Kabanata Kabanata 20 · PART IV. CHAPTER II.

. PART IV. CHAPTER II.

The next morning Fouan took up his abode with the Buteaus. The removal

of his belongings did not give him any trouble, as they merely

consisted of a couple of bundles of clothes, which he carried himself

in two journeys. It was in vain that the Delhommes tried to bring about

an explanation; he went off without replying to them.

At Buteau's house he was given the big room on the ground-floor--behind

the kitchen--which had hitherto merely been used for the storage of

potatoes and beet-root for the cows. This room, unfortunately, was only

lighted by a small window, some six or seven feet from the ground, and

it was always as dim as a cellar. Then, too, the floor of hardened

soil, the heaps of vegetables, and the rubbish that had been tossed

into the corners gave rise to a copious moisture, which trickled down

the bare plaster of the walls. The Buteaus, besides, left everything

just as it was, and merely cleared out a corner for an iron bed, a

chair, and a deal table. The old man, however, seemed quite delighted.

Buteau now felt very triumphant. Ever since Fouan had been living with

the Delhommes he had been mad with jealousy, for he knew very well what

would be said in Rognes. It would be reported from mouth to mouth that

it made no difference to the Delhommes having to keep their father;

but the Buteaus, poor folks, had barely sufficient for themselves.

So now, during the earlier time of Fouan's stay with him, he plied

him with food in the hope of fattening him, and thus proving to the

neighbourhood that there was no scarcity in his house. Then, too, there

were the hundred and fifty francs a year, the proceeds of the sale of

the house, which he felt sure the old man would leave to the one who

looked after him and took care of him. Moreover, he reflected, now that

Delhomme had no longer to support his father, he would doubtless begin

to pay his share of the allowance again, two hundred francs a year,

and in this expectation he was not disappointed. Buteau had reckoned

upon getting these two hundred francs, he had calculated everything,

and he flattered himself that he would get the credit of being a

good and dutiful son without it costing him anything, besides having

the prospect of reaping a substantial reward later on; to say nothing

of the secret hoard which, so he still suspected, the old man must

possess, though he had never been able to make certain on the point.

For Fouan the change was a perfect honeymoon. He was feasted and shown

to the neighbours. Didn't he look plump and well? the Buteaus asked.

There were no signs of wasting or decline about him, were there? The

little ones, Laure and Jules, were always playing with him, keeping

him amused and delighted. But what, perhaps, pleased him most was

the liberty to indulge himself in his elderly whims and ways, and to

comport himself as he liked in the greater freedom of this household.

Though Lise was a good and cleanly house-wife, she lacked Fanny's

precise tendencies and susceptibilities, and the old man was allowed to

spit wherever he liked, to go out and come in as the fancy seized him,

and to eat every minute if he chose, prompted by that spirit of the

peasant who cannot pass a loaf without cutting a thick slice off it.

Three months passed away in this pleasant fashion. It was now December;

and although the severe frosts froze the water in the old man's jug at

the foot of his bed, still he made no complaints. When it thawed, the

moisture soaked through the walls of his room, and ran down them in

dripping streams; but he seemed to take all this as a matter of course;

he had been brought up in the midst of similar discomforts. So long as

he had his tobacco and coffee, and was not badgered and worried, he

declared he needed nothing more.

Matters began to cloud over, however. One fine, sunny morning, Fouan,

on going back to his bedroom to get his pipe--the others imagined that

he had already left the house--found Buteau there struggling to get

the better of Françoise. The girl, who was strenuously resisting him,

without, however, saying a word, pulled herself together and left the

room, after taking the beet-root which she had come to get for the

cows. The old man, on being left face to face with his son, became

angry.

"You filthy swine, to be going after that girl, with your wife only a

yard or two away!" he cried. "And it wasn't she who wanted you either;

I could see her wrestling with you!"

Buteau, however, who was still panting and flushed, received the old

man's remonstrances very badly.

"Why do you come poking your nose into everything?" he retorted.

"You'd better shut your eyes and hold your jaw, or you'll find it the

worse for you."

