Kabanata Kabanata 28 · PART V. CHAPTER IV.

. PART V. CHAPTER IV.

It happened that on the following day, Sunday, the young men of Rognes

were to go to Cloyes for the conscription-ballot; and as La Grande and

La Frimat, who had hurried up to the house in the dusk, were undressing

Françoise and putting her to bed with the utmost care, the roll of the

drum could be heard on the road below, sounding to the poor folks like

a knell amid the mournful gloom.

Jean, who was quite off his head with troubled anxiety, had just

set off to fetch Doctor Finet, when near the church he met Patoir,

the veterinary surgeon, on his way to attend old Saucisse's cow. He

forcibly dragged him into the house to see the ailing woman, in spite

of his unwillingness to go. But when Patoir saw the hideous wound, he

point-blank refused to interfere in the case. What good could he do?

Death was plainly written there! Two hours later, when Jean came back

with Monsieur Finet, the surgeon made a gesture of hopeless despair.

Nothing could be done beyond administering anæsthetics for the sake of

deadening the pain. The five months' pregnancy seriously complicated

the case; and the unborn child could be felt moving within its mother's

wounded body, dying indeed of its mother's death. Before the doctor

went away, he dressed the wound as best he could, and, although he

promised to return in the morning, he warned Jean that his wife would

most probably pass away during the night. She lived through it,

however, and she was still lingering on, when, towards nine o'clock in

the morning, the drum began to beat again, summoning the young men to

meet in front of the municipal offices.

All through the night the flood-gates of heaven had been open, and

Jean had listened to a pouring deluge of rain as he sat watching in

his wife's room, stupefied with troubled grief, and with his eyes full

of big tears. The roll of the drum sounded as though it were muffled

as he heard it in the close, damp air of the morning. The rain had now

ceased, but the sky was still of a leaden grey.

For a long time the drum-beating continued. The drummer was a new one,

a nephew of Macqueron's, who had just left the service, and he beat

his drum as though he were leading a regiment into action. All Rognes

was in a state of anxiety, for the rumours of approaching war, that

had lately been circulated, had greatly increased the emotion which

always attended the conscription-balloting. The prospect of being at

once marched off to be shot by the Prussians was not an alluring one.

There were nine young men of the neighbourhood to ballot upon this

occasion, probably a larger number than had ever before been known.

Among them were Nénesse and Delphin, once so inseparable, but severed

of late owing to the former having taken a situation in a restaurant

at Chartres. On the previous evening Nénesse had gone to sleep at his

father's farm. When Delphin saw him he scarcely knew him, he was so

changed; dressed quite like a gentleman, with a cane and a silk hat,

and a blue scarf clasped by a ring. He now had his clothes made to

order by a tailor, and cracked jokes about Lambourdieu's ready-made

suits. His neck was still scrawny and long, and absolutely devoid of

hair on the nape. Delphin, on the other hand, had grown massive and

sturdy; his limbs were heavy, like his movements, and his face was

tanned and baked by the sun. He had grown up like some vigorous plant

in that beloved soil to which he was so firmly rooted. However, he and

Nénesse immediately renewed their broken chumship, and were as good

comrades as ever. After spending a part of the night with each other,

they appeared arm-in-arm the next morning in front of the municipal

offices, in obedience to the persistent summons of the drum.

A number of the relations of the nine young men were gathered there.

Delhomme and Fanny, proud of their son's distinguished appearance,

wished to be present to see him off, though they felt no anxiety, as

they had provided for his exemption. Bécu, wearing his constabular

badge of office, threatened to cuff his wife because she began to cry.

What was she blubbering for? he asked. Wasn't Delphin fit to serve

his country with credit? The lad, however, would be sure to escape,

and draw a lucky number. When at last the nine young fellows were all

got together, a feat which it took a good hour to accomplish, Lequeu

handed them the banner. Then they began to discuss who should carry it.

The general rule was to choose the tallest and most vigorous of the

number, and so it was agreed that Delphin should carry it. He seemed

very nervous and timid, in spite of his big fists, shy at finding

himself mixed up in matters which he did not understand. He seemed to

find the long pole awkward to manage, and then it might conduct him to

misfortune, he reflected sorrowfully.

At the two corners of the street, Flore and Cœlina were giving a final

sweep to their respective public parlours, in view of being ready for

the evening. Macqueron was looking out of his door with a sorrowful

countenance; then Lengaigne appeared at his, with a sniggering grin on

his face. He was in a very triumphant frame of mind just then, for the

excise-officers had recently seized four casks of wine which they had

found concealed beneath one of his rival's wood-stacks. Macqueron, it

was said, would be dismissed from his mayoralty in consequence, and

every one felt quite sure that the anonymous letter which had led to

the wine being discovered had emanated from Lengaigne. To make matters

worse, Macqueron had another trouble on his shoulders. His daughter

Berthe had so compromised herself with the wheelwright's son, whom he

had previously refused as a son-in-law, that he was now constrained to

let him have her. For the last week the gossips at the fountain had

talked of nothing save the daughter's marriage and the prosecution of

the father. It was certain that the latter would at least be fined; and

it was by no means unlikely that he would be sent to gaol. And so the

mayor, seeing his neighbour's insulting grin, retired again, feeling

painfully conscious that every one else was also sniggering at him.

Delphin had now grasped the banner, and the drum sounded the march.

Nénesse fell into position, and the other seven took up their places

behind him. They formed quite a little troop as they filed along

over the level road. A swarm of children ran forward with them, and

Delhomme, Fanny, Bécu, and several other relatives accompanied them

to the end of the village. Freed of her husband, Madame Bécu hurried

away and slipped furtively into the church. Then, glancing around and

finding that she was quite alone, she fell down on her knees, though,

as a rule, she was by no means addicted to displays of devotion, and

burst into tears, while beseeching the good God to grant her son a

lucky number. She remained for more than an hour stammering out this

heartfelt prayer. Far away, towards Cloyes, the banner was gradually

fading from sight in the distance, and the rolling of the drum was lost

in space.

It was nearly ten o'clock when Doctor Finet made his appearance again,

and he seemed surprised to find Françoise still alive. He had quite

expected that he would merely have to give the certificate for her

burial. He shook his head as he examined the wound. Ever since the

previous evening, not having an idea of the real facts, he had been

pondering over the story that had been told to him in connection with

the wound. He now desired to have the whole narrative repeated to

him; and he could not yet understand how the unfortunate young woman

had managed to fall in such a disastrous fashion. He finally took his

leave, indignant at Françoise's culpable clumsiness, and annoyed at

having to pay yet another visit to certify the death.

