Chapter Chapter 22 · PART IV. CHAPTER IV.

. PART IV. CHAPTER IV.

It was now early in October. The vintage was about to commence; a week

of merry joviality, during which such families as had fallen out were

in the habit of getting reconciled over pots of new wine. For a whole

week Rognes stunk of grapes, such a quantity of which was eaten that

the women were pulling up their petticoats and the men letting down

their trousers behind every hedge; while the lovers, with juice-stained

faces, kissed each other greedily amid the vines. The evil of all this

was that the men got drunk and the girls in the family-way.

On the morning after his return from Cloyes, Hyacinthe duly began to

hunt for his father's hoard; for in accordance with all probability the

old man did not carry his money and vouchers about with him; he must

hide them away in some secret corner. But although La Trouille assisted

her father in his search, they turned the house topsy-turvy without

any result, and this despite their cunning and practice in marauding.

It was not until the following week that the poacher, chancing to

remove from a shelf a cracked earthenware pan, which was no longer

used, discovered therein, beneath some lentils, a packet of papers very

carefully enclosed in a piece of gum-covered canvas which had been torn

out of an old hat. There was not a single coin, however. The cash must

be hidden somewhere else, and there must be a pretty pile of it, the

poacher reflected, for his father had spent nothing for the last five

years. There was the scrip there, however, representing three hundred

francs a year in five per cent. Rente. As Hyacinthe was counting the

bonds and examining them, a piece of stamped paper, covered with large

handwriting, fell from the packet, and the perusal of this document

quite stupefied the poacher. The murder was out now! He had discovered

where all the money had gone!

It was the most amazing story possible. A month after the old man had

divided his property among his children he had fallen ill; brooding

sadly over the fact that he had now absolutely nothing of his own, not

even so much as a handful of corn. He could not go on living in this

way, he moaned to himself; and it was then that he was guilty of a sad

piece of folly--folly as infatuated as that of those lustful old men

who spend their last coppers in secretly stealing back to some drab

who has gone into other keeping. Despite all his earlier shrewdness,

Fouan had allowed himself to be completely gulled by that cunning

old sharper, Saucisse. That earth-hunger, that furious desire for

possession which feverishly racks the bodies of all the old peasants

who have spent their lives on the soil, had so completely mastered

him, that he had entered into a written agreement with Saucisse to

pay him fifteen sous every day as long as he lived, on condition that

he, Saucisse, left him upon his death an acre and a quarter of land.

A pretty bargain this, considering that Fouan was seventy-six, and

that Saucisse was ten years younger. As some justification, however,

of Fouan's conduct, it should be said that Saucisse had been crafty

enough to take to his bed just before the bargain was struck; and he

had coughed so distressingly, seeming so near the point of death, that

Fouan, goaded on by his covetousness, and thinking himself the craftier

of the two, had eagerly pressed for the completion of the agreement.

The moral to be drawn was, that it was preferable to take on with a

wench rather than sign an agreement; for the payment of the daily

fifteen sous had now been going on for five years, and the more Fouan

paid, the more lustful he grew, and the more passionately he yearned

for the land. What! after cutting himself free from all the weary

bondage of the soil, when he had nothing more to do than to spend the

remainder of his days in peaceful tranquillity, watching others wearing

themselves out in tending the ungrateful earth, he had once more

returned to her, so that she might finish him off. No, really, wisdom

was seldom to be found among men, either young or old.

For a moment Hyacinthe felt inclined to appropriate both the scrip

and the agreement, but his courage failed him. Such a deed would have

necessitated flight. Then, full of angry disappointment, he placed

the papers under the lentils again, at the bottom of the pan. His

exasperation was so great that he could not hold his tongue. The next

day all Rognes knew of the agreement with old Saucisse, and the daily

payment of fifteen sous for an acre and a quarter of poor land that

was not certainly worth three thousand francs. In five years nearly

fourteen hundred francs had been paid, and if the old rascal lived for

another five years, he would be pretty certain to keep both the field

and its value. Old Fouan was plentifully chaffed about his bargain,

as was natural. Since he had divested himself of all his property, he

had been unceremoniously passed by on the roads, but now he was again

saluted and addressed deferentially since it was known that he had an

invested income, and might possibly come in for some landed estate.

His own family seemed especially revolutionised by the discovery.

Fanny, who had previously been on very cold terms with her father,

annoyed at his having gone to live with his disreputable elder son

instead of returning to her house, now brought him some linen--some

old shirts of her husband's. She was actuated less by motives of

self-interest than by an unconscious respect for the head of the

family, who once more acquired some importance, as he was in the

possession of property. Her father, however, was very hard and

unbending, and he could not refrain from alluding to that cutting

speech of hers as to his begging on his knees to be taken back again.

He had never forgotten it; and, on receiving Fanny, he exclaimed:

"So it is you, then, who are coming on your knees to get me back?"

The young woman took this rebuff very badly, and when she got home

again she wept with shame and anger. She was touchy to an extreme; a

look sometimes sufficed to wound her; and honest, hard-working, and

well-to-do though she was, she had fallen out with almost all the

country-side. After that, Delhomme undertook to pay the old man's

allowance, for Fanny swore that she would never speak a word to him

again.

As for Buteau, he quite astonished everybody one day by making his

appearance at the Château, coming, so he said, to pay a little visit

to his father. Hyacinthe sniggered, brought out the brandy bottle,

and they had a glass together. But his sneering surprise turned into

absolute amazement when he saw his brother produce two five-franc

pieces and lay them down on the table.

"We must settle accounts, father," said Buteau. "Here is the last

quarter's allowance."