Since Lise's confinement, and the fight with Jean, Buteau had been

hotly pursuing Françoise again. He had waited till his arm was strong,

and now all over the house he systematically made onslaughts on the

girl, feeling sure that if he could but once overcome her she would

belong to him in future as much as he wished. Was not this the best way

of preventing the marriage, and of keeping both the girl and her land?

His passion for the two became intermingled, as it were; his resolute

determination to retain the land, and not to part with what was in his

possession, being blended with his unsated sexual lust, now exasperated

by resistance. His wife was becoming enormously stout, a perfect heap

of flesh, and she was still suckling, with Laure constantly hanging at

her breasts; whereas the other one, the little sister-in-law, exhaled

a most appetising odour; her bosom, moreover, being firm and elastic

like the udder of a young heifer. He didn't turn up his nose at either

of them, by the way; in fact, he wanted to have them both, the one soft

and flabby, and the other firmly built; both of them were attractive in

their different styles. He considered himself quite a good enough cock

to have two hens, and he dreamt of leading a pasha-like life, petted,

caressed, and glutted with enjoyment. Why shouldn't he marry both

sisters, if he could get them to consent to his doing so? It seemed to

him to be the best way of keeping things pleasant, and of avoiding a

division of the property, which he dreaded as much as though he were

threatened with having one of his limbs wrenched off.

Now, whenever he and Françoise found themselves alone for a moment,

whether in the stable or the kitchen or anywhere else, it mattered not

where, there was a sudden attack and defence; Buteau rushing upon the

girl, and the girl striking him. It was always the same short, sharp

struggle; the man seizing Françoise firmly round the waist, and the

girl, with clenched teeth and savage eyes, forcing him to let go his

hold by striking him with full force with her clenched fist. Not a word

was spoken by either; there was no sound but that of their hot breath,

a sort of stifled panting, the deadened stir of a struggle. Then

Buteau would with difficulty restrain a cry of pain, while the girl

straightened her clothes and limped away, feeling bruised and sore.

These scenes took place when Lise was in the next room, and sometimes

even when she was in the same room, with her back turned to them while

she arranged some linen in the wardrobe. It was as though the wife's

presence excited the husband; he being at the same time certain of the

girl's proud and resolute silence.

Quarrels, however, had broken out since old Fouan had seen them among

the potatoes. He had bluntly told Lise everything that he had seen, so

that she might prevent her husband from making any further attempt upon

his sister-in-law. Then Lise, after shouting to her father to mind his

own business, angrily attacked her younger sister. She had only herself

to blame, she cried, for enticing the men on, and what had happened to

her was only what was to be expected; all the men were swine. In the

evening, however, Lise made such a scene with Buteau that she came out

of her room the next morning with her eye bunged up and blackened by a

heavy blow which he had dealt her with his fist during the discussion.

After that there was constant quarrelling going on. There were always

two of the inmates of the house trying to bite each other's heads off,

the husband and wife, or the husband and his sister-in-law, or else the

two sisters, even if they were not all three engaged in devouring one

another.

Then it was that the slowly and unconsciously-developed hatred

between Lise and Françoise became truly bitter. Their whilom tender

affection for each other gave place to a savage feeling, which kept

them irritated with one another from morning till night. The real and

only cause of it all was this man, Buteau, who was like some poisonous

leaven. Françoise, quite upset by his perpetual onslaughts, would have

succumbed long previously if her will had not shielded her against

desire each time he touched her. Her obstinate notions of abstract

justice, her resolute determination neither to give up what was her own

nor to take what was another's, brought her no little trouble. She was

angry with herself for feeling jealous and execrating her sister for

possessing this man, rather than have shared whom she herself would

have died. When he pursued her, she angrily retaliated by spitting

upon him, and sent him back, befouled with her saliva, to his wife. To

do this seemed in some way to soothe her struggling desires: it was

as though she had spat in her sister's face in her envious contempt,

for the pleasure in which she had no share. Lise, on the other hand,

was free from jealousy, feeling quite certain that Buteau had merely

bragged in asserting that he enjoyed both of them--not that she

believed him incapable of such a thing, but she was convinced that

her sister was too proud to yield. The only grudge she felt against

Françoise was that, owing to her persistent rejection of Buteau's

advances, the whole house was becoming a hell upon earth. The fatter

she grew, the more complacent she seemed to become, taking a lively

delight in existence, and egotistically craving for pleasant, easy

surroundings. It seemed to her the height of folly that her husband

and sister should go on quarrelling like that, marring the sweetness

of life, when they really had everything that was necessary for their

happiness. The girl's perverse disposition was the sole cause of all

the trouble.

