must have displeased him, interfering with his plans.

"Good evening," said Jean, drawing near a table where Fouan and

Delhomme were drinking a bottle of beer.

"Will you join us, Corporal?" said Delhomme, politely.

Jean accepted; and after clinking glasses:

"Funny thing Buteau hasn't turned up," he said.

"Here he is, pat!" said Fouan.

And, indeed, Buteau now came in, but all by himself, and Jean's face

grew still darker. The other strolled round the tavern, shaking hands;

then, on reaching his father and brother-in-law's table, he stood

there, refusing to sit down or to take anything.

"Lise and Françoise don't dance, then?" Jean finally asked, in a

faltering voice.

Buteau looked at him hard out of his little grey eyes.

"Françoise has gone to bed," he replied; "it's the best place for young

folks."

An incident near them now attracted their attention, and cut the

conversation short. It was Hyacinthe at loggerheads with Flore, whom

he had asked for a quart of rum to make some punch, and who refused to

bring it.

"No! No more! You're drunk enough."

"Hallo! what's that she's saying? Do you fancy that I sha'n't pay? Why,

I'll buy up your whole shanty, if you like. I've merely to blow my

nose. Here! Look at this!"

He had concealed his fourth five-franc piece in his hand; and now

pinching his nose with his fingers, he blew it loudly, and apparently

drew out the coin, which he then paraded round like a monstrance.

"That's what I blow from my nose, when I've got a cold!"

A round of applause shook the walls, and Flore, quite vanquished,

brought the quart of rum and some sugar. Next a salad-bowl was wanted,

and then the scamp took possession of the whole room, stirring the

punch, with his elbows squarely set, while his red face was lighted up

by the glow of the flames, which increased the heat of the atmosphere,

already densely befogged by the lamps and pipes. Buteau, exasperated at

sight of the money, suddenly broke out:

"You thundering swine, aren't you ashamed of tippling away like that

with the money you rob our father of?"

The other adopted a low-comedy tone.

"Oh, it's you, young 'un! I suppose it's your empty stomach that makes

you talk such rot!"

"I tell you, you're a dirty beast, and you'll finish at the galleys. To

begin with, it was you that killed our mother with grief."

The sot rattled his spoon and stirred up a tempest of flame in the

salad-bowl, while he split his sides with laughter.

"Right you are; go on. Sure enough it was me--supposing it wasn't you!"

"And I tell you further that spendthrifts of your kidney don't deserve

that the corn should grow. Only to think that our property--yes, all

that land that the old folks took so much trouble to leave us--has been

pledged by you, and handed over to others. You dirty blackguard, what

have you done with the land?"

At this Hyacinthe was roused. His punch went out, and he settled

himself, leaning back in his chair, seeing that all the drinkers were

silently listening, to judge between him and his brother.

"The land!" he yelled: "why, what the deuce does the land care for you?

You're its slave, it robs you of your enjoyments, your strength, your

life! You idiot! And it doesn't so much as make you rich! While I, who

fold my arms and despise it, confining myself to giving it a kick or

two, why, I, you see, am independent and can wet my whistle! Oh, you

confounded simpleton!"

The peasants laughed again, while Buteau, surprised by the roughness of

the attack, could only mutter:

"A good-for-nothing lazy lout; who does no work and boasts of it."

"Land, indeed! A lot of humbug!" resumed Hyacinthe, now thoroughly

aroused. "Well, you _must_ be an ancient, if you still believe in

humbug like that! Does it exist, this land? It's mine, it's yours,

it's nobody's. Wasn't it once the old 'uns? And hadn't he to cut it up

to give it to us? And won't you cut it up for your young 'uns? Very

well, then! It comes and goes, increases and diminishes--diminishes

especially; for there you are, a fine gentleman with your seven or

eight acres, when father had over twenty. I got disgusted with my

share. It was too little, so I blued the lot. And, besides, I like

sound investments, and, look'ee! young 'un, land's shaky! I would

not put a copper into it. It's bad business, and there's an ugly

catastrophe at hand that'll wipe you all out. Bankruptcy! A set of

blockheads!"

A death-like silence gradually spread through the tavern. No one

laughed now. The anxious faces of the peasants were turned towards this

tall ruffian, who, in his cups, poured out the muddled contents of his

brain--the confused ideas that he had formed as an Algerian campaigner,

as a hanger-about-town, and tavern politician. What was paramount in

him was the old leaven of '48, the humanitarian communistic views of

one who still worshipped at the shrine of '89.