Ah! the scamp! he had never paid his father a copper for years past,

and now to do this he must have designs upon him. He was no doubt

offering him this money in the hope of getting him to return to his

house. The truth is, that as Fouan reached out his hand to take up the

coins, Buteau pushed it aside and hastily picked up the money himself.

"What I mean is, that I want you to know I have the cash all ready. I

will take care of it, and you will know where to find it whenever you

want it."

Hyacinthe began to scent mischief and grow annoyed.

"I say," he began, "if you want to get father away from me----"

"What! you're not jealous, are you?" Buteau laughingly replied. "Don't

you think, now, that it would be more natural if father stayed a week

with me, and then a week with you, and so on? Eh? suppose you cut

yourself in two, dad! Well, here's your health in the meantime!"

Before taking his leave, he invited them to come and assist at the

vintaging the next day, and he promised that they should stuff their

bellies full of grapes. Indeed, he made himself so pleasant and

agreeable, that the other two confessed that although he was a great

rascal he was nevertheless an agreeable fellow; of course, providing

that one didn't let him take one in. Then they willingly accompanied

him part of his way home.

Just as they reached the bottom of the hill they met Monsieur

and Madame Charles, accompanied by Elodie, who were returning to

Roseblanche, after a walk along the bank of the Aigre. They were all

three of them in mourning for Madame Estelle, as the girl's mother was

called. She had died in July, from over-exertion; indeed, every time

that the grandmother had returned from Chartres she had always reported

that her poor daughter was killing herself, such a deal of trouble did

she take to maintain the reputation of the establishment in the Rue

aux Juifs, with which her worthless husband occupied himself less and

less. Keen, indeed, had been Monsieur Charles's emotion at the funeral,

to which he had not dared to take the young girl, who had only been

informed of her bereavement when her mother had already lain for three

days in the grave. Great also had been Monsieur Charles's heart-pangs

when, for the first time for many years, he had again gazed upon Number

19, that house at the corner of the Rue de la Planche-aux-Carpes, with

its yellow-washed front and closed green shutters; that house which

had been the work of his life, and which he now found hung with black

drapery, the little door standing open, and the passage barred by the

coffin, standing between four lighted tapers.

He was deeply touched by the manner in which the whole neighbourhood

shared in his grief. The ceremony passed off in the most satisfactory

manner. When the coffin was brought out of the passage into the

street, all the women of the neighbourhood crossed themselves, and the

funeral procession made its way to the church amidst signs of general

mourning. The five women of the house were there in dark dresses, and

comported themselves with an air of decorum, as was generally remarked

that evening in Chartres; and one of them even shed tears at the

grave-side. In that matter, indeed, Monsieur Charles had every reason

for satisfaction, but how he had suffered the next morning when he had

a chat with his son-in-law, Hector Vaucogne, and visited the house.

It had already lost all its brilliancy, and the many laxities which

he noticed, laxities which would never have been tolerated in his own

time, fully indicated the absence of masculine authority. He observed,

however, with pleasure that the decorous behaviour of the five women at

the funeral had created such a favourable impression in the town that

the establishment remained full all the week. Upon leaving Number 19,

full of uneasy thoughts, he gave Hector plainly to understand that, now

poor Estelle was no longer there to look after affairs, it was his duty

to reform and settle down seriously to the business of life, if he did

not wish his daughter's fortune to be lost.

Buteau, on seeing the Charles family, at once invited them to come to

the vintage, but they declined on account of their mourning. Their

faces were very sad, and they spoke and moved about in a weary,

heart-broken fashion; they could not be prevailed upon to promise

anything further than just to go and taste the new wine.

"It will be a little change for this poor darling," said Madame

Charles; "and she has so few amusements here, since we took her away

from school. She's seventeen, you know, now, and we couldn't keep her

there always."

Elodie listened with downcast eyes, blushing shyly. She had grown very

tall and slim, as pale as a lily vegetating in the shade.

"And what are you going to do with this tall young lady?" Buteau asked.

The girl's blushes deepened; and her grandmother replied:

"Ah! that I can scarcely tell you. We shall leave her perfectly free to

follow her own inclinations."

Meanwhile Fouan had taken Monsieur Charles aside.

"Is he looking after the business?" he asked with an air of interest.

Monsieur Charles shrugged his shoulders, and assumed an aggrieved air.

"Ah, that's just what is troubling us so much. I saw a person from

Chartres this morning. It's very sad! The house is done for! The

supervision is so wretched that fights go on in the passages, and

fellows actually walk away without paying."

Then he crossed his arms and drew a long breath to ease himself of

a new worry which had been stifling him, by reason of its enormity,

ever since the morning. "And would you believe it," he resumed, "the

reprobate goes to the café, now? Going to a café, indeed, when there is

one in his own house!"

"He must be daft, then!" fiercely exclaimed Hyacinthe, who had been

listening.

They now relapsed into silence, for Madame Charles and Elodie were

drawing near with Buteau. They were speaking of the dear departed, and

the young girl remarked how sad it made her that she had not been able

to kiss her poor mother.

"But it seems she died so suddenly," she added, with her innocent air,

"and they were so busy in the shop----"

"Yes, making confectionery for some christening parties," hastily

interrupted Madame Charles, with a side-long glance, full of meaning,

at the others.

Not one of them smiled. They all preserved a gravely sympathetic air.

The girl had bent her gaze upon a ring she was wearing, and she kissed

it, with her eyes full of tears.

"This is all I have that belonged to her," she said. "Grandmother took

it from her finger and brought it and put it on mine. She wore it for

twenty years, and I shall keep it all my life."