Every night when she went to bed she exclaimed to Buteau:

"It's all my sister! But if she causes me any more annoyance, I'll have

her turned out of the house!"

This course, however, would by no means have suited Buteau.

"A fine notion, indeed! Why, we should have all the country-side crying

shame on us! What a plague you women are! I shall have to duck you both

in the pond till you can live together in harmony."

Two months more passed away, and Lise, who was so upset, might have

sugared her coffee twice, as she said, without finding it to her

palate. She divined whenever her sister had repelled some fresh

onslaught of her husband's, for she then had a further experience of

his angry ill-temper, and she now lived in constant dread of these

repeated repulses, feeling anxious whenever she caught sight of him

creeping up slily behind Françoise's skirts, and making sure that when

he came back again he would be in a violent temper, breaking everything

that came in his way, and making the whole house wretched. These were

hateful days to her, and she could not forgive the obstinate wench for

not restoring tranquillity.

One day matters reached a terrible pitch. Buteau, who had gone down

into the cellar with Françoise to draw some cider, came up again so

harshly repulsed, and in a state of such raging anger, that for the

merest trifle, just because his soup was too hot, he hurled his plate

against the wall, and then rushed out of the room, after knocking Lise

down with a blow that would almost have killed an ox.

Crying and bleeding, she struggled on to her feet again, with her cheek

sadly swollen, and at once fell foul of her sister.

"You dirty drab!" she cried, "go to bed with him, and have done with

it! I'm sick to death of it all; and if you persist in being obstinate,

simply to make him beat me, I'll run away!"

Françoise listened to her, quite pale and horrified.

"As true as God hears me, I'd rather do that," continued Lise. "Perhaps

he'd leave us in peace then!"

She fell down on a chair, and began to sob spasmodically. Her fat body,

which had now begun to shrink, bespoke her recklessness, her one desire

for quiet happiness, even at the cost of sharing her husband with

another. She would still keep a share of him herself, and would have

all that was necessary. People, she thought, had foolish ideas on these

matters. A husband was not like a loaf, that was consumed at each bit

one ate. Ought they not to agree amongst themselves, and live together

in a friendly fashion?

"Come, now, why won't you?" she asked.

Choked with disgust, Françoise could only cry, angrily:

"You are more disgusting than he is!"

Then she, too, went away to sob in the cow-house, where La Coliche

gazed at her with her big, sad eyes. What roused her indignation was

not so much the thing itself as the complaisant part she herself was

to play--to surrender herself just for the sake of securing peace

and quietness in the house. If Buteau had been her own husband, she

thought she would never have consented to give up the least bit of

him. Her bitter feeling against her sister turned into one of scorn

and contempt, and she vowed to herself that she would be flayed alive

rather than give way.

