Chapter Chapter 11 · PART II. CHAPTER VI.

. PART II. CHAPTER VI.

Having got rid of La Rousse, who was too fat and no longer calved, Lise

and Françoise had resolved to go that Saturday to Cloyes market to

buy another cow, Jean offering to drive them there in one of the farm

carts. He had kept his afternoon free, and the master had given him

permission to take the vehicle, on account of the rumours which were

current concerning the young fellow's betrothal to the elder girl. The

marriage was, in fact, decided on; or, at least, Jean had promised to

lay the question in person before Buteau during the following week. The

matter needed settlement; one or the other of them must marry the girl.

So they started off at about one o'clock, he in front with Lise, and

Françoise by herself on the other seat. From time to time he turned

round and smiled at the younger girl, whose knees were in warm contact

with his loins. 'Twas a great pity that she was fifteen years younger

than he; and although, after much reflection and many deferments, he

had resigned himself to his marriage with the elder girl, it was, no

doubt, the idea of living as a relative near Françoise that really

influenced him. And then, how many things we do out of passivity,

without knowing why, except that we did once determine to do them.

As they entered Cloyes, Jean applied the brake and urged the horse down

the steep declivity near the burying-ground. As he came out at the

intersection of the Rue Grande and the Rue Grouaise, intending to put

up at "The Jolly Ploughman" hostelry, he pointed abruptly to the back

of a man who was going along the latter street.

"Hallo! That looks like Buteau," he said.

"It is Buteau," declared Lise.

"No doubt he's going to Monsieur Baillehache's. Does he mean to accept

his share of the land?"

Jean smacked his whip with a laugh.

"There's no knowing," he said. "He's a deep one!"

Although Buteau had recognised them a good way off, he made no sign.

He went trudging on, with his back bent; and they both watched him

out of sight, thinking to themselves that possibly they would have an

opportunity for an explanation on reaching the courtyard of "The Jolly

Ploughman." Françoise, who had remained silent, got down first by one

of the wheels. The yard was already full of unharnessed vehicles,

resting on their shafts, and the old buildings of the inn were buzzing

with life.

"Now, are we going there?" asked Jean on his return from the stable,

whither he had been with his horse.

"Certainly, at once."

When outside, however, instead of making straight for the

cattle-market--which stood on the Place Saint-Georges--by taking the

Rue du Temple, the young man and the girls hung about and sauntered

down the Rue Grande, through the vegetable and fruit-sellers who

lined the street on either side. He wore a silk cap, and a large blue

blouse over black cloth trousers; while the girls, likewise in holiday

clothes, with their hair done up close under their little round caps,

wore dresses to match each other--a dark-coloured woollen bodice above

an iron-grey skirt, relieved by a large cotton apron with narrow pink

stripes. They did not link arms, but walked in Indian file, their hands

swinging loosely amid the jostling of the crowd. There was a crush

of servants and ladies in front of the squatting peasant-women, who,

on arriving with one or two baskets apiece, had set them down on the

ground and opened them. They recognised La Frimat, whose hands were

blue with having carried her load from Rognes, and who had a little of

everything in her two overflowing baskets--some salad, beans, plums,

and even three live rabbits. An old man, alongside, had just emptied

out a cart-load of potatoes, which he was selling by the bushel. Two

women, mother and daughter--the latter a notorious street-walker, named

Norine--had exposed on a rickety table some cod, salt herrings, and

bloaters, the mere remnants of barrels, the strong brine of which made

one's throat smart. The Rue Grande, so deserted on the other days of

the week, despite its handsome shops--its chemist's, its ironmonger's,

and, above all, its emporium of Parisian novelties, Lambourdieu's

bazaar--proved too narrow every Saturday; the shops being crammed

full, the vehicles blocked, and the roadway fairly choked by the

encroachments of the market-women.