Jean still remained in a state of mournful gloom, watching intently

over Françoise, who closed her eyes in persistent muteness as soon as

she ever caught her husband's questioning glance. He divined that some

lie or other had been told him, and that his wife was hiding something

from him. In the early morning he had escaped for a little time, and

had run up to the lucern field to see if he could discover anything.

But he could learn nothing definite from his inspection. The footmarks

had been nearly effaced by the heavy rain which had fallen during the

night, but he discovered a corner where the lucern seemed to have been

beaten down, and he concluded that this was the spot where Françoise

had fallen. After the surgeon had gone away, Jean again sat down by the

side of the dying woman's bed. He was now quite alone with her, for La

Frimat had gone off to breakfast, and La Grande had been obliged to

return home for a moment to see that things were not going wrong in her

absence.

"Are you in pain?" Jean asked his wife.

Françoise closed her eyes tightly, and made no reply.

"Tell me, now, aren't you concealing something from me?"

If it had not been for her weak and painful breathing one might

have supposed that Françoise was already dead. Ever since the

previous evening she had been lying on her back, silent and in the

same position, as though incapable of either motion or speech. She

was burning with fever, but all her power of will seemed to offer

a determined resistance to the approach of delirium, so acute was

her fear of letting anything escape her. She had always possessed a

strongly-marked character, full of obstinate determination; doing

nothing like other people, and giving utterance to ideas which filled

everybody who heard her with amazement. Loyalty to her family was

probably actuating her now, a loyalty which over-rode all feeling of

hatred and craving for vengeance. What good would vengeance do her,

now that she was dying? There were matters which were best buried with

one's self, shut up in the spot where they had been born; matters which

must never, no never, be disclosed for a stranger's enlightenment; and

Jean was a stranger, whom she had never been really able to love with

genuine love. It was perhaps in punishment for having given him her

hand that she was never to bring into the world the undeveloped child

quickening within her.

Ever since Jean had seen his wife brought home in a dying condition,

his thoughts had been harping on the unmade will. All through the night

he had kept thinking that, if she died intestate, he would be entitled

to nothing, save half of the furniture and the money--a hundred and

twenty-seven francs locked up in the drawer. He loved Françoise dearly,

and he would have made any sacrifice to keep her; but the thought that,

together with his wife, he would also lose the house and land, still

further increased his grief. As yet, he had not dared to say a word on

the subject: it seemed so hard-hearted, and then there had always been

other people in the room. But at last, seeing that he would never be

able to glean any further information as to the manner in which the

accident had happened, he determined to tackle this other matter.

"Are there any arrangements that you would like to make?" he asked.

It did not seem as though Françoise heard him. Her eyes were closed,

and her face was quite expressionless.

"If anything happened to you, you know, your sister would take

everything. The paper is still there in the drawer."

He brought the sheet of stamped paper to her, and then continued, in a

voice that grew more and more embarrassed:

"Would you like me to help you? Are you strong enough to write, do

you think? I'm not thinking about myself; but I only fancied that

you wouldn't like those folks who have treated you so badly to have

anything you left behind."

Françoise's eyelids trembled slightly, proving to Jean that she had

heard him. So she must still be averse to making a will! He was quite

astounded; he could not understand it at all. Probably Françoise,

herself, could not have explained why she persisted in thus lying like

a corpse, before the time had come for her to be boxed-up within four

boards. But the land and the house did not belong to this man, who had

come athwart her life like some mere passer-by. She owed him nothing;

the child would go away with herself. By what right should the

property be taken away from the family? Her obstinate, childish ideas

of justice protested against such a thing. This is mine, that is yours;

let us each take our own and say good-bye! However, other thoughts

besides these were vaguely floating through her mind. Her sister Lise

seemed far away from her--lost in the distance--and it was Buteau alone

who seemed really present to her; Buteau whom, in spite of all his

ill-treatment, she pardoned and loved and longed for.

Jean was getting vexed. The desire for the soil was now gaining hold

of him, too, and embittering his mind. He raised Françoise in bed, and

attempted to get her into a sitting position and to put a pen between

her fingers.

"Come now," he said, "see if you can't manage it. You can't like those

scamps better than me, and want them to have everything!"

Then Françoise at last opened her eyes, and the look that she turned

upon Jean quite stupefied him. She knew that she was going to die, and

her big, widely-opened eyes were full of hopeless despair. Why was he

torturing her like this? they seemed to say. She could not, and she

would not! Besides, it was her own affair. A low moan of pain was the

only sound that escaped her lips. Then she fell back again, her eyelids

closed, and her head lay rigid and motionless on the pillow.

Ashamed of his unkind persistence, Jean now felt so miserable and

confused that he was still standing there with the sheet of stamped

paper in his hand when La Grande came back into the room. She saw

it, and knew what it meant; and at once took Jean aside to inquire

if Françoise had made a will. He stammered out that he had just been

going to conceal the paper to prevent any one bothering his wife about

it, a course which La Grande seemed to approve of, for she was on the

Buteaus' side, foreseeing all kinds of rows and abominable scenes if

they succeeded in inheriting the property. Then, seating herself in

front of the table, and recommencing her knitting, she continued:

"Well, no one will find himself wronged by me, I'm sure, when I'm taken

away. My will has been made long ago. Every one is remembered, and I

should think I was acting very wrongly if I showed an unfair preference

for any one. None of my children are forgotten, as they will see for

themselves one of these days."

She recited this formula daily to one or another member of her

family, and she made a point of repeating it by the death-bed of her

relatives. Every time she delivered herself of it, she chuckled in

secret at the thought of that famous will of hers which would set the

whole family by the ears when she was gone. She had been careful that

it should not contain a single clause that was not pregnant with a

law-suit.

"What a pity it is," she added, "that one can't take one's property

with one! But, since one can't, others must needs have the enjoyment of

it."

La Frimat now returned, sat down at the other side of the table,

opposite to La Grande, and also began to knit. So the afternoon glided

away. The two old women sat quietly gossipping with each other, while

Jean, who could not settle in any one place, kept walking up and down,

perpetually leaving the room and then returning in a state of feverish

restlessness. The doctor' had said that there was nothing to be done,

and so they did nothing.

At last, La Frimat began expressing her regret that Sourdeau, the

bone-setter at Bazoches, who was equally expert in the treatment of

wounds, had not been sent for. He just said a few words and then

breathed over his patients, and then the wounds closed up at once.

"Oh, he's a splendid fellow!" exclaimed La Grande in a respectful way.

"It was he who put the Lorillon's breast-bone right. Old Lorillon's

breast-bone, you know, fell out of its place, and hung down and pressed

so heavily on his stomach that he almost died from exhaustion. Then,

to make matters worse, the old woman caught the dreadful complaint as

well: for, as you know, it is contagious. Presently they all had it,

the daughter, the son-in-law, and their three children. They would

certainly all have died of it if they had not sent for Sourdeau,

who put everything right again by just rubbing their bellies with a

tortoise-shell comb."