Her life now became still more embittered than before. She became the

general drudge of the house, the beast of burden that came in for

everybody's kicks and buffetings. She was reduced to the level of

a hired servant overburdened with work, and continually rated, and

thumped, and ill-treated. Lise would not permit her a single hour's

leisure; but made her rise before daylight, and kept her up so late

at night that the poor girl often fell asleep without having enough

strength left her to undress herself. Buteau took a malicious pleasure

in torturing her by his familiarities, slapping her on the loins,

pinching her thighs, and falling upon her with all sorts of savage

caresses, which left her bleeding, and with her eyes full of tears,

but as obstinately silent as ever. Buteau himself laughed, and derived

some little satisfaction whenever he saw the girl growing faint, and

with difficulty refraining from crying out from sheer pain. Her body

was sadly discoloured and disfigured with bruises and scratches. In

her sister's presence she especially forced herself to repress every

sign of suffering, and to comport herself as though a man's hands

were not actually fingering her flesh. Sometimes, however, she could

not altogether control herself, but replied to Buteau's attacks by a

swinging blow. Then there would be a general engagement. Buteau would

belabour Françoise; while Lise, under the pretence of separating them,

would assail them both with vigorous kicks from her heavy boots. Little

Laure and her big brother Jules yelled at the top of their voices, and

all the dogs about the premises began to bark, arousing the pity of the

neighbours for Françoise. "Ah, poor girl!" they used to say; "she must

have rare pluck to remain in such a place!"

Her remaining with the Buteaus was, indeed, the standing wonder of all

Rognes. Why didn't she run away? the neighbours asked of each other.

The knowing ones shook their heads; the girl was not of age, she still

had another eighteen months to wait. To run away would be to her own

disadvantage, for she could not take her property with her, and she

showed her sense by remaining. Ah! if Fouan, her guardian, had only

supported her cause? But he himself hadn't too easy a life with his

son-in-law; he had his own peace and quietness to look after, and, for

the sake of his own comforts, was obliged to stand aloof. The girl,

moreover, with her independence and self-reliance, had forbidden him to

interfere in her affairs.

Every outbreak now ended in the same way.

"Off you go at once! Clear out with you!"

"Oh, yes, that's just what you'd like! Once I was foolish, and wanted

to go away; whereas now you may kill me if you choose, but you won't

get me to go. I shall stop here, and wait for what belongs to me. I

want the land and the house, and I mean to have them, too; every inch

and every stone!"

For the first few months Buteau's great fear had been that Françoise

might prove to be with child. He had counted the days since he had

caught her and Jean together among the corn, and he kept casting

anxious, side-long glances at the girl, for the arrival of a baby would

have spoilt everything by necessitating his sister-in-law's marriage.

The girl herself was quite easy about the matter; but when she noticed

the manifest interest that Buteau showed in her figure, she took a

pleasure in puffing herself out, in order to deceive him. And whenever

he seized hold of her, she always imagined that he was measuring her

with his big fingers, the consequence of which was that she ended by

saying to him, with a defiant air:

"Ah, there's one coming, and growing fast enough!"

One day she even folded up some towels and wrapped them round her.

But in the evening there was almost a massacre. A feeling of terror

now seized her at the murderous glances which her brother-in-law cast

at her; she felt quite sure that if she had really been with child

the brutal fellow would have struck her some foul blow in the hope of

killing her. So she discontinued her acting.

"Go and get yourself a baby!" said Buteau one day to her, with a leer.

"If I haven't got one, it's because I don't choose," she replied,

angrily, turning pale.

This was quite true. She obstinately rejected Jean's advances. Buteau,

however, was none the less noisily triumphant, and he now began to

abuse the girl's lover. A fine sort of a man he must be! he cried. Why,

he must be rotten! He might be able to break people's arms by cowardly

tricks, but he hadn't backbone enough about him to put a girl in the

family-way! After that he began to overwhelm Françoise with sarcastic

allusions to Jean, and indulged in filthy jokes about her own person.

When Jean heard of Buteau's remarks about himself he threatened to go

and break his jaw. He was constantly haunting Françoise, and beseeching

her to yield again. He'd soon let them see, he said, if he couldn't

get a child, and a big one, too! His lustful desire was now heightened

by anger. But the girl was always ready with some fresh reason for

putting him off. She had no great dislike for him, it is true, she

simply had no desire for him, that was all; and, indeed, she must have

been completely free from all desire whatever not to have given way

and surrendered herself when she fell into his arms behind a hedge,

still flushed and angered by one of Buteau's onslaughts. Oh, the

filthy swine! She always spoke of him as a filthy swine, boiling over

with passion and excitement; but growing suddenly cold and calm again

when Jean tried to profit by the opportunity. "No, no!" she cried.