It was an old wedding-ring, of common make, that had once been

engine-turned, but it was now so worn that nearly all the turning had

disappeared. Its aspect seemed to tell that the hand on which it had

grown so thin had never recoiled from any task or duty, but had been

ever active and energetic, washing glasses and pots, making beds,

rubbing, cleaning, dusting, and leaving no corner untouched. This ring,

indeed, seemed to tell so much, and it had left particles of its gold

in so many scenes of the past, that the men gazed at it with earnest

eyes in silent emotion.

"When you have worn it away as much as your mother did," said Monsieur

Charles, choking with a sudden spasm of grief, "you will have really

deserved a rest. If it could speak, it could tell you that money is

earned by hard work and orderly habits."

Elodie burst into tears, and pressed the ring to her lips again.

"I want you, you know, to be married with this ring when we find you a

husband," said Madame Charles. The mention of marriage, however, was

too much for the sorrowing girl, and she was so overcome with confusion

that she threw herself wildly on her grandmother's breast, and hid her

face out of sight.

"Come, now, don't be so shy and nervous, my little pet," said Madame

Charles, smiling, and trying to calm the girl. "You must get accustomed

to the idea: there's nothing dreadful about it. You may be quite sure

that I wouldn't say anything improper before you. Your cousin Buteau

asked just now what we were going to do with you. Well, we shall

begin by marrying you. Come, now, dear, look up, and don't rub your

face against my shawl like that. It will make your skin quite red and

inflamed."

Then she added in a low tone, speaking to the others, with an air of

profound satisfaction:

"What an innocent darling she is! She is guilelessness itself!"

"Ah, if we hadn't this dear angel," said Monsieur Charles, "we should

be quite overcome with trouble--on account of the matter I mentioned to

you. By the way, with all this worry my roses and pinks have suffered

this year; and I can't tell what has gone wrong with my aviary, but all

my birds are ailing. I have only found a little consolation in fishing;

yesterday I caught a trout weighing three pounds. One ought to do one's

best to be happy when one is in the country, don't you think so?"

Then they parted, Monsieur and Madame Charles renewing their promise to

go and taste the new wine. Fouan, Buteau, and Hyacinthe walked on a few

yards in silence, and then the old man gave utterance to what they were

all three thinking.

"Well," he exclaimed, "the youngster who gets her with the house will

be a lucky fellow!"

Bécu, who with the office of rural constable combined that of public

drummer, had duly beaten his instrument by way of proclaiming the

commencement of the vintage; and on the Monday morning the whole

country-side was in a state of excitement, for every inhabitant had his

vines, and not a single family would on any account have missed going

to the slopes of the Aigre that day. The excitement of the village had,

however, been brought to a climax by the fact that the new priest--for

Rognes had at last allowed itself the luxury of a priest--had arrived

on the previous evening at night-fall. Owing to the darkness he

had only been indistinctly seen. The tongues of the villagers were

consequently wagging most energetically, and the more so as the

circumstances attending the priest's arrival were somewhat peculiar.

For some months after his quarrel with the inhabitants of Rognes,

the Abbé Godard had persistently refused to set foot in the village.

He only baptized, confessed, and married those who came to seek his

services at Bazoches-le-Doyen. If any one had died at Rognes, they

would doubtless have crumbled away waiting for him; though this

point was never clearly settled, for no one took it into his head

to die during this great quarrel. The priest had declared to his

lordship the bishop that he would rather be dismissed than carry the

blessed sacrament into such a region of abomination, where he was so

badly treated by an utterly reprobate population of adulterers and

drunkards, who, moreover, were sure of everlasting damnation, since

they worshipped only the devil! And his lordship, apparently, agreed

with the Abbé, for he allowed things to go on as they were till the

rebellious flock showed signs of contrition.

Rognes was, consequently, without a priest; there was no mass, no

anything, and the place was in a perfectly heathenish condition. At

first some of the villagers felt a little surprise; but, then, things

went on much as usual, in spite of all this. It neither rained more

nor blew more than it had done before, and the village was saving

a considerable sum of money, as it had no priest to pay. Then the

villagers began to ask themselves whether it would not be as well to do

without a priest altogether, as one did not really seem indispensable,

and experience already proved that the crops did not suffer, and that

they themselves did not die any faster owing to the absence of a

pastor. Many of them professed themselves of this opinion--not only the

wild scamps, like Lengaigne, but some steady, practical men of sound

common-sense like Delhomme. Many others, however, on the other hand,

were annoyed at not having a priest. It was not that they were more

religious than the others, or more inclined to believe in the Divinity,

but the fact of having no priest seemed to indicate that the village

was either too poor or too miserly to pay for one. The villagers of

Magnolles, only two hundred and eighty in number, ten fewer than the

inhabitants of Rognes, supported a priest, and threw the fact at their

neighbours' heads in such a provokingly scornful fashion that it led

to blows. Then, too, the women clung to their old customs, and there

was not one of them who would have consented to be married or buried

without the services of a priest. The men themselves had occasionally

gone to church, because every one went there. In short, there had

always been a priest, and there must be one now, though they reserved

to themselves perfect liberty of thought and action.