The other old woman confirmed every detail of this story with a wag of

the head. It was all well known, and there was no doubt about it. Then

she herself adduced another fact in support of Sourdeau's skill.

"It was Sourdeau, too, who cured the Budin's little girl of fever by

just cutting a live pigeon in two and applying it to her head."

Then she turned to Jean, who was standing quite dazed by the bedside.

"If I were you," she said, "I should send for him. It's perhaps not too

late, even now."

Jean, however, answered merely with an angry gesture. His

town-breeding prevented him from believing such stories. The two women

then went on gossipping together for a long time, telling each other of

various quaint remedies, such as placing parsley beneath one's bed to

cure lumbago, or keeping three acorns in one's pocket in the case of

inflammation, or drinking a glass of water which had been exposed to

the moon in view of getting rid of wind.

"Well, if you're not going to send for Sourdeau," La Frimat abruptly

exclaimed, "at any rate you'd better send for his reverence the priest."

Jean again replied by an angry gesture, and La Grande compressed her

lips tightly.

"What good would his reverence do?"

"What good would he do? Why, he would bring the blessed sacrament, and

there's some comfort in that, sometimes."

La Grande shrugged her shoulders, as though to express that now-a-days

no one believed in such old-fashioned ideas.

"Besides," she added, after a pause, "the priest wouldn't come. He is

ill. Madame Bécu told me just now that he is going away in a carriage

on Wednesday, as the doctor says that he will certainly die if he

remains in Rognes."

As a matter of fact, the Abbé Madeline's health had gradually been

getting worse during the two years and a-half that he had been

stationed at Rognes. A feeling of home-sickness, a broken-hearted

longing for his native mountains of Auvergne had been preying upon him

with increasing severity every day he had spent in that flat land of

La Beauce, where the sight of the far-spreading boundless plain filled

his heart with despondent melancholy. Not a tree nor a rock was to be

seen; and instead of rushing cascades of foaming water, there were

only stagnant pools. The priest's eyes lost their brightness, and he

grew more fleshless than ever, till people said that he was going off

in a consumption. Yet he might still have been reconciled to remaining

there if he could have derived any consolation from the women of his

parish. But it was just the other way. Coming, as he did, from a pious

and faithful flock, his timid soul was overwhelmed with grief and

consternation at finding himself in so irreligious a parish, where only

the merest outward forms of the faith were complied with. The women

deafened and dazed him with their screaming and quarrelling, and so

abused his yielding nature that they practically took the religious

direction of the place into their own hands: while he, a man full of

scrupulous sensitiveness, and constantly afraid of involuntarily

falling into sin, stood by in silent consternation. But there was a

final blow in store for him. On Christmas day, one of the hand-maidens

of the Virgin had been seized with the pangs of labour while in church.

Since then the priest had been getting worse and worse, and now he was

going to be carried back, in a dying condition, to Auvergne.

"So, then, we're without a priest again?" exclaimed La Frimat. "I

wonder if the Abbé Godard would come back to us."

"Ah, the surly fellow!" cried La Grande; "he would burst with spite if

he had to come!"

The sudden arrival of Fanny made them silent. She was the only member

of her family who had come to see Françoise on the previous evening,

and she had now returned to ascertain how she was getting on. Jean

pointed to his wife with his trembling hand. The room was hushed

in sympathetic silence, and Fanny lowered her voice to inquire if

the dying woman had asked for her sister. No, they said, she had

never opened her mouth on the subject; it was just as if Lise had

not existed. Forsooth, it was very strange, for death is death, all

previous quarrelling notwithstanding; and when should peace be made if

not ere the final departure?

La Grande now expressed the opinion that Françoise should be questioned

on the subject. She got up from her seat, and stooped over the dying

woman.

"Tell me, my dear," she said, "wouldn't you like to see Lise?"

But Françoise lay perfectly still; she gave no other sign than a

scarcely perceptible quiver of her closed eyelids.

"She is perhaps expecting us to bring her. I'll go for her."

Then, still keeping her eyes closed, and turning her head on the

pillow, Françoise softly said "No." Jean desired that her wishes should

be respected, and the three women sat down again. They now began to

feel astonished that Lise did not come of her own accord; but there

was often a great amount of obstinate feeling shown in families, they

reflected.

"What endless troubles one has!" Fanny now exclaimed with a sigh.

"Ever since this morning, I've been nearly worried to death over this

balloting; and yet really I've no cause for worry, since I know very

well that Nénesse won't be taken from us."

"Ah! yes, indeed," murmured La Frimat; "but one can't help feeling

anxious and excited, all the same."

Once again the dying woman was entirely forgotten, and the gossips

began to talk about luck and chance, about the young men who would

be marched off, and about those who would remain. It was now three

o'clock, and although the party was not expected back till five o'clock

at the earliest, reports of what had happened were already circulating

in the village, wafted over from Cloyes, no one knew how, by that

species of serial telegraphy which flies from village to village. The

Briquets' son had drawn No. 13, so there was no chance of his escaping!

The Couillots' son, on the other hand, had drawn No. 106, and that was

certainly a safe number! However, nothing positive seemed to be known

about the others. There was only a lot of contradictory reports, which

tended to increase the excitement. Nobody appeared to know how Delphin

and Nénesse had fared.

"My heart is palpitating dreadfully," exclaimed Fanny. "How stupid of

me!"

Then they called out to Madame Bécu, who happened to be passing. She

had been to the church again, and was now wandering backwards and

forwards like a disembodied spirit. Her trouble was so great that she

did not even stop to talk.

"I can't contain myself any longer; I'm going to meet them!" said she.

Jean was standing in front of the window, gazing vaguely out of it,

and paying no attention to the women's talk. Several times since

the morning he had seen old Fouan prowling round the house with his

dragging gait. He now suddenly caught sight of him again, pressing his

face against one of the panes of glass, and trying to make out what was

going on inside the room. Jean thereupon opened the window, and the

old man, looking quite stupefied, began to ask in stammering tones how

Françoise was. Very bad, Jean told him; in fact, it was all over with

her. Then Fouan thrust his head in at the open window, and stood gazing

at Françoise for such a long time that it almost seemed as though he

were unable to go away. When Fanny and La Grande saw him, they returned

to their previous idea of sending for Lise. But when they tried to

get the old fellow to fetch her, he shivered with alarm and made his

escape. He muttered and repeated over and over again:

"No, no; impossible, impossible!"