She felt ashamed at the thought of it. One day, when he pressed her

very closely, she told him that he must wait a little longer, till the

evening of their wedding-day. This was the first time that she had said

anything that could be interpreted into an engagement, for she had

hitherto always avoided giving Jean a definite answer when he asked

her to be his wife. After that it was taken for granted that he should

marry her, but not until she was of age, and became entitled to her

property, in a position to demand the rendering of accounts. This,

Jean now felt, was the most prudent course: he advised the girl to be

as patient as she could in the meantime, and he ceased to worry her

with his importunities, except at times when the idea of a spree was

strong within him. Françoise, feeling easy and tranquil at the thought

of a promise which was not to be redeemed for a long time, contented

herself by grasping his hands so as to make him desist, and gazing at

him with her pretty, beseeching eyes, the look of which seemed to say

that she did not wish to risk having a child unless its father was her

husband.

Though Buteau had now satisfied himself that she was not in the

family-way, he was seized with a fresh fear that she might become so

if she saw anything more of Jean. He was still greatly bothered about

the latter, for folks told him on all sides that Jean had vowed he

would get Françoise with child. So Buteau now exercised unremitting

surveillance over his sister-in-law from morning till night, forcing

her to work every single minute of the day, keeping her near-by under

threat of a hiding, just as though she had been some beast of burden

which could not be trusted to itself for a moment. This was a great

torture for the girl. Either her brother-in-law or her sister was

continually behind her, and she could not so much as go to the yard

without being followed by a spying eye. At night they locked her up

in her bedroom; one evening, after a quarrel, she even found the

shutter of her little window secured by a padlock. In spite of all

their strict surveillance, however, she managed now and then to make

her escape, and upon her return there were very violent scenes, the

girl having to submit to the most disgusting questions, and sometimes

even to examinations of her person, Buteau seizing hold of her by the

shoulders while his wife partially undressed her and scrutinized her.

All this brought her upon easier terms with Jean, and she made several

appointments with him, taking a pleasure in thwarting her tormentors.

She might even have yielded to her lover, if she had known that Buteau

and Lise were hiding behind them watching. At all events, she again

repeated her promise, that come what might, she would certainly be

his in time; and she swore to him in the most solemn way that Buteau

had lied when he boasted that he slept with both the sisters. He had

said that, she continued, from mere braggartism, and in the hope of

bringing about a state of affairs which did not exist. Jean, who had

previously been much tormented on this score, was quite satisfied with

Françoise's explanation, and felt much easier in mind. As they parted

they kissed each other affectionately; and from this time forward the

girl took the young man for her confidant and adviser, trying to see

him as often as possible, and doing nothing without his sanction and

approbation; while he, on his side, now made no further attempts upon

her, but treated her like a comrade whose interests were identical with

his own.

Every time now that she ran to meet him behind a wall, the conversation

was of a similar kind. The girl excitedly tore open her bodice or

pulled up her sleeves.

"See!" she exclaimed; "just look where that swine has been pinching me

again!"

Then Jean would look at her flesh, remaining quite calm and

unimpassioned.

"He shall be made to pay for it! You must show it to the women about

here. But don't try to do anything to avenge yourself just at present.

By-and-bye we will have justice, when we have got the power on our

side."

"And that sister of mine," continued Françoise, "stands by and watches

him. Only yesterday, when he sprang upon me, instead of throwing a pail

of cold water over him, she never stirred."

"Your sister will have a bad time of it yet with this scoundrel. You

needn't be afraid. He can't force you, so long as you refuse to let

him have you, and you can get over all the rest. If we keep united, we

shall beat him."

Although old Fouan did his best to steer clear of the quarrels, he

was always made to suffer from them. If he remained in the house and

tried to keep silent he was straightway forced into the row; and if

he went out he found himself upon his return in the midst of a scene

of confusion, his mere appearance often sufficing to rekindle the

flame again. So far, he had never had any real physical suffering, but

there now commenced a season of privations, of scantily-doled food,

and a suppression of all his little indulgences. The old man was no

longer stuffed with grub, as had been the case at first; every time

that he cut too thick a slice of bread he was assailed with abuse.