The municipal council was naturally called upon to deal with the

question. Hourdequin, the mayor, who although he did not observe

the practices of the faith still favoured religion as an instrument

of government, made a political mistake in not taking any part in

the contest, from a conciliatory desire not to show any bias in the

official position which he held. The village was poor, said one party,

so what was the use of burdening it with the expense--a considerable

one for its small resources--which would be incurred in repairing the

parsonage? Moreover, it was still hoped that the Abbé Godard would be

induced to return. At last it came about that Macqueron, the assessor,

who had formerly been a determined enemy of the cloth, placed himself

at the head of the band of malcontents, who felt humiliated at not

having a priest in the village. From that moment Macqueron must have

entertained a desire to overthrow the mayor in view of taking his

place. It was said, too, that he had become the agent of Monsieur

Rochefontaine, the manufacturer of Châteaudun, who was again going to

oppose Monsieur de Chédeville at the approaching elections. Hourdequin,

whose farm demanded his close attention at that moment, and who was

weary of his work, showed but little interest in the meetings of the

council, letting his assessor take whatever steps he pleased; and the

latter quickly won over the whole council to his views, and persuaded

the members to vote the necessary funds for the establishment of a

parish. Since Macqueron had contrived to get paid for that piece

of land which had been required for the new road, and which he had

formerly promised to give up gratuitously, he had been secretly called

a sharper by the councillors, but in his presence they manifested great

respect for him. Lengaigne alone protested against the vote, which,

so he declared, would hand the village over to the Jesuits. Bécu,

too, grumbled at it, for he had been turned out of the parsonage and

garden, and had been housed in a tumble-down old cottage. For a month

workmen had been employed renewing the plaster, putting in fresh panes

of glass, and replacing the broken slates; and thus it came about that

a priest had at last been able to install himself in the little house,

which had been newly white-washed for his reception.

At early dawn the carts began to start for the vineyards, each of them

carrying four or five large casks called _gueulebées_, and having

one end knocked out. The girls and women sat in the carts among the

baskets, while the men accompanied them on foot, whipping the horses

forward. There was a perfect procession, and conversations were carried

on from cart to cart amidst a general uproar of laughter and shouting.

Lengaigne's cart followed immediately behind the Macquerons', and,

thanks to this, Flore and Cœlina, who had not spoken to each other for

six months past, made friends again. Flore was accompanied by Bécu's

wife, and Cœlina by her daughter Berthe. Their conversation immediately

turned upon the subject of the new priest, and, amid the tramp of the

horses, a flow of words rose up into the sharp air of the early morning.

"I caught a glimpse of him as he was getting his luggage down."

"Indeed! and what sort of a man is he?"

"Well, it was so dark I could scarcely see, but he seemed very tall and

thin, and not strong; with a face as though he kept Lent perpetually.

He seemed about thirty, with a very gentle expression."

"I hear that he comes from Auvergne, from the mountains where the folks

are buried in snow for two-thirds of the year."

"How awful! Well, it will be a pleasant change for him to come here."

"Yes, indeed! You know, I suppose, that he is called Madeleine?"

"No. Madeline?"

"Madeline, Madeleine. Well, at all events, it isn't a man's name."

"I daresay he'll come and see us in the vineyards. Macqueron promised

that he would bring him."

"Ah! Well, we must watch for him."

The carts drew up at the foot of the hill-side, along the road that

skirted the Aigre. Presently in every little vineyard the women were

busily at work amid the lines of stakes, bending down and cutting off

the grapes with which they filled their baskets. The men had enough to

do in emptying the women's baskets into their own, which they carried

on their backs and emptied into the open casks. When all the casks of

a cart were full, the vehicle was driven off; its load was discharged

into the vat, and then the casks were brought back to be filled again.

There was such a heavy dew that morning that the dresses of the women

were speedily soaked through. Fortunately, however, the weather was

very fine, and the sun soon dried them again. There had been no rain

for three weeks, and the grapes, about which the greatest fears had

been entertained, had suddenly ripened and sweetened. Thus they were

all in high spirits that fine morning, grinning and bawling, and

indulging in most indelicate jokes which made the girls wriggle.

"How conceited that Cœlina used to be about her Berthe's delicate

complexion!" said Flore to Madame Bécu, standing up and looking at

Madame Macqueron in the adjoining vineyard; "why, the girl's face is

now getting dreadfully yellow and shrunken."

"Yes," replied Madame Bécu, "that comes of not marrying the girl! They

were wrong not to give her to the wheelwright's son. And they tell me,

indeed, that she has done herself harm by bad habits."

Then bending double she went on cutting off the bunches.

"All that, however," she presently continued, "does not prevent the

schoolmaster from being constantly about the place."

"Oh, that Lequeu," cried Flore; "he would grope with his nose in the

mud if he thought he could pick up a copper or two! See, there he is

coming to help them, the stupid fool!"

Then they relapsed into silence. Victor, who had returned from his

regiment barely a fortnight before, was taking their baskets and

emptying them into the one which Delphin carried on his back. That

cunning snake, Lengaigne, had hired Delphin for the vintage, pretending

that his own presence was necessary at the shop. The youngster, who had

never left Rognes, gaped with amazement at sight of Victor, who had

assumed a swaggering, rollicking manner; being, moreover, wonderfully

altered in appearance, with his moustache and his little tuft of beard,

his bumptious ways, and his forage-cap, which he still made a point of

wearing. However, he was sorely mistaken if he thought that he was an

object of envy to his companion; all his stories of barrack-life, and

his exaggerated lying tales of merry-making, and girls, and drinking

bouts, were quite thrown away. The young peasant shook his head in

dazed stupefaction, and without feeling in the least attracted. To

leave his nook would be paying too high a price for all those fine

pleasures, he thought. He had already twice refused to go and make his

fortune in a restaurant at Chartres with Nénesse.

"But when are you going to be a soldier, you whipper-snapper?" Victor

asked.

"What? I a soldier! No, no! I shall draw a lucky number!"