Jean seemed struck by the old man's appearance of terror; however,

the women let the matter drop. After all, it only concerned the two

sisters, and it was no business of theirs to force them to see and

kiss each other. At this moment a sound was heard, feeble at first, and

like the droning of a big fly; then it grew louder and louder, rolling

along like a gust of wind breaking among trees.

Fanny leaped up excitedly.

"The drum!" she cried. "Here they come! Good evening!"

And thereupon she hurried away, without even giving her cousin a last

kiss.

La Grande and La Frimat also left the room and went to look out at the

door. Only Françoise and Jean were left: the wife still persisting

in her obstinate silence and rigidity, hearing, perhaps, everything

that was said, but wishing to die, like some wild animal earthed-up at

the bottom of its burrow; the husband standing in front of the open

window, racked by uncertainty, and overwhelmed by a troubled grief to

which everything seemed to contribute. Ah, that drum! how the sound of

it vibrated and echoed through his whole being. And as its roll broke

ceaselessly through the air, with his grief of to-day there mingled

recollections of the past, of barracks and battles, and of the dog's

life led by poor wretches who had neither wife nor child to love them!

As soon as the banner came into sight, far away in the distance, on

the flat level road looking grey and dingy in the fading light of the

evening, a swarm of children scampered off to meet the conscripts, and

a group of relatives posted themselves just at the entrance to the

village. The nine young men and the drummer were already very drunk,

and as they came along in the mournful evening light, decorated with

tri-coloured ribbons, and the greater part of them having numbers

pinned upon their hats, they bellowed out a warlike chorus. As they

approached the village, they roared out the words of their song louder

than ever, and by way of brag, marched forward with a swaggering air.

Delphin was still carrying the banner; but he was holding it on his

shoulder, as though it were some troublesome rag of which he could not

conceive the use. He came along wearily, with a gloomy expression on

his face, and did not join in the singing of the others. There was no

number pinned on his cap. As soon as Madame Bécu caught sight of him,

she rushed forward in a tremble, at the risk of being overturned by the

advancing band of conscripts.

"Well?" she cried.

But Delphin angrily thrust her aside without slackening his pace.

"Get out of the way, and don't bother me!"

Bécu himself had also stepped forward, as full of anxiety as his

wife; but when he heard his son's surly words, he did not dare to say

anything; and, as his wife broke out sobbing, it was all he could do to

restrain his own tears, despite all his patriotic enthusiasm.

"It's of no use talking about it! He's been drawn!"

They now both lagged behind on the deserted road, and slowly and sadly

returned to the village--the husband thinking of the hard life he had

endured in the past as a soldier, and the wife swelling with wrath

against the God to whom she had twice prayed, and who had not hearkened

to her.

Nénesse was wearing a magnificent number "214" on his cap, daubed in

red and blue paint. This was one of the highest numbers, and the young

fellow was triumphing in his luck, brandishing his cane and keeping

the time as he led the wild chorus of his comrades. When Fanny saw

the number, instead of rejoicing, she broke out into a cry of deep

regret. Ah! if they could only have foreseen this they would never

have invested those thousand francs in Monsieur Baillehache's lottery

to ensure their son's exemption! Still, although the young man was

thus ensured against being taken from them, his mother and father both

embraced him as if he had just escaped from some great peril. But he

hastily exclaimed:

"Do leave me alone! and don't worry me in this way!"

The little troop continued on its tipsy, riotous march through the

wildly excited village. The young men's relations dared not venture

upon any further questions or demonstrations, as it was clear that they

would only meet with an angry repulse. All the young fellows seemed to

have come back in the same surly frame of mind, both those who had been

taken and those who had escaped. But, anyway, they would not have been

able to give a clear account of what had happened, for their eyes were

projecting wildly from their heads, and they were as drunk and noisy

as though they had all been at some uproarious merry-making. While one

little fellow who had been taken, was facetiously trumpeting with his

nose, two others who would almost certainly escape came along with pale

faces and downcast eyes. Still, if the wildly excited drummer at their

head had led them down into the depths of the Aigre, they would all

have followed impetuously in his train.

When they at length halted in front of the municipal offices, Delphin

gave up the banner.

"There, thank heaven; I've had enough of that damned thing which has

brought me nothing but ill-luck!" he said.

Then he seized hold of Nénesse's arm, and dragged him off with him,

while the rest of the party invaded Lengaigne's tavern, where they

were joined by their relations and friends, who at last succeeded in

learning what had happened. Macqueron meanwhile looked out from his

door, heart-sore at the brisk business his rival was doing.

"Come along," said Delphin to Nénesse in a sharp, curt way, as though

he were forming some determined resolution. "I want to show you

something."

Nénesse allowed himself to be taken off. They would have time to come

back and drink afterwards. The noisy drum had ceased to din their

ears, and they felt a sensation of pleasant quiet and repose, as they

strolled off together along the now deserted road which was growing

grey in the falling darkness. As Delphin walked on in silence, buried

in reflections which could scarcely be pleasant ones, Nénesse began to

talk to him about a very important matter. A couple of days previously,

at Chartres, having obtained a few hours' liberty from his employer, he

had gone up to the Rue aux Juifs, and had there learnt that Vaucogne,

Monsieur Charles's son-in-law, wanted to dispose of his business. He

was too unsteady to be able to make it pay, and he was robbed right

and left by the women. But what a business it might become, and what

profits might be reaped if it were in the hands of an energetic,

steady-going young fellow, with a shrewd head and strong willing arms,

and already with some experience of the trade! His idea was to frighten

Monsieur and Madame Charles into the belief that Number 19 was in great

danger of being suppressed by the police in consequence of the immoral

proceedings that habitually took place there, and thus prevail upon

them to let him have the place for a mere song. Ah, that would be much

better than grubbing the soil! Why, he could be a gentlemen at once!

Delphin was listening in a very absent-minded fashion; in fact, he was

busy with his own thoughts, from which he woke up with a start, as his

companion gave him a sly poke in the ribs.

"Some folks are born to be lucky," he murmured. "You were sent into the

world to be a pride to your mother."

Then he relapsed into silence again, and Nénesse, as though he

had quite settled matters in his own mind, began to explain the

improvements he would make at Number 19, if his parents would advance

him the necessary money. He was perhaps a little young, he allowed,

but he felt a genuine vocation for the business.

He now caught sight of La Trouille gliding up towards them along the

gloomy road, on her way, probably, to some amatory assignation or

other; and wishing to show his easy manner with women, he gave her a

smart slap as she went past. La Trouille at once returned it, but then

recognising the two young men, she exclaimed:

"Hallo, is it you? How you have grown!"