What a bottomless pit his belly was! they cried. The less he did, the

more he stuffed and swilled! Every quarter, when he went to Cloyes to

receive from Monsieur Baillehache the interest on the money realised by

the sale of his house, he was strictly watched, and his pockets were

emptied on his return. Françoise was reduced to pilfering her sister's

coppers to buy him a little tobacco, for she herself was kept equally

destitute of pocket-money. The old man also felt very uncomfortable

in the damp room where he slept, now that he had broken one of the

panes in the window, the aperture having merely been stuffed with

straw to save the expense of a new piece of glass. Oh, those beastly

children! he moaned; they were all equally barbarous! He growled and

grumbled from morning till night, and bitterly regretted having left

the Delhommes, sick at heart at now finding himself so much worse off

than before. However, he concealed his feelings as far as possible,

and it was only his involuntary exclamations that testified to their

existence, for he knew that Fanny had asserted that he would return

and ask her on his knees to take him back again. That remark made it

impossible for him to return; it would sear his heart for ever, like a

bar of iron that he could never remove. He would rather die of hunger

and indignation with the Buteaus, so he told himself, than return and

humble himself before the Delhommes.

One day as Fouan was returning from Cloyes, where he had been to

receive his dividends from the notary, he sat down to rest on the

slope of a dry ditch. Hyacinthe, who happened to be prowling about the

neighbourhood examining the rabbit holes, observed the old man deeply

absorbed in counting a number of five-franc pieces in his handkerchief.

He immediately stooped down and crawled along in silence till he got

close up to his father. As he lay there, concealed from sight, he

was much surprised to see Fouan carefully knotting up a considerable

sum of money, as much, probably, as eighty francs. Hyacinthe's eyes

glistened at the sight, and his wolfish teeth were bared in a quiet

smile. The idea of a secret hoard at once returned to his mind. The

old man evidently had some secret investments, the dividends of which

he received every quarter, taking advantage of his visits to Monsieur

Baillehache to do so without any one being the wiser.

Hyacinthe's first impulse was to put on a piteous air and beg for

twenty francs. On second thoughts, however, this seemed too paltry a

scheme, and, thinking of a better plan, he glided away as noiselessly

as he had come, with all the sinuous suppleness of a snake. Thus Fouan,

who had now set off again, did not feel the least suspicion when, a

hundred yards further on, he met his son, who seemed merely to be on

his way back to Rognes. They walked on together and talked. The father

fell foul of the Buteaus, who were destitute of all human feeling, and

whom he accused of starving him to death. Then the son, with a filial,

sympathetic air, his eyes damp with emotion, offered to rescue his

father from these wretches by taking him to live in his own house. Why

shouldn't he come? he asked. There was no worrying or hardship there;

they led a merry life from morning till night. La Trouille cooked for

two now, and she could just as easily cook for three. And fine cookery

hers was whenever there was any money.

Astonished by his son's offer, and overcome with a feeling of vague

uneasiness, Fouan shook his head in token of refusal. No, no, indeed.

At his age a man could not flit about in that sort of way from one

house to another, changing his mode of life every year.

"Very well, father; but think the matter over. I am quite sincere in my

offer. My place will always be open to you. When you have had enough of

those filthy scamps, come and live with me."

Hyacinthe then went off, perplexed and wondering, asking himself how

his father spent his income, for he unquestionably had one. A heap

of money like that coming in four times a year must amount to a nice

sum--at least three hundred francs. If he did not spend the cash

he must be hoarding it up somewhere. It was clearly a matter to be

investigated. It must be a really magnificent hoard by this time!

That day--a mild, damp October day it was--when Fouan returned home,

Buteau claimed the thirty-seven francs and a-half which the old man

had received, as was usual, every quarter since the sale of his house.

It had been agreed that Buteau should receive this money, as well as

the two hundred francs paid yearly by the Delhommes, on account of the

old man's board and lodging. That day, however, a couple of five-franc

pieces had got mixed up with those which the old man had secured in his

handkerchief; and when, after turning out his pockets, he only produced

twenty-seven francs and a-half, his son burst into a violent fit of

rage, treating him as though he were a thief, and accusing him of

having frittered away the missing ten francs in drink and disgraceful

dissipation. The old father, in a state of great consternation, and

keeping his hand upon his handkerchief, full of alarm lest it should be

examined, stammered out excuses, and swore that he must have lost the

money in pulling out his handkerchief to blow his nose. Again the house

was topsy-turvy until night.