The contemptuous Victor could not get any other answer from him. What

a coward, he thought, was this big hulking fellow with the build of a

Cossack! As he talked he went on emptying the women's baskets into the

one which Delphin carried, and the young peasant did not so much as

bend under the load. Then Victor pointed to Berthe, and joked about her

in such a way that Delphin burst out into a fit of laughter, the basket

on his back being almost capsized. As he went down the hill and emptied

the grapes into one of the casks, he could still be heard almost

choking with merriment.

In the Macquerons' vineyard, Berthe still continued to play the fine

lady, using little scissors, instead of a bill-hook, to cut off the

bunches, showing herself also nervously afraid of thorns and wasps, and

expressing great alarm because her thin shoes, quite saturated with

dew, did not dry again. Although she detested Lequeu, she tolerated his

attentions, feeling flattered by the courtship of the only educated

man present. Presently he took out his handkerchief to wipe the girl's

shoes; but just then an unexpected apparition attracted their attention.

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Berthe, "did you ever see such a dress? I

heard that she had arrived yesterday evening, at the same time as the

priest."

It was Suzanne, the Lengaignes' daughter, who had unexpectedly

ventured to visit her native village, after leading a wild life in

Paris for three years. She had reached home the previous evening, and

had lingered late in bed, letting her mother and brother set out for

the vineyard, and resolving to join them there later on, and appear

in the midst of the peasants in such a showy toilet as would quite

overwhelm them with admiration. And she certainly did create an immense

sensation; for she had donned a blue silk dress of so bright a hue

that the blue of the sky looked quite pale and faded. As she stood in

full relief amid the dark green of the vines, bathed in a flood of

sunshine, she looked a real swell--something wonderful. She immediately

began to talk and laugh loudly, nibbling at the grapes, which she held

up in the air and then dropped into her mouth. She joked with Delphin

and her brother Victor, who seemed very proud of her, and she excited

the wondering admiration of her mother and Madame Bécu, who, leaving

off their work, gazed at her with damp, straining eyes. The vintagers

in the more distant vineyards joined in the general admiration; work

was stopped, and every eye was turned upon the girl, who had grown and

improved out of all recognition. People had once thought her plain,

but now she looked really appetising, no doubt on account of the way

in which she brought her little fair locks of hair over her phiz. The

result of this inquisitive examination was a great feeling of deference

for this plump girl attired in such costly raiment, and with such a

smiling face, betokening prosperity.

Cœlina, turning quite yellow with bile, and biting her lips, burst out

angrily before her daughter Berthe and Lequeu.

"My gracious, what a swell! Flore tells every one she meets that her

daughter has servants and a carriage in Paris. And I daresay it's true,

too, for she must be making a deal of money to be able to deck her body

out in that way!"

"Oh, those ne'er-do-wells!" said Lequeu, who wanted to make himself

agreeable. "Every one knows how they get their money!"

"What does it matter how they get it," retorted Cœlina bitterly, "so

long as they do get it?"

Just at this moment Suzanne, who had caught sight of Berthe, and had

recognised in her one of her old companions among the Handmaidens of

the Virgin, came up to her.

"Good morning. How are you?" she said very politely.

She scanned her with a scrutinising glance, and noticed her faded

complexion. Then, rejoicing in the soft richness of her own milky

flesh, she suddenly exclaimed, breaking out into a laugh:

"Everything's going on all right, I hope?"

"Quite so, thank you," replied Berthe, annoyed, and feeling quite

crushed.

The Lengaignes were the heroes of the day, and the Macquerons felt

that their noses were put out of joint. Cœlina angrily compared the

sallow scrawniness of her daughter, whose face was already wrinkled,

with the sleek and rosy beauty of the other girl. Was it just that

that hussy, who gave herself up to men from morning till night, should

look so fresh and bright, when a virtuous maiden grew as faded and wan

in her lonely bed as if she had had three confinements? No, indeed,

virtue went unrewarded, and it wasn't worth while for a girl to remain

living an honest life with her parents! All the vintage parties greeted

Suzanne enthusiastically. She kissed the children who had grown taller,

and she stirred the old folks' hearts by reminding them of the past.

What does it matter what one may be, as long as one has succeeded

and is independent of other people's patronage? And Suzanne, said the

peasants, showed that she had a good heart by not despising her family,

and by coming back to see her old friends now that she had grown rich.

At the first stroke of noon they all sat down to eat their bread and

cheese. On a line with the tops of the stakes you saw rows of women's

heads covered with blue kerchiefs. None of them had any appetite,

however, for they had been stuffing themselves with grapes ever since

daybreak. Their throats were sticky with the sugary juice; their

bellies, as round and swollen as barrels, rumbled with the purgative

effects of what they had swallowed. Already at every minute some girl

or other was obliged to retire behind a hedge. The others naturally

laughed, and the men got up and guffawed jocosely as the girls went

past them. It was a scene of general merriment, quite free from all

constraint.

They were just finishing their bread and cheese when Macqueron came

in sight on the road at the foot of the hill-side, accompanied by the

Abbé Madeline. Then Suzanne was abruptly forgotten, and all eyes were

turned upon the priest. To tell the truth, he did not create a very

favourable impression. He was as lank as a pike-staff, and gloomy and

ascetic-looking. However, he bowed in front of each vineyard, and said

a pleasant word or two to every one, so that the peasants ended by

finding him very polite and gentle. He evidently hadn't got any will

of his own; they meant to make him do as they pleased. It would be

easier to deal with him than with that cross-grained, cantankerous Abbé

Godard! As he passed on, they joked and grew merry again behind his

back. Soon he reached the top of the hill, and then, a prey to vague

fear and gloomy melancholy, he stood motionless, gazing upon the vast

grey plain of La Beauce. The big bright eyes of this mountain-born

priest filled with tears as he thought of the narrow hill-bound

landscapes of the gorges of Auvergne.