Lise and Françoise, followed by Jean, worked their way as far as the

poultry-market, in the Rue Beaudonnière, whither the farmers had sent

vast crates, in which cocks were crowing, and from which the necks of

affrighted ducks protruded. Chickens, dead and plucked, were ranged

in deep layers inside numerous packing-cases. Here also one saw some

more peasant-women, each of whom had brought her four or five pounds

of butter, her two dozen eggs, and her cheeses--large dry ones, small

rich ones, and others of a greyish tinge, which had been moistened

with wine, and had a pronounced pungent flavour. Others had come with

two pairs of fowls tied by their feet. Ladies were haggling, and a

large consignment of eggs had caused a crowd to cluster in front of an

inn--"The Poulterer's Meeting House." It so happened that Palmyre was

among the men who were unloading the eggs. Indeed, on Saturdays, when

there was a dearth of work at Rognes, she hired out her services at

Cloyes, carrying burdens which made her stagger.

"There's no denying she earns her livelihood!" remarked Jean.

The crowd was now growing denser and denser. Vehicles still poured in

by the Mondoubleau road, defiling over the bridge at a jog trot. On

either hand stretched the gentle curves of the Loir, running flush

with the meadows, and embanked on the left with the town gardens,

whose lilacs and laburnums drooped down to the water's edge. There

was a bark-mill, clicking noisily up stream, together with a large

flour-mill--a huge building, whitened by a constant stream of meal from

the blowers on the roof.

"Well!" said Jean again, "are we going there?"

"Yes, yes."

Then they retraced their steps up the Rue Grande, stopping once more

on the Place Saint-Lubin, opposite the municipal offices, where the

corn-market was held. Lengaigne, who had brought four sacks, was

standing there with his hands in his pockets. In the middle of a ring

of silent, downcast peasants, Hourdequin was angrily holding forth.

A rise had been looked for; but even the current price--eighteen

francs--was unsteady, and a final fall of five sous was apprehended.

Macqueron went by with his daughter Berthe on his arm; he in a

badly-cleaned overcoat, and she dressed in muslin, with a bunch of

roses in her hat.

As Lise and Françoise, after turning down the Rue du Temple, were

skirting Saint-George's Church, against which the hawkers installed

themselves with haberdashery, ironmongery, and parcels of stuffs, they

ejaculated: "Oh, there's aunt Rose."

And, indeed, it was the old woman. Fanny had come instead of Delhomme

to deliver some oats, and had brought her mother in the cart, just

to give her an outing. They were both waiting in front of the movable

stall of a knife-grinder, to whom the old woman had given her scissors.

For thirty years past he had ground them.

"Hallo! It's you!" said Fanny, as she turned round; and on perceiving

Jean, she added: "So you're out for an airing?"

But when Rose and Fanny found out that the cousins were going to buy a

cow, to supply the place of La Rousse, they grew interested and joined

them, the oats having been already delivered.

The young man, left to himself, now walked behind the four women, who

formed an open line, all abreast; and thus they turned on to the Place

Saint-Georges.

This was a huge square, more than a hundred yards each way, stretching

behind the apsis of the church, which overshadowed it with its old and

lofty clock-tower of ruddy stone. Avenues of leafy limes enclosed the

four sides, along two of which, moreover, there extended some chains

riveted to stone posts, while on the other two sides there were long

bars of wood, to which the animals were tethered. On this side of the

open space, which fronted some gardens, the grass was growing as in

an open meadow; but the opposite side, which was flanked by two roads

and bordered by various inns--"The Saint-George," "The Root," and "The

Jolly Reapers"--was downtrodden, hardened, and white with dust, which

the wind blew to and fro.

Lise and Françoise, followed by the others, had some difficulty in

making their way across the centre of the Place, where the crowd was

congregated. Amid the confused mass of blouses of all shades, from the

bright blue of new linen to the pale blue of twenty washings, nothing

could be seen of the women save the round white spots of their little

caps. A few ladies were bearing glistening silk parasols hither and

thither. Laughter and sudden shouts were heard, mingling at last with

the mighty animate murmur, upon which now and then there broke the

neigh of a horse or the lowing of a cow. A donkey also set a-braying

lustily.