What had put Buteau into such a savage temper was, that while bringing

his harrow back he had seen Jean and Françoise hurrying away behind a

wall. The girl, who had gone out on the pretence of getting some grass

for her cows, had not yet returned, for she knew what kind of reception

awaited her. The night was already falling, and Buteau, in a furious

rage, went out every minute into the yard, and even on to the road, to

see if the hussy were coming back. He swore at the top of his voice,

and poured out a torrent of filthy language, without observing old

Fouan, who was sitting on the stone bench, calming himself after the

row, and enjoying the warm softness of the air, which made that sunny

October like a spring month.

The sound of clogs was now heard coming up the slope, and Françoise

made her appearance, bending double, for her shoulders were laden with

an enormous bundle of grass, which she had tied up in an old cloth. She

was panting and perspiring, almost hidden beneath her burden.

"So here you are, you filthy hussy!" cried Buteau. "You'll soon find

out your mistake if you imagine you can make a fool of me, and go off

with your lover for a couple of hours at a stretch, when there's work

to be done here!"

Then he knocked her over on to the bundle of grass, which had fallen

down, and threw himself upon her, just as Lise came out of the house to

rave, in her turn, at the girl.

"Ah, you dirty jade," she cried, "let me get at you and I'll kick you.

Have you no shame at all?"

Buteau had already firmly seized hold of the girl by her petticoats.

His outbursts of rage always turned into sharp desire. While he

attacked her he growled, nearly choking, with his face empurpled and

swollen by the rush of blood.

"You damned cat!" he sputtered out, "I'll have my turn now! Heaven's

lightning sha'n't prevent me!"

Then there began a furious struggle. Old Fouan could not see very well

in the darkness, but he was able to observe that Lise was standing

there, looking on, without making any attempt to interfere, while her

husband struggled and fought with Françoise, over whom he sprawled. In

the end, however, the girl managed to shake him off.

"You swine! You filthy swine!" she cried, in a panting voice, "you

haven't succeeded, and you never shall--no, never! never!"

Then she strode up to Lise and addressed her in taunting triumph. Her

sister was just silencing her by a heavy blow on the mouth, when old

Fouan, having sprung up from his seat, quite disgusted and horrified at

what he had seen, rushed forward, brandishing his stick.

"You filthy brutes, both of you!" he cried; "can't you leave the girl

alone? There's been more than enough of this!"

Lights were now seen in the neighbouring houses. All these goings-on

were beginning to make people feel anxious, so Buteau hurriedly drove

his father and Françoise into the kitchen, where the candlelight showed

Laure and Jules crouching in a corner, where they had taken refuge in

their terror. Lise also had come in, bewildered and silent ever since

the old man had issued out of the darkness. Fouan now addressed himself

to her again.

"It was too revolting on your part," he said. "I saw you looking on!"

Buteau now brought down his fist on the table with all his strength.

"Silence!" he cried; "the matter's done with. I'll smash the next one

who says another word about it!"

"And if I choose to speak," demanded Fouan, in a quavering voice, "will

you smash me?"

"You as soon as another. I'm quite sick of you!"

Françoise bravely came forward between the two men.

"I beg of you not to interfere, uncle. You have seen that I am able to

take care of myself."

The old man, however, pushed her aside.

"Leave me alone. At present you are not concerned. It is my business

now. Ah, you would smash me, would you, villain?" he cried, raising his

stick. "You had better take care that I don't chastise _you_!"

But Buteau quickly snatched the old man's stick from him, and tossed

it under the dresser. Then, with a wicked look in his leering eyes,

he planted himself straight in front of Fouan, and spoke to him

cheek-by-jowl.

"Will you just leave me alone, eh? Do you think I mean to tolerate your

airs? No, no. Just look at me if you want to know who I am."