Buteau's vines were close to him. Lise and Françoise were gathering the

grapes, while Hyacinthe, who had not failed to bring his father with

him, had already got tipsy with the grape juice which he had swallowed

while pretending to empty the small baskets into the large ones. The

grapes were fermenting inside him, puffing him out with such a volume

of gas that it sought escape from every aperture. The presence of the

priest, too, seemed to excite him.

"You dirty brute!" Buteau cried to him, "can't you at least wait till

his reverence has gone away?"

Hyacinthe, however, would not submit to the reprimand; assuming the air

of a man who could be as refined as he chose, he replied:

"I'm not doing it on his account; I'm doing it to please myself."

Old Fouan had sat down on the ground, tired, but rejoicing in the

lovely weather and the fine vintage. He was grinning maliciously at the

thought that La Grande, whose vines were on the adjoining plot, had

come to wish him good-day. She, like the others, had begun to treat

him with respect, now that she had learnt that he still had some money

of his own. However, she had turned away from him abruptly, having

caught sight of her grandson, Hilarion, greedily taking advantage of

her absence to stuff himself with grapes. She promptly administered a

hiding to him with her stick. The gluttonous pig! he ate more than he

put in the basket!

"Ah, that aunt. What a lot of people will be pleased when she's under

ground," exclaimed Buteau, as he came and sat down for a moment by his

father's side by way of paying court to him. "It's a crying shame that

she should abuse the poor innocent in that way, for if he's as strong

as a donkey, he's also quite as stupid."

Then he began to fall foul of the Delhommes, whose vines were down

below, skirting the road. They had the finest vineyard in the

neighbourhood, some seven acres all in one plot, and it took a good

half-score hands to get in the crop. The carefully tended vines

produced larger bunches than any of the neighbours' vineyards, a fact

of which they were so proud that they affected to keep their own party

quite distinct from the others, even disdaining to smile at the sudden

colics which sent the girls in the adjoining plots scuttling behind

the hedges. They were too much afraid of their legs, Buteau hinted,

to care to climb up the hill to greet their old father, and so they

pretended not to be aware of his presence there. Then he began to abuse

Delhomme as a clumsy, cross-grained ass, who put on all sorts of airs,

pretending to be industrious and just; and Fanny, too, was a shrew,

losing her temper over the merest trifles, and demanding worship as

though she were a saint. She remained quite unconscious of all the

wrong she did to others!

"The truth is, father," Buteau continued, "that I've always been fond

of you, whereas my brother and sister--Ah! I've always regretted that

we parted for a mere nothing."

He then began to throw the blame of what had taken place upon

Françoise, whose head, he said, had been turned by Jean. However, she

had become steady now, he continued. If she showed any nonsense, he

would cool her blood by ducking her in the horse-pond.

"Come, now, father, let bye-gones be forgotten. Why shouldn't you come

back to us? Will you?"

Old Fouan remained discreetly silent. He had been expecting the offer

which his younger son now made; but he was unwilling to give a definite

reply either one way or the other, not feeling at all certain as to his

best course.

Buteau assured himself that his brother was at the other end of the

vineyard, and then resumed:

"It's hardly fit for you to stay with that scamp Hyacinthe. You'll

probably be found there murdered one of these days. Now, if you'll come

back to me, I'll board and lodge you, and pay you the allowance as

well."

The old man raised his eyes in amazement; and as he still remained

silent, his son determined to overwhelm him with his lavish offers.

"And I will take care that you have all your little luxuries, your

coffee, and your glass, and your four sous' worth of tobacco;

everything you wish for, in fact."

It was too tempting, and the old man began to feel alarmed. Certainly,

things were getting bad at Hyacinthe's, but what if there should be a

repetition of the old goings-on when he got back to the Buteaus' again?

"Well, we must see," was all he said; and then he got up, anxious to

bring the conversation to a close.

The vintaging lasted until night-fall; the carts incessantly carrying

off the grape-laden casks, and bringing them back empty. Under the wide

expanse of rosy sky, among the vines gilded by the setting sun, the

flitting of the baskets, large and small, became brisker, each worker

being excited by the intoxicating effects of all these grapes that were

carried to and fro. Berthe now had a misfortune. She was seized with

such a sharp and sudden attack of colic that she was not able to run

off, and her mother and Lequeu were obliged to form a rampart round

her with their bodies, while she relieved herself amongst the stakes.

The vintagers in the adjoining plot observed what was happening, and

Victor and Delphin wanted to take her some paper. But Flore and Madame

Bécu restrained them, saying that there were limits which only ill-bred

persons would out-step.

At last they all set off home again. The Delhommes led the way; La

Grande forced Hilarion to help the horse in pulling the cart along; and

the Lengaignes and the Macquerons fraternised together in a maudlin,

tipsy tenderness which made them forget their rivalry. What attracted

most attention on the return home was the mutual politeness of the Abbé

Madeline and Suzanne. The priest, seeing how well the girl was dressed,

took her for a lady, and they walked along side by side, the Abbé

showing her every attention, while she put on her sweetest manners, and

inquired at what time mass was celebrated on Sunday. Behind them came

Hyacinthe, who, in his hatred of priests, recommenced his disgusting

tricks, determined in his tipsy obstinacy to have a spree. At every

five yards he lifted up his leg and let fly. That hussy Suzanne bit her

lips to keep from laughing, while the priest pretended not to hear;

and gravely exchanging pious remarks they walked on behind the file of

vintage carts, escorted by this disgusting music.