"This way," said Lise, turning her head. The horses were at the far

end, tethered to the bar, their coats bare and quivering, and with

a cord knotted to their necks and tails. On the left, the cows were

almost all loose, and were led to and fro by the vendors, who wished to

show them off better. Groups of people stopped and looked at them; and

hereabouts there was no laughter and but little talking, merely a few

scattered words now and then.

The four women at once fell into contemplation of a black and white

Cotentine cow, which was offered for sale by a man and his wife.

The latter, dark-complexioned and stubborn-looking, stood holding

the animal in front; the man being in the rear, motionless and

uncommunicative. The scrutiny lasted ten minutes, and was solemn and

exhaustive; but not a word or a glance was exchanged. They moved on,

and stationed themselves similarly in front of a second cow twenty

paces off. This was a huge one, quite black, and was offered for

sale by a young and pretty-looking girl, almost a child, who held a

hazel-rod in her hand. Then followed seven more halts, as long and as

silent as the previous ones, till the line of animals for sale was

exhausted. Finally the four women went back to the first cow, and again

became absorbed in contemplation.

This time, however, it was a more serious matter. Drawn up in a line,

they pierced the Cotentine cow through and through with their keen,

concentrated gaze. On her side, also, the woman who wished to sell it

had said nothing, and her glance was elsewhere, as if she had not seen

them come back and draw up in line.

At last Fanny bent down and whispered a brief remark to Lise about the

animal. Old Rose and Françoise also exchanged impressions in a whisper.

Then they relapsed into silence and immobility, and the scrutiny was

continued.

"How much?" Lise suddenly asked.

"Four hundred francs," replied the peasant woman.

They affected to be driven away by this, and as they were looking for

Jean they were surprised to find him behind them with Buteau, the two

chatting together like old friends. Buteau had come from La Chamade to

buy a porker, and was negotiating for one on the spot. The pigs, which

were in a movable pen at the back-end of the vehicle that had brought

them, were biting one another and deafening the air with their squeals.

"Will you take twenty francs?" asked Buteau.

"No; thirty!"

"Fiddle! Go to bed with 'em!"

Bluff and merry, he went up to the women; accosting his mother, his

sister, and his two cousins just as radiantly as if he had only left

them on the previous day. They also were undisturbed, and seemed

to have forgotten the two years of bickering and ill-feeling. The

mother alone, who had been apprised of the first encounter in the Rue

Grouaise, watched him out of her puckered eyes; trying to gather why

he had been to the notary's. But of this there was no indication on his

face, and neither of them said a word on the subject.

"So, cousin," he went on, "you're after buying a cow? Jean told me.

Well, there's one over there, something like an animal! The sturdiest

in the market!"

He then pointed to the identical black and white Cotentine cow.

"Four hundred francs!" said Françoise. "Thank you for nothing."

"Four hundred francs for _you_, my little dear!" said he, tapping her

jocularly on the back.

She fired up, however, and returned his tap, angry and resentfully.

"Just you let me alone, will you? I don't play with men."

He made merrier still at this, and turned to Lise, who had remained

serious and rather pale.

"And you? Will you let me have a hand in it? I wager I'll get it for

three hundred. Will you bet five francs?"

"All right; if you like to have a try, you may."

Rose and Fanny nodded approval. They knew this ferocious fellow of old;

a stubborn bargainer he was, an impudent liar and swindler, selling

things at three times their value, and getting everything for a mere

song. So the women let him go to the fore with Jean, while they hung

back in the rear, so that he might not seem to belong to their party.