"Liberty, equality, fraternity!" he shouted. "We must hark back to

the Revolution. We were swindled in the division of property; the

gentlefolks have taken everything, and, by God, they shall be forced

to give it back. Isn't one man as good as another? Is it fair, for

instance, such a lot of land held by that ass at La Borderie, while

I've got none? I want my rights; I want my share; everybody shall have

his share."

Bécu, who was too drunk to uphold the principle of authority, approved

without understanding. Still, he had a gleam of sense left, and imposed

certain limitations.

"That's so, that's so," said he; "but the king's the king, and what is

mine isn't yours."

A murmur of approbation ran round, and Buteau took his revenge.

"Don't listen to him; he's only fit to kill!"

There was a fresh burst of laughter, and Hyacinthe, losing all control,

stood up, wildly shaking his fists in the air.

"Just you wait a bit. I'll talk to you, you cursed coward! You're in

fine feather now, because you've got the mayor, the assessor, and that

twopenny-halfpenny deputy on your side! You lick his boots, and you

are fool enough to think that he's a power and will help you to sell

your corn. Well, I, who have nothing to sell, I don't care a fig for

you or your mayor, assessor, deputy, or gendarmes! To-morrow, it'll be

our turn to be the stronger; and it won't be me alone, it'll be all the

poor devils who are starving to death. Ay, and it'll be you, too; you,

I say! when you've got tired of keeping the gentlefolks, without having

so much as a crust of bread to eat yourselves. A pretty plight they'll

be in, the landowners. They'll have their jaws broken, and the land'll

be free for any one to take. D'ye hear, young 'un? I'll take that land

of yours and ---- on it!"

"You just try it on, and I'll shoot you down like a dog!" shouted

Buteau, so wild with rage that he went out, slamming the door after him.

Lequeu, having listened with a reserved air, had already left,

unwilling, as an official, to compromise himself any further. Fouan

and Delhomme, with their faces over their liquor, breathed not a word;

feeling ashamed, and knowing that if they interposed the sot would

only shout the louder. The peasants at the surrounding tables were

eventually getting angry. What! Their property wasn't their own? It

would be taken from them? And, growling, they were about to pummel

the communist soundly and turn him out, when Jean rose up. He had not

taken his eyes off the speaker, or missed one of his words, as he sat

there listening with a serious face, as if seeking what justice might

underlie these things that shocked him.

"Hyacinthe," said he quietly, "you'd better hold your tongue. It's not

the sort of thing to say; and if by any chance you are right, you're

not very clever to put yourself so in the wrong."

So wise a remark from so cool a speaker calmed Hyacinthe

instantaneously. He fell back in his chair, declaring that, after all,

he didn't care a fig. He then began larking again: kissed Madame Bécu,

whose husband was asleep with his head on the table, and finished

up the punch, drinking out of the salad-bowl. The laughter had

recommenced, amid the dense smoke, and he was voted a funny fellow, all

the same.

At the far end of the barn, the dancing was still going on. Clou was

still smothering the squeaky notes of the little fiddle with his

thunderous blasts of trombone accompaniment. Sweat drained off the

bodies of the dancers, and exhaled amid the ruddy smoke of the lamps.

La Trouille, whirling about in turn in the arms of Nénesse and Delphin,

was conspicuous by her red bow. Berthe, too, was still there, faithful

to her gallant and dancing with no one else. In a corner, some young

men whom she had cast off were tittering together. Oh, well; if that

great gawky was willing, she did right to stick to him; there were

plenty of others who, for all her money, would have certainly thought

twice before marrying her.

"Let's go home to bed," said Fouan at last to Jean and Delhomme.

Outside, when Jean had left them, the old man walked on in silence,

apparently pondering over all he had just heard. Then, abruptly, as if

that had decided him, he turned to his son-in-law.

"I'll sell the shanty and come and live with you. That's settled.

Good-bye!"

He went slowly home. His heart was heavy; as his boots stumbled over

the dark road, a terrible sadness made him stagger like a drunken

man. As it was, he had no land, and he would soon have no house. It

seemed to him that people were already sawing down the old rafters and

pulling off the slates from over his head. He now had not the shelter

of a single stone left him; he was like a beggar wandering along the

roads, by day and night, unceasingly; and when it rained, the chill,

never-ending downpour would fall upon his head.