At last, as they were nearing Rognes, Buteau and Fouan, who felt quite

ashamed of Hyacinthe, made an attempt to silence him. But he still

persisted in continuing his tricks, and protested that his reverence

was quite under a mistake if he felt in any way hurt.

"Don't I tell you that I mean no offence to any one, and that I am

simply doing it for my own amusement?" he repeated.

The following week the Buteaus invited their friends to come and taste

the new wine. Monsieur and Madame Charles, Fouan, Hyacinthe, and some

four or five others were to meet at seven o'clock and partake of some

leg of mutton, nuts, and cheese--a real repast, in fact. During the

day Buteau had barrelled his wine. There were six casks of it, full to

the bung. Some of his neighbours, however, were not so far advanced in

their operations. One of them, who was still vintaging, had been hard

at work all the morning treading his grapes in a state of complete

nudity; another, armed with a bar, was watching the fermentation, and

beating down the stalks and skins that rose to the surface of the

bubbling must; a third, who had a press, squeezed the grape skins in

it, and then threw them into his yard in a reeking heap. Scenes like

these were going on in every house; and from the burning vats, the

streaming presses, the overflowing casks, indeed from all Rognes there

arose the fumes of the wine, which were so strong as to suffice to make

every one intoxicated.

Just before leaving the Château that day, Fouan was seized with a

vague presentiment, which induced him to remove his papers from their

hiding-place beneath the lentils in the pan. He thought it as well to

conceal them about his person, for he fancied he had detected Hyacinthe

and La Trouille looking up into the air with a meaning expression. They

all three set out, and arrived at the Buteaus' house at the same time

as Monsieur and Madame Charles.

The full moon was so large and bright that it gave almost as much light

as the sun; and as Fouan entered the yard, where one could have seen

well enough to pick up a pin, he observed that Gédéon, the donkey, was

in the outhouse, with his head inside a bucket. Fouan was not much

surprised to see him at liberty, for he was a very cunning fellow,

and frequently raised the latch with his mouth. The bucket, however,

excited the old man's curiosity, and, going up to it, he recognised it

as one of the buckets used in the cellar, which had contained some wine

from the press, left after Buteau had finished filling the casks. That

cursed Gédéon was emptying it.

"Look sharp here, Buteau!" called the old man. "Here's this donkey of

yours up to fine tricks!"

Buteau appeared at the kitchen door.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Gédéon's swilled all the wine up!"

Amid this shouting, the donkey quietly finished sucking up the liquor.

He had probably been at work for the last quarter of an hour, for the

bucket held some four or five gallons. Every drop of the wine had been

drunk, and Gédéon's belly was as round as a bottle, and seemed on the

point of bursting. When at last he raised his head, his tipsy nose was

dripping with wine, and there was a red line across it, just under his

eyes, showing how far he had dipped his phiz into the liquor.

"Oh, the brute!" roared Buteau, rushing up; "it's just like his tricks.

There never was a creature so full of vice."

Generally, when Gédéon heard himself reproached for his vices, he

assumed an air of contemptuous indifference, and leisurely spread out

his broad ears; but to-day he seemed completely intoxicated, and lost

to all sense of respect, for he positively sniggered as he wagged his

head about, thus shamelessly expressing the enjoyment he had derived

from his debauchery. He stumbled when his master gave him a violent

shove, and would have fallen if Fouan had not propped him up with his

shoulder.

"The damned pig is dead drunk!" cried Buteau.

"'Drunk as an ass!' This is the moment to apply the proverb," remarked

Hyacinthe, who grinned merrily as he gazed at the animal with

sympathetic admiration. "A bucketful at a draught! What a magnificent

swallow!"

Buteau, however, saw nothing to laugh about; neither did Lise nor

Françoise, who had now hurried up, attracted by the noise. To begin

with, there was the loss of the wine; and more than that, there was the

confusion into which the disgraceful conduct of the donkey threw them

in presence of Monsieur and Madame Charles. These latter were already

biting their lips on account of Elodie. To make matters worse, chance

would have it that Suzanne and Berthe, who had been taking a stroll

together, had met the Abbé Madeline just by the door, and the three of

them had stopped there, and were looking on waiting for the finish. A

pretty business this, under the eyes of all these fine folks!

"Shove him along, father!" whispered Buteau. "We must get him back into

the stable as quickly as possible!"

Fouan shoved, but Gédéon, finding himself very happy and comfortable

where he was, declined to stir. He showed no malice, only a

good-humoured tipsy perversity. There was a merry jocular glance in

his eye, and his dripping mouth seemed twisted into a smile. He made

himself as heavy as he could, and reeled about on his outstretched

legs, pulling himself together again after every shove, as though he

looked upon the whole business as some merry game. Buteau, however,

intervened, and shoved the donkey in his turn, whereupon Gédéon turned

a summersault, with his four feet in the air; rolling about on his back

and braying so loudly that he seemed not to care a curse for all the

people looking at him.

"Ah, you foul, good-for-nothing brute!" roared Buteau, assailing the

animal with a shower of kicks. "I'll teach you to put yourself into

this condition!"

Hyacinthe, full of indulgence for the intoxicated donkey, now

interposed.

"Come, come," he exclaimed, "since the brute is drunk, it's no use

lecturing him, for he can't understand you. You had much better help

him back to his stable."

Monsieur and Madame Charles had drawn on one side, quite shocked by the

shameless conduct of the donkey; while Elodie, blushing as deeply as

though she had been forced to look upon some indecent spectacle, turned

her head away. The group at the door, the priest, Suzanne, and Berthe

assumed an attitude of silent protestation. Several neighbours now came

up and began to sneer noisily. Lise and Françoise almost wept from

shame.