The crowd was growing denser around the cattle. The groups of loungers

were leaving the sunny central space for the side avenues, where they

strolled continually to and fro; the blue of their blouses darkened

by the shadow of the lime-trees, and their ruddy countenances tinged

with green by the reflection of the swaying patches of leaves. However,

no one was as yet making purchases; not a sale had taken place,

although the market had been open for more than an hour. The purchasers

and vendors were taking time for consideration, and were warily

scrutinising each other askance. In front of the cows there were now

more people sauntering along and making prolonged halts. Overhead, the

sound of a riot was borne past on the wings of the warm breeze. It was

caused by two horses, tied side by side, who were rearing, biting each

other, neighing furiously, and pawing the pavement with their hoofs.

There was a fright, and some women fled, while quiet was restored by a

shower of blows from a whip, crackling like a discharge of firearms,

and accompanied by oaths. Then in the clearance made by the panic, a

flock of pigeons alighted on the ground, and hurried along picking oats

from the dung.

"Well, gammer! what's your price?" Buteau asked the peasant-woman.

The latter, who had observed the manœuvres of the party, repeated

calmly: "Four hundred francs."

At first he treated the matter lightly, and joked, addressing the man,

who was still standing silent and apart:

"I say, old 'un! is your good-woman thrown in at that price?"

During his banter, however, he made a close examination of the cow,

and found it constituted as a good milker should be--with a wiry head,

slender horns, and big eyes; the belly well-developed and streaked

with large veins; the limbs inclining to slimness; the tail thin, and

set very high. Stooping down, he assured himself of the length of the

udders and the elasticity of the teats, which were regularly defined

in position and well pierced. Then, resting one hand on the animal, he

began bargaining, while he mechanically felt the bones of the crupper.

"Four hundred francs, eh? You're joking! Will you take three hundred?"

Meanwhile, with his hand he was verifying the strength and proper

arrangement of the bones. Then he let his fingers slip between the

thighs, to the part where the bare skin, of a fine saffron colour,

bespoke an abundance of milk.

"Three hundred francs. Is it agreed?"

"No; four hundred," replied the peasant-woman.

He then turned away. When he came back, she decided to speak.

"She's a first-rate animal, indeed, in all points. She'll be two years

old come Trinity Sunday, and she'll calve in a fortnight. She'd surely

be just the thing for you."

"Three hundred francs," he repeated.

Then, as he was retreating, she glanced at her husband and called out:

"Here! So that I may get back, say three hundred and fifty, and have

done with it."

He had stopped short, and now he began to run the cow down. She wasn't

firmly set; her loins were weak; in short, she had been an ailing

animal, and would have to be kept for a couple of years at a loss. Then

he asserted that she was lame, which was not true. He lied for lying's

sake, with obvious bad faith, hoping to irritate the woman and make her

lose her head. But she only shrugged her shoulders.

"Three hundred francs."

"No; three hundred and fifty."

This time she let him go off. He rejoined the women; told them that the

bait was taking, and that they must bargain for some other animal. So

the party took their stand in front of the large black cow, held by the

pretty girl. For this beast, as it happened, just three hundred francs

were asked, and Buteau affected not to think that dear. He began to

praise the cow, and then abruptly turned back to the other one.

"It's settled, then, that I take my money elsewhere?" he asked.

"Why, if it were only possible, but it isn't! You must nerve yourself a

bit."

Then, leaning down and taking a full handful of udder, the woman added:

"See how plump and pretty!"

He did not assent, however; but said again:

"Three hundred francs."

"No, three hundred and fifty."

Negotiations seemed broken off. Buteau had taken Jean's arm, in

definite token that he had let the matter drop. The women rejoined

them, in a state of excitement, they being of opinion that the cow was

worth the three hundred and fifty francs. Françoise, in particular,

who was pleased with the animal, talked of giving that price. But

Buteau grew vexed; why should one be swindled like that? And for nearly

an hour he held out, amid the anxiety of his cousins, who trembled

whenever a purchaser stopped in front of the animal. Neither did he

cease to watch it out of the corner of his eye; but it was the right

game to play; it was necessary one should hold out. Nobody would

certainly be so ready as that to part with his money; they would soon

see if any one were fool enough to pay more than three hundred francs.