She laughed merrily, at thought, no doubt, of their sprees in earlier

days. Of the three, she had changed the least; and, despite her one and

twenty years, she still looked a mere chit of a girl, being as slight

and supple as a poplar shoot, with a bosom as undeveloped as a child's.

The meeting seemed to please her, and she kissed the two young men one

after the other; she would even have been quite willing to proceed

to further lengths if they had suggested it, by way of marking her

pleasure at seeing them again, just as men clink glasses together when

they meet after a separation.

"I've got something to tell you," said Nénesse jokingly. "I'm very

likely going to take Charles's shop. Will you come and have a situation

there?"

Then the girl abruptly ceased laughing, and was overcome with emotion,

bursting into tears. The surrounding darkness seemed to lay hold of

her, and she disappeared from sight, sobbing out like a broken-hearted

child:

"Oh, how beastly! how beastly! I sha'n't love you any more!"

Delphin had remained silent, and with an abstracted air he now resumed

his course.

"But where is it you are taking me?" Nénesse finally asked. "What is

this strange thing you want to show me?"

"Come along, and you will see by-and-bye."

He then hastened his steps, and left the high-road to make a short cut

through the vines to the house in which the rural constable had been

lodged by the authorities since the parsonage had been given up to the

priest! He lived there with his father; and he at once conducted his

companion into the kitchen, where he lighted a candle, seeming pleased

to find that his parents had not yet returned home.

"We'll have a glass together," he exclaimed, placing a bottle and a

couple of glasses on the table.

When he had swallowed some of the wine, he smacked his tongue, and then

continued:

"I want to tell you that if these fools think they are going to keep

me, simply because I have drawn a bad number, they are mightily

mistaken. When uncle Michel died, I was obliged to go and stay three

days at Orleans, and it nearly killed me, I was so miserable at being

away from home. I daresay you think it very foolish of me, but I can't

help it. The feeling is stronger than I am; and away from home I am

like a tree torn up by the roots. And now they want to take me off and

send me to the devil, to all sorts of places that I've never even heard

the name of! Ah, well, they'll find out their mistake presently!"

Nénesse, who had often heard him prate in this strain before, shrugged

his shoulders, and replied:

"It is very easy to talk, but you'll have to go, all the same. The

gendarmes would soon march you off, you know."

Without making any reply, Delphin turned aside, and with his left hand

took hold of a small hatchet hanging against the wall, and used for

chopping firewood. Then, without any hesitation he calmly laid the

fore-finger of his right hand upon the edge of the table, and, with a

smart blow of the hatchet, completely severed it.

"There, that's what I wanted to show you!" he said. "I want you to be

able to tell the others that I have done what a coward would scarcely

do."

"You maniac!" cried Nénesse, quite overcome with the sight of what

Delphin had done. "You have crippled yourself for life!"

"I scoff at them all! Let the gendarmes come as soon as they like! I'm

quite certain now that I sha'n't be forced away!"

Then he picked up the severed finger and tossed it into the wood fire.

After shaking his bleeding hand, he roughly wrapped his handkerchief

round it, fastening it tightly with a piece of string so as to stop the

flow of blood.

"Well, this needn't prevent us finishing the bottle before we join the

others," said he. "Here's to your health!"

"And here's to yours!"

By this time there was so much noise and so much tobacco-smoke in

Lengaigne's public-room that it was impossible to see one another or

to hear even one's-self speak. Besides the young fellows who had just

returned from balloting, there was a crowd of idlers. Hyacinthe and his

friend Canon were there, busily engaged in making old Fouan drunk, the

three of them sitting round a bottle of brandy. Bécu, whom his son's

bad luck, combined with the large amount of drink he had swallowed,

had quite overcome, was snoring noisily, with his head on one of the

tables. Delhomme and Clou were there, too, playing a game of piquet,

and also sat there Lequeu, with his nose buried in a book which he was

pretending to read in spite of all the surrounding uproar.

A fight among the women had served to increase the general excitement.

It had occurred in this way: Flore having gone to the fountain to fill

her pitcher with water, there met Cœlina who, bursting with hatred and

jealousy, threw herself upon her, clawing her furiously with her nails,

and accusing her of being bribed by the excise officers to betray her

neighbours. Macqueron and Lengaigne, who had rushed up, very nearly

came to blows themselves; the former swearing that he would contrive to

have the latter caught while he was damping his tobacco, and the latter

sarcastically asking the former when they might expect to hear of his

resignation. A crowd gathered, everybody mingling in the quarrel for

the mere pleasure of shaking their fists and hearing themselves shout;

and a general murderous engagement seemed at one time inevitable. This

was averted, however, and the incident ended, but not without leaving a

feeling of unsatisfied anger, and a longing to come to blows.

A passage between Victor, Lengaigne's son, and the conscripts almost

brought about an explosion. The former having served his time in the

army was swaggering before all the young fellows, shouting louder

than the loudest of them, and goading them on into making all sorts

of idiotic wagers; such as emptying a bottle of wine by holding it in

the air and pouring its contents down their throats, or sucking the

contents of a glass up through their nostrils, without touching it with

their mouths. Suddenly, as some reference was made to the Macquerons,

and the approaching marriage of their daughter Berthe, young Couillot

began to snigger and titter out the old jokes about the girl. They

would be able now, he said, to ask the husband all about her, on the

day after the wedding. They had heard such a deal about her, that it

would really be satisfactory to get at the truth!

Victor thereupon caused intense surprise by a show of angry warmth.

Hitherto he had been one of those who most persistently attacked the

girl, whereas now he shouted out:

"There, we've heard quite enough about it now. She has everything that

the others have. She has!"

This assertion provoked a loud clamour. Victor had seen, then? She

had been his mistress, eh? While vigorously denying the truth of this

accusation, and striking his breast with his fists, he adhered to

his recent statement, whereupon young Couillot, who was very drunk,

violently contradicted him, though he knew absolutely nothing about

the matter. In point of fact, he was simply actuated by pig-headed

perversity. Victor bellowed out that he had once said the same as

Couillot, and that, if he now said differently, it certainly wasn't for

love of the Macquerons! It was because the truth is the truth! And then

he fell upon the conscript, whose friends were obliged to drag him from

his grasp.

"Say as I say, damn you, or I'll wring your neck!"

In spite of Victor's violence, however, several of the company still

retained their doubts on the subject. No one could understand his hot

outburst of anger, for he generally showed himself very hard towards

women, and he had publicly repudiated his sister, whom her impure

amours, so it was said, had now landed in an hospital. That foul

Suzanne! Ah! she did well to keep her tainted carcase away from them!

Flore now brought up fresh supplies of wine, but glasses were chinked

in vain; the atmosphere was still heavy with a brooding storm of

angry abuse and violence. No one had any idea of going off to dine.