Both the men stood silently confronting each other for a moment or

two, glaring fiercely, as though they hoped to cow each other by their

glance. The son, since the division of the property, had grown stouter

and stood more solidly on his legs, and his jaws seemed to project

further from his bull-dog-shaped skull, with its narrow, retreating

brow; while the father, worn out by his sixty years of toil, had shrunk

still further, his stoop increasing slightly day by day. His loins

seemed broken, and his body bent forward towards the ground. His

huge nose was the only feature which retained its pristine shape and

proportions.

"Who you are?" retorted Fouan. "I know it only too well. I begot you."

Buteau sniggered.

"Ah, you shouldn't have done so!" he replied. "Everybody his turn.

There's your blood in me, you know, and I hate to be interfered with.

So once more I tell you, leave me alone, or it will be worse for you!"

"For yourself, you mean. I never spoke to _my_ father in such a way."

"Oh, come now, that's a stiff 'un! Why, you would have killed your

father if he hadn't died before you had time!"

"You lie, you filthy swine! And, by the Lord God, you shall unsay that

this very minute!"

Françoise, for the second time, now tried to interpose; and Lise

herself, terrified by this fresh outbreak, made a similar effort.

But the two men thrust the women aside, and confronted each other,

breathing violently in each other's faces, as they stood there, father

against son, boiling over with that spirit of overweening despotism

which the one had bequeathed to the other.

Fouan wanted to exalt himself by attempting to regain his old absolute

supremacy as head of the family. For half a century, in the days when

he still retained his property and authority, his wife, his children,

and his cattle had trembled at his word.

"Say that you have lied, you filthy swine; say that you have lied, or I

will make you dance, as surely as that candle is burning there!"

Raising his hand, he threatened his son with that gesture which had

once made all his family sink to the ground.

"Say that you have lied!"

Whenever Buteau in his younger days had felt a buffet coming he had

raised his elbow to shield himself, his teeth chattering the while; but

now he merely shrugged his shoulders with an air of insolent contempt.

"You are vastly mistaken. You imagine that you frighten me," he said.

"It was all very well when you were the master to treat us like that!"

"I am the master--the father!"

"Nonsense, you old joker; you are nothing at all. Ah, so you won't

leave me alone, won't you?"

Then seeing that the old man's unsteady arm was descending to deal a

blow, he seized hold of it, and crushed it in his rough grasp.

"What a pig-headed fellow you are!" he cried. "Can't you get it into

that old noddle of yours that no one cares a fig about you now? Do you

suppose that you are good for anything at all? You are so much expense,

and that's all! When a man has outlived his time, and passed his land

over to others, he ought to be content with chewing his grub quietly,

and keep from being a nuisance to other folks."

He shook his father to emphasise what he was saying; and then, giving

the old man a final shake, he hurled him backwards, trembling and

quaking, upon a chair near the window. And there the old man remained,

half choking, for a moment, conquered and humiliated by the complete

loss of his old authority. It was all over with him. He counted for

nothing at all, now that he had stripped himself of his property.

Complete silence reigned in the kitchen, and all remained in

embarrassed inactivity. The children had scarcely dared to breathe for

fear of receiving a cuffing. Presently, however, work was begun again

as if nothing unusual had happened.

"Is that grass going to be left out in the yard?" asked Lise.

"I'll go and put it in the cow-house," replied Françoise.

When she had returned, and after they had dined, Buteau, who was quite

incorrigible, thrust his hand into her bodice, to hunt for a flea which

she said was biting her. She no longer showed any signs of annoyance,

and, indeed, she joked about it.

Fouan had never moved, but still remained stiff and silent in his dark

corner. Two big tears were rolling down his cheeks. He called to mind

the evening when he had broken with the Delhommes; and now again on

this evening he experienced the same bitterness and humiliation at

finding himself no longer the master; the same anger which had then

made him obstinately refuse to eat. They had called to him three times,

but he refused to join in the meal. Presently he sprang up, and went

off to his bedroom. The next morning, as soon as it was light, he left

the Buteaus, to take up his quarters with Hyacinthe.