And, in point of fact, the money was not forthcoming, albeit the market

was drawing to its close.

Some horses were now being tried along the road. One, all white, was

showing his paces, urged on by the guttural shouts of a man holding the

halter and running by his side; while Patoir, the chubby and florid

veterinary, stood looking on beside the purchaser in a corner of the

square, with both hands in his pockets, and giving advice aloud. The

inns hummed busily with a constant stream of drinkers, going in and

out, away and back again, amid endless discussions and bargainings.

The bustle and tumult were now at their full height, and one could

not hear one's-self speak. A calf, that had lost its mother, lowed

incessantly. Some black griffons and large yellow water-spaniels ran

howling away from among the crowd, with crushed paws. Occasional lulls

would occur, in which nothing was audible save the croaking of a flock

of ravens who were wheeling round the church steeple. Penetrating

through the warm smell of the cattle there came a strong stench of

burnt horn, a nuisance due to a neighbouring farriery, where some

peasants were availing themselves of the opportunity to have their

animals shod.

"Hi! Three hundred?" repeated the unwearied Buteau, as he drew near the

peasant woman again.

"No. Three hundred and fifty."

As there was another purchaser standing by, also bargaining, Buteau

seized the cow by her jaws and forced them open to look at her teeth.

Then he let go of them with a grimace. At that moment the cow began

to relieve herself, and the dung fell soft. He followed it with his

eyes, and made a worse grimace than before. The purchaser, a tall thin

fellow, was influenced, and went away.

"I'll have nothing more to do with her," said Buteau. "She's got

curdled blood."

This time the woman committed the mistake of losing her temper, which

was what he wanted. She abused him, and he retorted with a flood of

filth. People gathered round and laughed. The husband still stood

motionless behind the woman. At last he slightly nudged her, and she

abruptly cried:

"Will you take her at three hundred and twenty francs?"

"No, three hundred."

He was going off once more, when she called him back in a choking voice.

"Well, then, you brute, take her! But, by God! if I had to go through

it all again, I'd slap your face first!"

She was beside herself, and quivering with rage. He laughed noisily,

added some gallant speeches, and offered to sleep with her for the

balance.

Lise had immediately come up. She took the woman aside and paid her the

three hundred francs behind a tree. Françoise had already got hold of

the cow, but Jean had to push the creature behind, for she refused to

budge. They had been trotting backwards and forwards for a couple of

hours, Rose and Fanny having silently and untiringly awaited the end.

Finally, on taking their departure, and searching for Buteau, who had

vanished, they found him hail-fellow-well-met with the pig-dealer. He

had just got his porker for twenty francs; and, in paying, he counted

his money out first in his pocket, then produced the exact sum, and

counted it again in his half-closed hand. It was quite a job to get the

pig into the sack which he had brought under his blouse. The rotten

canvas burst, and the paws of the animal came through, as well as its

snout. In this condition Buteau shouldered his burden, and carried the

beast off, kicking, grunting, and squealing with alarm.

"I say, Lise, how about those five francs I won?"

She gave them to him, for fun, not expecting that he would take them.

But he did take them, and put them out of sight in no time. Then they

all made their way slowly towards "The Jolly Ploughman."

The market was at an end. Money was gleaming in the sunlight and

chinking on the tables of the wine-shops. At the last moment everything

was hurried to a conclusion. In the corner of the Place Saint-Georges

there only remained a few animals unsold. Little by little, the

crowd had ebbed away towards the Rue Grande, where the vegetable and

fruit-sellers were clearing the roadway and carrying off their empty

baskets. In a similar way there was nothing left at the poultry market

save straw and feathers. The carts were already starting off again.

Vehicles were being harnessed in the inn-yards; horses' reins, knotted

to the pavement-rings, were being untied. Along all the roads, on every

side, wheels were rolling, and blue blouses were blown about by the

wind as the vehicles jolted over the pavement.