Drinking keeps folk from getting hungry. The conscripts at last began

to troll out a patriotic song, accompanying it with such heavy blows

upon the tables that the flames of the three petroleum lamps flickered

wildly, and emitted puffs of acrid smoke. The atmosphere was getting

unbearable, and Delhomme and Clou opened the window behind them. Just

at that moment Buteau entered the room and glided into a corner. His

face did not wear its usual air of braggart self-assertion. Indeed

there was a look of uneasy anxiety in his little eyes, and he glanced

at the company one after another, as though he were trying to read

their thoughts. He had doubtless come to listen to the gossip, in

view of discovering whether any of his neighbours entertained any

suspicion of him. He had felt quite unable to stay any longer at

home, where he had shut himself up since the previous evening without

stirring out. The presence of Hyacinthe and Canon seemed to produce

a deep effect upon him; so much so, indeed, that he refrained from

quarrelling with them for making old Fouan drunk. For a long time he

sat gazing earnestly at Delhomme. But it was Bécu, sleeping on amid all

the surrounding uproar, who more than any one else seemed to exercise

his thoughts. Was the rural constable really asleep, or was he only

artfully pretending to be so? Buteau nudged him with his elbow, and

felt somewhat relieved on discovering that he was slobbering all over

his sleeve. He then concentrated his attention upon the schoolmaster,

upon whose face he fancied he could detect a most extraordinary

expression. Why was he looking so different from what he usually did?

As a matter of fact, Lequeu, although pretending to be absorbed in his

book, was shaken by sudden starts, with his features contracted by

a rising fit of anger. The conscripts, with their songs and idiotic

merriment, seemed to be completely upsetting him.

"The infernal brutes!" he muttered, still managing to restrain himself.

For some months past his position in the village had been growing very

uncomfortable. He had always been rough and harsh with the children,

and he was given to sending them off home to the paternal dung-heap

with a box on the ears. But latterly he had grown still more violent,

and there had been a nasty business about a little girl's ear which he

had slit with a blow from a ruler. Several of the children's parents

had then written, asking that he might be removed. Now, too, Berthe

Macqueron's approaching marriage destroyed a long-standing hope of his,

annihilating the edifice he had been mentally constructing for years

past. It came upon him like a thunderbolt. Oh, those hateful peasants!

a foul brood that denied him its daughters, and was about to get him

turned adrift merely on account of a little hussy's ear!

He now suddenly tapped the book he was holding, just as though he were

in his class-room, and cried out to the conscripts:

"For goodness' sake, let us have a little less noise! You seem to

think it would be very amusing to have your brains blown out by the

Prussians!"

The company turned their eyes upon him in amazement. Amusing? No there

was certainly nothing amusing in that idea! Delhomme observed, however,

that every one was bound to defend his own homestead and soil, and

that if ever the Prussians came to La Beauce they would find that the

Beaucerons were no cowards. But as to being sent off to fight for other

folks' fields! No, there was certainly nothing amusing about that!

Just then Delphin now made his appearance, accompanied by Nénesse. His

face was greatly flushed, and his eyes were glistening feverishly. He

had heard Delhomme's remark, and, as he seated himself at one of the

tables with the conscripts, he shouted out:

"Yes, if the Prussians show their faces here, we'll make mince-meat of

them pretty sharp!"

The handkerchief secured round his hand attracted attention, and

inquiries were made as to what was the matter. Oh, nothing at all! he

said; he had merely cut himself. Then, bringing down his other fist

with such violence as to make the table rattle, he ordered a bottle of

wine.

Canon and Hyacinthe were looking at the young fellows, not with any

show of anger, but rather with an air of condescending pity. To be

so happy, the conscripts must certainly be very young and idiotic.

By-and-bye, Canon, who was now very drunk, grew maudlin over his

theories for the reorganisation of future happiness. Resting his chin

on his hands, he spoke as follows:

"War, confound it! Ah! it's time we became the masters! You all know my

scheme; no more military service, no more taxes; everybody's appetites

and desires completely satisfied with the least possible amount of

work. You approved of the plan yourselves, and declared that a man must

be his own enemy not to approve of it. And it will soon be realised;

the day is fast approaching when you will be able to retain your money

and your children, providing you only rally to our side."

Hyacinthe was just nodding his approval, when Lequeu, quite unable to

restrain himself any longer, burst out violently:

"Shut up, you infernal buffoon, with your earthly paradise and

your precious schemes of forcing every one to be happy in spite of

themselves! It's all a preposterous lie! Could such a state of affairs

possibly exist among us? We are too rotten and polluted. Before such

things could happen, some wild, savage crew--Cossacks or Chinese--would

have to come and make a clean sweep of us."

This outburst on the part of the schoolmaster created such a feeling of

amazement that every voice was hushed, and complete silence reigned in

the room. What next? This cold-blooded, sneaking fellow, who had never

allowed any one to have the least inkling of his private opinions, had

at last spoken out! They all listened to him attentively, especially

Buteau, who anxiously waited for the rest of his discourse, as though

what he was going to say might have some sort of connection with the

subject that was uppermost in his mind.

The smoke had cleared off, thanks to the open window, and the soft,

damp, evening air had streamed into the room, reminding one of the

peacefulness of the slumbering country outside. The schoolmaster,

bursting the bonds of timid reserve which had restrained him for ten

years, no longer caring for anything, cast all decorum of speech to

the winds, smarting under the blow that had wrecked his means of

livelihood, and letting off all the accumulated hatred which was

choking him.

"Do you think that the people about here are bigger fools than their

own calves, that you come telling them that roasted larks will fall

from the sky into their mouths? Before any such scheme as yours becomes

practicable, the earth itself will have been annihilated."

Canon, who had never yet come across his match, visibly quailed before

the schoolmaster's violent onslaught. He made an attempt to fall back

upon his stories about his friends in Paris, repeating their theories

of all the land reverting to the State, which would organise enormous

farms, conducted on strictly scientific principles. However, Lequeu cut

him short.

"Yes, I know all about that nonsense! But, long before you get a chance

of trying your fine system of agriculture, all our French soil will

have disappeared, submerged beneath a deluge of corn from America.

Listen now for a moment: this little book that I have been reading

again supplies a lot of particulars on the subject which will entirely

bear me out. I said so, once before. Yes, indeed, our peasants may take

themselves off to bed, for the candle is burnt out."

