by Emile Zola
‘Ah, it's you, Fouan… I'm in a hurry, I was wanting to come and see you. What do you think we can do? Your son Buteau can't possibly leave Lise in the condition she's in, getting bigger in front every day for everyone to see… She's a Daughter of Mary, it's scandalous, absolutely scandalous!’
The old man listened with an air of polite deference.
‘Yes, Father, but what on earth can I do if Buteau refuses to do anything about it? And we can't blame the lad really, it's no good getting married at his age when you haven't got a bean.’
‘But there's the child to think of!’
‘Yes, of course… But there isn't any child yet, is there? How can one know? That's the point, it's a bit discouraging to take on a child when you can't afford to pay for a shirt to put on its back!’
He was making the remarks with the sagacious air of an old man full of experience. Then in the same judicious tone, he added:
‘Anyway, perhaps something can be done… I'm sharing out my property, we'll be drawing lots later on, after Mass… So when Buteau has got his share, I hope he'll see his way to marrying his cousin.’
‘Splendid!’ said the priest. ‘That's good enough, I'll be relying on you, Fouan.’
But a peal from the bell interrupted him and he asked in consternation:
‘That's the second bell, isn't it?’
‘No, Father, its the third.’
‘Glory be! That's that oaf Bécu ringing the bell again without waiting for me!’
With an oath, he sped on his way up the path. At the top, he nearly had an attack; he was puffing and blowing like a grampus.
The bell went on tolling, disturbing the rooks who wheeled and cawed round the steeple of the fifteenth-century belfry which bore witness to Rognes's former glory. In front of the wide open door of the church a group of villagers were standing, including the publican Lengaigne, a freethinker, who was smoking his pipe; further along, beside the cemetery wall, Farmer Hourdequin, the mayor, a handsome man with an energetic cast of countenance, was chatting with his deputy, the grocer Macqueron; when the priest greeted them and passed on, they all followed him except Lengaigne, who pointedly turned his back, still sucking his pipe.
In the church to the right of the porch a man was hanging on to a bell-rope, tugging vigorously.
‘That's enough, Bécu,’ snapped the priest furiously. ‘I've told you times without number to wait for me before ringing the third bell.’
The bell-ringer, who was the gamekeeper, dropped back onto his feet, scared at his own disobedience. He was a little man of fifty with an old soldier's square weather-beaten face, grey moustache and goatee beard, as stiff-necked as if he were perpetually being choked by collars that were too tight for him. Already quite far gone in drink, he sprang to attention without venturing an excuse.
In any case, the priest was already on his way up the nave, casting an eye on the pews as he went. It was a small congregation. On the left he could see as yet only Delhomme, attending in his capacity of councillor. On the right, where the women sat, there were at most a dozen people he recognized: Coelina Macqueron, a wiry and high-handed woman; Flore Lengaigne, a stout, flabby, gentle matron, always complaining; Bécu's wife, lanky, swarthy and filthy. But what really angered him was the behaviour of the Daughters of Mary, in the front pew. Françoise was sitting there between two of her friends, Berthe, the Macquerons' girl, a pretty brunette who had received a ladylike education in Cloyes, and Suzanne, the Lengaines' daughter, a plain, saucy blonde whom her parents were going to send to Châteaudun to become an apprentice dressmaker. All three were laughing in an unseemly manner. Next to them, poor pregnant Lise, fat and cheerful, was displaying her scandalous protuberance in front of the altar.
Father Godard was finally making his way into the sacristy when he ran into Delphin and Nénesse who were playfully pushing each other as they prepared the altar cruet. The former, Bécu's boy, an eleven-year-old, was a sun-tanned, strapping young lad, already sturdy in build, fond of working in the fields and glad to play truant to do so; whilst Ernest Delhomme's eldest son, of the same age, was a slim lackadaisical fair-headed boy who always kept a mirror in his pocket.
‘Well, you young scamps!’ exclaimed the priest. ‘Do you think you're in a cowshed?’
And turning towards a tall thin young man, with a pale face sprouting a few ginger hairs, who was tidying his books away on a cupboard shelf, he said:
‘Really, Monsieur Lequeu, you might keep them in order when I'm not here!’
This was the village schoolmaster, a country boy who through his education had become imbued with hatred for his class. He used to brutalize his pupils, whom he called savages, and beneath his ceremonious correctness towards the priest and the mayor he concealed progressive ideas. He sang bass in the choir and even looked after the prayer and hymn books but he had categorically refused to be the bell-ringer although this was customary; he considered such a task beneath the dignity of a free man.
‘It's not my job to keep discipline in the church,’ he retorted. ‘But if they were at school, what a clout I'd give them!’
And as the priest, without replying, started hurriedly to put on his alb and stole, he went on:
‘Low Mass, I suppose?’
‘Of course, and as quickly as possible! I've got to be at Bazoches by ten-thirty for High Mass.’
Lequeu closed the cupboard from which he had just taken an old missal and went out to place it on the altar.
‘Come on, come on!’ the priest kept saying, to hurry Delphin and Nénesse along.
Sweating and puffing, he went back into the church carrying the chalice and began the service while the cheeky young altar-boys cast sidelong glances at each other. It was a church with a single nave, barrel-vaulted and oak-panelled but falling into disrepair because the municipal council refused to vote any money towards its upkeep: rain came through the broken slates on the roof; there were large areas of badly rotten wood; and in the choir, shut off by an iron railing, a dirty green streak straggled across the fresco in the apse, cutting in two the face of the Eternal Father who was being adored by angels.