Lengaigne went by in this fashion, trotting on his little black pony,

having turned his journey to account by buying a scythe. Macqueron

and his daughter Berthe were still lingering in the shops. As for La

Frimat, she went back on foot, laden as when she started, for she was

carrying back her basket full of horse-dung, which she had picked up

on the road. Among the gilding at the chemist's in the Rue Grande,

Palmyre had been waiting half-an-hour to have a draught made up for

her brother, who had been ill for a week past--some vile drug it was,

that took one franc out of the couple she had so laboriously earned.

But what made the Mouche girls and their party hasten their sauntering

steps was the sight of Hyacinthe, staggering along very drunk, and

taking up all the street. They presumed that he had got another loan

that day by mortgaging his last bit of land. He was chuckling to

himself, and some five-franc pieces were jingling in his capacious

pockets.

On arriving at "The Jolly Ploughman," Buteau said, simply and bluffly:

"So you're off? Look here, Lise, why not stop with your sister and have

something to eat?"

She was surprised, and as she turned towards Jean, he added:

"Jean can stop too. I shall be very pleased if he will."

Rose and Fanny exchanged glances. The lad had certainly some idea in

his head. Had he decided on marriage after going to the notary's to

accept? The expression of his face still gave no clue. No matter! They

ought not to hamper the course of things.

"Very good, then. You stay here and I'll go on with mother," said

Fanny. "We are expected."

Françoise, who had never let go of the cow, now drily remarked: "I am

going too."

She persisted in doing so. She always felt on thorns at the inn, she

said, and she wanted to take her animal away at once. They had to give

way, she made herself so disagreeable; and accordingly, as soon as the

horse had been put to, the cow was tied behind the cart, and the three

women got up.

Not till that moment did Rose, who expected a confession from her son,

venture to ask him:

"You have no message for your father?"

"No, none," replied Buteau.

She looked him full in the face and pressed him: "There's no news,

then?"

"If there is, you'll know it all in good time."

Fanny flicked the horse, which set off leisurely, while the cow behind,

stretching out her neck, allowed herself to be dragged along. Lise was

left between Buteau and Jean.

At six o'clock the three of them sat down at a table in a dining-room

of the inn, communicating with the café. Buteau, without any one

knowing whether he was standing treat or not, had gone into the kitchen

and ordered an omelette and a rabbit. Meantime, Lise had urged Jean

to have an explanation with him, so as to bring matters to an end,

and save a journey. However, they had got through the omelette, and

were eating the rabbit, without the young fellow, who was ill at ease,

having as yet taken any steps. Neither did the other seem to have the

thing at all on his mind. He ate heartily, laughed from ear to ear, and

in a friendly way nudged his cousin and his companion with his knee

under the table. Then they talked on more serious topics: of the new

Rognes road; and although not a word was spoken about the five hundred

francs' compensation, or the increased value of the land, these weighty

considerations underlay all that was said. At last Buteau returned to

his jests, and began clinking glasses; while into his grey eyes there

visibly passed the idea of this piece of good business--this old flame

he might marry, whose field, adjacent to his own, had almost doubled in

value.

"Good Lord!" cried he, "aren't we to have any coffee?"

"Three coffees!" ordered Jean.

Another hour passed in sipping, and the decanter of brandy was

exhausted without Buteau declaring himself. He advanced and retired,

and spun matters out, just in the same way as he had haggled for the

cow. The thing was as good as settled; but, all the same, a certain

amount of consideration was necessary. At last he turned abruptly to

Lise and said to her:

"Why haven't you brought the child?"

She began to laugh, understanding this time that the affair was

clenched. Then she gave him a slap, feeling pleased and indulgent, and

confined herself to replying:

"Isn't this Buteau a horrid fellow?"

That was all. He laughed too. The marriage was decided.

Jean, hitherto embarrassed, now seemed relieved, and became gay. At

last he even spoke right out.

"You have done well, you know, to return; I was about to step into your

shoes."