Then, in the tone of voice in which he was wont to give a lesson to his

pupils, he proceeded to speak about the corn supplies of America. There

were mighty plains over there, he told them, as large as kingdoms, in

the midst of which La Beauce would be quite lost, like a mere clod

of earth. The soil, too, was so fertile that, instead of having to

manure it, it was necessary to drain off its exuberant richness by a

preliminary crop; but, in spite of that, two full crops were harvested

every year. There were farms of seventy thousand acres in extent,

divided into sections, which were again cut up into sub-sections,

each section being under the supervision of a steward, and each

sub-section under the direction of a foreman. They were provided with

houses for the men, stables for the cattle, sheds for the tools, and

other buildings where all the cooking was carried on. There were

whole battalions of farm-servants, who were hired at spring-time, and

organised just like campaigning armies--boarded, lodged, and physicked,

and then paid off in the autumn. The furrows ploughed and sown there

were miles in length, and there were spreading seas of ripening corn,

the limits of which extended far out of sight. Men were merely employed

there as supervisors, all the actual work being done by machinery.

There were double-ploughs, furnished with deep-cutting discs;

sowing-machines, weeding-machines, reaping-machines, and locomotive

threshing-machines, that also stacked the straw. There were ploughmen

who were skilful engineers, and squads of workmen who followed every

machine on horseback, always ready to dismount and tighten a screw, or

change a bolt, or hammer a bar. The soil was, in fact, like a sort of

bank, managed by financiers. It was treated systematically, and cropped

smooth and close to the very surface, yielding to impersonal and

mechanical science ten times as much as it offered to men's loving arms.

"And can you hope to carry on the struggle," he continued, "with your

twopenny-halfpenny tools?--you who are so ignorant, so entirely without

ambition, and who are quite contented to go grubbing on in the same old

way as your forefathers? Ah! you are already sunk up to your bellies

in the corn from over the sea, and it is still rising about you, for

the ships are ever bringing larger quantities of it over. Wait a little

longer and you will find it up to your shoulders; then it will reach

your mouths, and then the flood will close over your heads! A flood!

aye, a torrent--a wild deluge that will sweep you all away!"

The peasants opened their eyes widely, quite panic-stricken by the

thought of this inundation of foreign corn. They were already suffering

distress; were they really going to be altogether drowned and swept

away, as the schoolmaster said? They took his metaphors very literally.

Would Rognes, their fields, and the whole of La Beauce be swallowed up?

"No, never!" cried Delhomme, choking with emotion. "The Government will

protect us."

"A pretty protector, indeed, the Government will be!" Lequeu resumed,

contemptuously. "It will need all its time to protect itself! You

behaved most ridiculously in electing Monsieur Rochefontaine. The

master of La Borderie, at any rate, behaved consistently in supporting

Monsieur de Chédeville. However, after all, whether you have the one

or the other, it is only putting the same plaster on a wooden leg. No

Chamber would ever dare to impose a duty high enough. Protection cannot

save you; you are doomed beyond all redemption!"

There was now a noisy outbreak, and all the peasants began to speak

at once. Couldn't something be done to stop the disastrous influx of

this foreign corn? They would sink the ships in the docks, and shoot

the fellows who brought the corn over! Their voices quivered with

emotion, and they almost seemed inclined to burst into tears, and

stretch out their hands and pray that they might be saved from all this

abundance--from this cheap bread which threatened to ruin the country.

The schoolmaster grinned with malicious satisfaction, and told them

that nobody had ever heard of such ideas as now possessed them. Their

previous fears had always been of famine--that they would not have corn

enough; and surely it must now be all u.p. with them since they felt

afraid of having too much! He was growing quite intoxicated with his

own eloquence, and he shouted above the furious cries of protest:

"You are a perishing and worn-out race. Your imbecile love of the soil

has eaten you up. Yes, you are each the slave of a patch of ground,

which has so narrowed your minds that, for the sake of it, you would

murder your fellows! For centuries past you have been wedded to the

soil, and it has always betrayed you! Look at America! There the

agriculturist is master of the soil. He isn't bound to it by any family

ties, any sentimental considerations; as soon as one plot is exhausted,

he goes further on and takes another. If he hears that more fertile

plains have been discovered some three hundred leagues away, he moves

his tent and goes off there. Thanks to his machines, he has only to

will and do. He is free, and he's growing rich; while you are slaves,

and are dying of starvation!"

Buteau's face had grown pale, for Lequeu had looked at him when

speaking of murder. He tried to appear quite unconcerned, however.

"Well, we are as we are," he said. "What is the good of our troubling

ourselves, since you yourself say that it will be all to no purpose?"

Delhomme signified his approval of this, and every one began to

laugh: Lengaigne, Clou, Fouan, even Delphin and the conscripts, who

derived a certain amount of amusement from what was going on, as they

hoped it would lead to blows. Canon and Hyacinthe, annoyed at seeing

"inky fingers," as they called the schoolmaster, shout louder than

themselves, also affected to snigger merrily. They were even inclined

to side with the peasants.

"It's folly to quarrel," said Canon, shrugging his shoulders. "What is

wanted is organisation."

Lequeu made a gesture of hot anger.

"I've no patience to hear such folly talked! I am for making a clean

sweep of everything!"

His face was quite livid, and he flung these words in their faces as

though he wished to knock them down with them.

"You pitiful cowards!" he cried. "Yes, you're all of you cowards, you

peasants! To think you are more numerous and stronger, and yet that

you let yourselves be devoured by the middle-class townsfolk and the

workmen! I've but one regret, and that is that my father and mother

were peasants. Perhaps that is the reason why you fill me with such

disgust. There is nothing to prevent you becoming the masters. But you

won't combine together. You keep yourselves isolated from each other,

full of suspicion and ignorance, and you exhaust all your knavery in

preying upon one another. What is it that you are concealing beneath

the surface of your stagnant water? for you are like stagnant pools

which men believe to be deep, though they would not drown a cat! To

think that you should be such a mighty, undeveloped force, a force

which might mould the future, and yet you lie about as inert as logs

of wood! And what makes it all the more exasperating is that you have

ceased to believe in what the priests tell you. If there be no God,

what is it that holds you back? As long as you stood in fear of hell,

one could understand that you continued to grovel on your bellies;

but now, rush forward! pillage everything! burn everything! As a

commencement, it will perhaps be simpler for you to go on strike. You

have all got some savings, and you could hold out as long as would be

necessary. Cultivate the ground for yourselves, don't carry anything to

market, not a single sack of corn, not a single bushel of potatoes! Let

Paris starve! That's the way to set to work."

A gust of cold air, wafted from the distant blackness of the night,

had rushed in through the open window. The flames of the lamps were

shooting up very high. No one now attempted to interrupt the excited

speaker, despite the abuse that he lavished upon everybody.

He now banged his book down on a table, making the glasses jingle, and

proceeded to finish his oration:

"I have told you all that; but still I am quite easy about the future.