Buteau, however, screwing down his rage, endeavoured with the help of

Fouan and Hyacinthe, to get Gédéon on his legs again. This was no easy

matter, for the tipsy brute, with the bucketful of wine in his belly,

seemed to weigh as much as five hundred thousand devils. As soon as

they had raised him on one side he fell down again on the other; and at

last the three men got quite exhausted by trying to shove him up, and

supporting him with their knees and elbows. Finally they had managed to

get him on to his feet again, and even succeeded in forcing him a few

steps forward, when he suddenly stumbled and fell over backwards. The

whole yard had to be crossed to reach the stable. What was to be done?

"Ten thousand devils take him!" cried the three men, as they examined

him from every point of view, quite at a loss as to how they should

next proceed.

It then occurred to Hyacinthe to prop the animal up against the side

of the shed, and then push him along, keeping him propped up against

the wall of the house, till the stable was reached. This plan succeeded

very well at first, although the animal got sadly scratched and grazed

by the rough wall plaster. The misfortune was that presently this

scratching and grazing became more than the brute could bear, and,

suddenly wrenching himself free from the hands that were holding him to

the wall, he reared up and pranced about.

Old Fouan was almost knocked down.

"Stop him! stop him!" yelled the two brothers.

Then in the dazzling brightness of the moonlight Gédéon was to be seen

galloping about the yard in frantic zig-zags, with his two huge ears

swaying wildly. The men had shaken his belly too violently, and the

poor brute now felt very ill. A tremendous preliminary retch brought

him to a standstill, and he almost toppled over. Then he tried to set

off again, but his legs stiffened and he stood rooted to the ground. He

stretched out his neck, and his flanks were shaken by violent spasms.

Finally, reeling about like a drunken man striving to relieve himself,

and reaching his head forward at every effort, he vomited a perfect

river of red fluid, a furious torrent that flowed on as far as the pond.

A ringing chorus of laughter resounded from the door, where some

peasants were clustering together; while the Abbé Madeline, who had

a weak stomach, turned very pale between Suzanne and Berthe, who led

him away with indignant protestations. The offended demeanour of

Monsieur and Madame Charles plainly proclaimed that the exhibition

of a donkey in such a condition as this was a breach of all decorum,

and even of the simple politeness due to passers-by. Elodie, in

weeping consternation, threw her arms round her grandmother's neck,

asking if the animal were going to die. It was in vain that Monsieur

Charles cried out: "Stop! stop!" in the old imperious tone of a master

accustomed to be obeyed, the wretched brute went on bringing up this

ruddy stream till the whole yard was full of it. Then he slipped down

and began to wallow about in the mess, with his legs widely separated,

and in such an indecent posture that no tipsy man, lying across a

footway, could ever have presented a more disgusting sight to passing

spectators. It really seemed as though the brute were purposely doing

all he could to disgrace his master. The spectacle was really too

dreadful, and Lise and Françoise, covering their eyes with their hands,

fled for refuge into the house.

"There! there! we've had enough of this! Carry him away!"

Indeed, nothing else could be done, for Gédéon, who had become as limp

as a wet rag, and very drowsy, was fast falling asleep. Buteau went

off to get a stretcher, and six men helped him to lift the ass on to

it. Then they carried the animal away; his legs hanging down, his head

dangling about, and already snoring so noisily that it seemed as though

he were braying, and still jeering contemptuously at everybody.

This adventure naturally threw a cloud over the commencement of the

feast; but the party quickly recovered their spirits, and they ended by

partaking so freely of the new wine that, towards eleven o'clock, they

were all in much the same condition as the donkey. Every moment or so

one of them found it necessary to retire into the yard.

Old Fouan was very merry; and he reflected that it might really be

advisable for him to come and reside again with his younger son, for

the wine promised to be excellent that year. He was obliged to leave

the room in his turn, and was thinking the matter over, outside in the

dark night, when he was startled to hear Buteau and Lise, who had come

out immediately after him, quarrelling as they squatted down, side by

side, against the wall. The husband was reproaching his wife for not

showing herself sufficiently affectionate towards his father. The fool

she was, said he, why she ought to wheedle and coax the old chap so as

to get him back into the house again; and then they could lay their

hands on his hoard. The old man, suddenly sobered and quite cold, felt

at his pockets to make sure that he had not been robbed of his bonds;

and when, after the parting embraces all round he again reached the

Château, he had firmly resolved not to change his quarters.

That very night, however, he beheld a sight which froze his blood. He

saw La Trouille in her chemise steal into his room, which was lighted

up by the bright moon, and prowl about, carefully searching his blouse

and his trousers, and even looking under his chamber-vase. It was

evident that Hyacinthe, having missed the papers which had been removed

from their hiding-place under the lentils, had sent his daughter to try

and find them.

After that Fouan felt unable to remain any longer in bed; his brain

was too excited. So he got up and opened the window. The night was now

dark, and an odour of wine streamed up from Rognes, mingled with the

stench of all the filth beside the walls, over which folks had stridden

for a week past. What should he do? Where should he go? As for his

bonds, he would never again let them leave his own possession. He would

sew them to his skin. Then, as the wind swept the strong odour into his

face, he thought of Gédéon. A donkey had a splendid constitution and no

mistake, he said to himself; it could get ten times as drunk as a man

without coming to any great harm. But what was he to do himself? Robbed

in his younger son's house, robbed in his elder son's house; there

really seemed no choice. The best thing seemed to be to remain at the

Château, and keep his eyes open, and wait. Every bone in his old body

was shaking.