"Yes, so I was told. Oh, I wasn't uneasy; you would, no doubt, have

given me warning!"

"Why, certainly! The more so as it's better it should be you, on

account of the child. That's what we always said, didn't we, Lise?"

"Always. That's the simple truth!"

The faces of all three melted into tenderness. They fraternised;

especially Jean, who was free from jealousy, and felt astonished at

finding himself helping on this marriage. He called for some beer,

Buteau having shouted that, good Lord! they'd have something more to

drink. With their elbows on the table, seated on each side of Lise,

they now chatted about the recent rains which had beaten down the corn.

In the adjacent room, used as a café, Hyacinthe, seated at the same

table as an old peasant, who was drunk like himself, was kicking up

an intolerable row. For that matter, nobody there could speak without

shouting. There they sat, in blouses, drinking, smoking, and spitting

amid the ruddy smoke of the lamps; and Hyacinthe's brazen, deafening

voice was ever the loudest of all. He was playing "chouine," and a

quarrel had just arisen anent the last trick between him and his

companion, who stuck to his winnings with an air of calm obstinacy.

He appeared, however, to be in the wrong. There was no settling it,

and Hyacinthe, infuriated at last, yelled so loudly that the landlord

interfered. Then he got up and went from table to table, with maudlin

persistence, taking his hand with him to lay the point before the

other customers. He bored everybody; and finally, beginning to shout

again, he returned to the old man, who, with the imperturbability of

injustice, bore the abuse like a stoic.

"Poltroon! Ne'er-do-weel! Just come outside, and see how I'll pitch

into you!" shouted Hyacinthe.

Then he abruptly resumed his chair facing the other, and coolly said:

"I know a game. But you must bet. Will you?"

He had taken out a handful of fifteen or twenty five-franc pieces, and

piled them up in front of him.

"That's the thing. You do the same."

The old man, feeling interested, took out his purse without a word, and

set up an equal pile.

"Then I take one from your heap. Now look!"

He seized the coin, put it gravely on his tongue as if it had been a

wafer, and swallowed it at a gulp.

"Now, it's your turn. Take one of mine. And the one who eats the most

of the other's money, keeps it. That's the game!"

The old man, whose eyes were wide open with surprise, agreed to the

suggestion, and with some difficulty he caused one coin to disappear.

However, Hyacinthe, while crying out that there was no hurry, gulped

down the crowns like so many plums. At the fifth one he swallowed, a

rumour ran round the café, and a circle of people collected, petrified

with admiration. What a throat the beggar must have, to stick money

down his gizzard like that! The old man was swallowing his fourth coin,

when he tumbled backwards, black in the face, choking and gurgling.

For a moment they thought him dead. Hyacinthe had risen up, quite

comfortable and wearing a bantering air. He, for his part, had ten of

the coins in his stomach, so that there was a balance of thirty francs

to his credit.

Buteau feeling anxious, and fearing he might be compromised if the old

man did not recover, had left the table and given orders for the horses

to be put to. As he stared vaguely at the walls, without saying a word

about paying, although the invitation had come from him, Jean settled

the bill. This capped Buteau's good spirits; and in the yard, where

the two vehicles were waiting, he took his companion by the shoulders,

saying:

"I expect you to come, you know. The wedding will take place in three

weeks' time. I've been to the notary's and signed the deed; all the

papers will be ready."

Then, helping Lise into his own cart: "Now then, up!" he added, "I'll

see you back. I'll drive through Rognes, it won't be much farther."

Jean returned in his vehicle by himself. He considered this natural,

and followed the others. Cloyes had relapsed into its death-like

lethargy and was now asleep, lighted only by the yellow stars of the

street lamps. Of the hubbub of the market nothing remained save the

staggering, belated steps of some drunken peasant. The road stretched

afar in deep darkness. Jean, however, did at last descry the other

vehicle which was conveying the affianced pair. Better so, he thought;

all was as it should be. And he whistled loudly, freshened up by the

night air, and feeling free and cheery.