Cowards you may be now, but when the proper time comes I know that

you will be the fellows to make a clean sweep of everything. It has

been so more than once before, and it will be so once again. Wait till

misery and hunger send you rushing down upon the towns like so many

wolves! Very likely the occasion will arise anent this corn which is

being brought from over the sea. When there has been too much of it

there won't be enough of it, and then there will be scarcity and famine

again. It is always for the sake of corn that men rise up in rebellion

and slay each other! Yes, let the towns be burned down and razed to the

ground, the villages deserted, the fields uncultivated, over-run with

brambles, and watered with streams of blood; then perhaps they will

hereafter bring forth bread for those who are born into the world when

we are gone!"

Lequeu now violently tore the door open and disappeared. A yell from

the stupefied peasants followed him. The scoundrel! He wanted bleeding!

A man who had always been so pacific and quiet! Surely he must be going

mad! Delhomme, who had quite lost his habitual placidity, declared his

intention of writing to the prefect, and the others pressed him to do

so. However, it was Hyacinthe, with his '89 and his humanitarian motto

of "Liberty, equality, and fraternity," and Canon, with his schemes for

the compulsory and scientific reorganisation of society, who appeared

the most indignant. They sat there with pale faces, exasperated at not

having been able to find a word to say in reply, and now expressing

themselves in much stronger terms than the peasants did; bellowing out,

in fact, that a fellow of that sort ought to be guillotined. Buteau,

upon hearing the orator demand so much blood--flowing streams of

blood to which he seemed to point with his finger--had risen from his

seat in trembling alarm, his head wagging involuntarily from nervous

excitement, just as though he were signifying approval of what was

being said. Then he glided along the wall, casting furtive glances to

make sure that he was not being followed, and on reaching the door, he,

too, disappeared.

The conscripts now reverted to their uproarious merriment again. They

were bellowing loudly, and insisting upon Flore cooking them some

sausages, when Nénesse suddenly hustled them aside and sprang over

a bench to reach Delphin, who had just fainted away, with his face

lying on the table. The poor fellow was as white as a sheet. His

handkerchief, which had slipped off his wounded hand, was covered

with crimson stains. The conscripts yelled into Bécu's ear, for he

was still hard asleep; but at last he awoke, and gazed at his son's

mutilated hand. He knew what it meant, for, seizing hold of a bottle,

he brandished it as if anxious to kill the lad. Then, as he led him,

tottering, away, he could be heard indulging in noisy oaths, amid which

he burst into tears.

Hourdequin, having heard of Françoise's accident while he was dining,

repaired to Rognes that evening, prompted by his kindly feeling for

Jean, to inquire how the young woman was getting on. Setting out on

foot, he smoked his pipe as he walked along through the black darkness,

brooding over his troubles and vexations amid the unbroken silence of

the night. Feeling at last somewhat calmer, and wishing to prolong his

walk, he went down the hill before calling at his old servant's house.

When he reached the foot of the declivity, the sound of Lequeu's voice,

which streamed forth from the open window of the tavern, penetrating

the darkness of the surrounding country, made him halt, and he remained

listening for a long time, standing motionless in the gloom. When he

at length began to ascend the hill again, the schoolmaster's voice

followed him, and even when he reached Jean's house, he could still

hear it, sounding weaker, and seemingly shriller in the distance, but

still as sharply incisive as the keen edge of a knife.

Jean was standing at his door, leaning against the wall. He had

not been able to remain any longer at Françoise's bedside. He felt

suffocated there, and altogether too miserable.

"Well, my poor fellow," Hourdequin now asked, "how is your wife?"

The unhappy man broke into a gesture of despair.

"Ah, sir, she's dying!"

Then neither of them said another word; and the deep silence around

them was only broken by the distant sound of Lequeu's voice, which

still persistently rang out.

The farmer could not help listening, despite himself, and presently he

angrily exclaimed:

"Do you hear that fellow ranting? How awful such talk as that sounds

when one's in trouble!"

The sound of the schoolmaster's fulminating voice, combined with the

proximity of Françoise in her death-agony, again revived the farmer's

anguish of heart. The soil which he loved so dearly, loved with a

sentimental passion, nay, almost with an intellectual one, had well

nigh completed his ruin this last harvest. His fortune had all been

drained away, and soon La Borderie would not even provide him with bare

sustenance. Nothing seemed to do any good there--neither hard work,

nor new systems, nor manures, nor machines. He habitually ascribed his

failure to insufficient capital; but in his own mind he had some doubts

about this, for ruin seemed to be general. The Robiquets had just been

ejected by the bailiffs from La Chamade, and the Coquarts had been

compelled to sell their farm of Saint-Juste. He himself could see no

way of breaking his bonds; he had never more completely felt himself

the prisoner of his land, and every day the money he spent and the

labour he bestowed seemed to chain him more tightly to it. The final

catastrophe, which would put an end to the antagonism of centuries

between the small landowners and the large ones by annihilating them

both, was now rapidly approaching. This was the advent of the predicted

time; corn had fallen below fifty-six francs the quarter, so that it

was being sold at a loss; and social transformations, stronger than the

will of men, were bringing about the bankruptcy of the soil.

Stung with the consciousness of his ruin, Hourdequin now suddenly

expressed approval of what Lequeu was saying.

"Deuce take it all, he's right! Let everything go to smash and all of

us perish, and the whole soil be covered with weeds and brambles, since

our race is decayed and the land exhausted!"

Then, referring to Jacqueline, he added:

"However, thank God, there is another complaint that will make an end

of me before all that comes off!"

Inside the house La Grande and La Frimat could be heard walking about

and muttering to each other. Jean, who was still leaning against the

wall, shivered as he heard them. Then he returned into the house, and

found that all was over. Françoise was dead; she had probably passed

away some time previously. She had never opened her eyes again; and

had kept her lips sealed, carrying away with her the secret she was so

anxious to conceal. La Grande had only just discovered that she was

dead by touching her. With her white shrunken face, on which there

rested a resolute expression, she looked as though she were sleeping.

Jean stood at the foot of the bed and stared at her, dazed and

stupefied with confused thoughts, with the grief he felt at losing her,

with the surprise caused him by the fact that she had refused to make a

will, and with a vague sensation that a part of his existence was now

shivered to pieces, and gone for ever.

Just at that moment, as Hourdequin, still gloomy and down-hearted, took

his leave with a silent grasp of the hand, Jean saw a shadowy form flit

away from the window and dart hastily along the road into the darkness.

He fancied it was some prowling dog; but in reality it was Buteau, who

had been spying through the window, to watch for Françoise's death, and

who was now hastening to announce the news to Lise.