When the priest turned towards the congregation with his arms outstretched, he became a trifle calmer when he saw that the numbers had increased: the mayor, his deputy, some municipal councillors, old Fouan and Clou, the blacksmith who played the trombone at choral Eucharist. Lequeu had remained sitting in the front pew, looking dignified. Bécu, drunk as a lord, was at the back, sitting up as stiff as a ramrod. And the women's pews in particular were filling up with Fanny, Rose, La Grande and a number of others, so that the Daughters of Mary had had to move closer together, with their heads bowed over their prayer books. They were now pictures of propriety. But the priest was particularly gratified to catch sight of Monsieur and Madame Charles with their granddaughter Elodie; he was wearing a black frock-coat while his lady had on a green silk dress; both of them were solemn and prosperous-looking, setting an excellent example to all.
However, he was in a hurry to expedite the Mass, gabbling the Latin and hurrying through the responses. For the sermon, he did not go up into the pulpit but sat on a chair in the middle of the choir-stalls, mumbling, losing the thread – and not bothering to recover it: oratory was not his strong point; unable to find words, he would hum and haw and never finish his sentences. This was the reason why the bishop had left him to moulder for twenty-five years in the little parish of Bazoches-le-Doyen. And then he rushed through the rest of the service, so that the bell for the elevation of the host tinkled like some electrical device that was out of order while his Ite missa est despatched his flock like a gunshot. Hardly was the church empty than Father Godard reappeared, wearing his hat all askew in his haste. A group of women were stationed in front of the church doors: Coelina, Flore and Bécu's wife, highly offended at having been rushed through the service at such speed. So he wouldn't give them any more of his time because he looked down on them? It was All Souls' Day, too!
‘
Tell me, Father,’ Coelina asked sourly, stopping him, ‘do you have a grudge against us since you sent us packing like a bundle of old clothes?’
‘What else can I do?’ he replied. ‘My parishioners are expecting me… I can't be in Bazoches and in Rognes at the same time. If you want High Mass you must get a priest of your own.’
This was the perpetual bone of contention between Rognes and Father Godard, the villagers demanding consideration, he keeping to the strict letter of the law, since the parish refused to maintain the church and he was continually disheartened by scandalous goings-on. Pointing to the Daughters of Mary, who were going off together, he went on:
‘And anyway, is it decent to have ceremonies where the young people have no respect for God's commandments?’
‘I hope that remark's not intended to refer to my daughter,’ Coelina said, clenching her teeth.
‘Nor to mine, indeed?’ added Flore.
‘I'm referring to the girl I must be referring to… It's as plain as a pikestaff. Look at her, all dressed in white! I can never have a procession here without someone being pregnant… It's impossible, you'd try the patience of our Lord himself.’
He flounced off and Bécu's wife, who had said not a word, had to act as peacemaker between the two excited mothers, who were hurling their respective daughters at each other's heads; but she did it with such nasty insinuations that their squabble only increased. Oh yes, that Berthe of yours, with her velvet bodices and her piano, we'll see how she turns out! And what a clever idea to send Suzanne to a dressmaker in Châteaudun where she'd certainly come to no good!
Free at last, Father Godard was on the point of hurrying away when he found himself face to face with the Charles. He swept his hat from his head and gave a radiant smile. In reply Monsieur Charles greeted him with a majestic gesture while Madame made a stately bow. But the priest was fated not to be allowed to leave, for he had still not reached the end of the square before he was stopped again. This time it was a tall woman of some thirty years who looked at least fifty; her hair was sparse, her dull, flat face was yellow and flabby; exhausted and broken-down by excessive toil, she was tottering under the weight of a bundle of firewood.
‘Palmyre,’ he asked, ‘why didn't you come to Mass on All Souls' Day? It's very bad.’
She gave a feeble moan:
‘Of course, Father, but what can I do? My brother's cold, it's freezing at home. So I went to pick up a few bits of firewood along under the hedges.’
‘La Grande is still as hard-hearted as ever?’
‘Oh, she'd sooner die than throw us a log or a crust of bread.’
And she went on in her whining voice about their grandmother, who had turned them out of her house so that she, together with her brother, had had to take shelter in an abandoned stables. Poor Hilarion, with his bandy legs and twisted hare-lip, was quite harmless, despite his age – he was twenty-four – and such a blockhead that nobody would offer him a job. So she had to work for him, which meant working herself to death, for her devoted affection to her invalid brother, her determination in ministering to his needs, and her deep tenderness were as great as any mother's.
As he listened, Father Godard's heavy perspiring face took on an expression of beatific goodness; charity lent beauty to his angry little eyes and sorrow touched his large mouth with grace. This peevish old man, always in a state of violent indignation, had a passionate love for the poor and destitute and he gave them all he had – his money, his underlinen, even his very clothes. In the whole province of Beauce you would not find a priest with a rustier looking cassock or one more darned.
He fumbled uneasily in his pockets and slipped Palmyre a five-franc piece.
‘Here you are, but put it away quickly, it's all I've got… And I must speak to La Grande again, since she's so hard-hearted.’ And this time, he was able to make his escape. Fortunately, since he was quite out of breath, as he was climbing up the slope on the other side of the Aigre the butcher of his parish, on his way home, picked him up in his cart; and he went jolting along over the edge of the plain, his hat bouncing up and down against the livid light of the sky.
Meanwhile the square in front of the church had emptied and Fouan and Rose had gone back home where Grosbois was already waiting for them. Shortly before ten o'clock Delhomme and Jesus Christ arrived – but they waited in vain for Buteau until twelve o'clock; he was always incalculable and never on time. It was presumed that he had been held up, perhaps over lunch. At first, they thought of going ahead without him, then, secretly afraid of his cantankerousness, it was decided that they should wait and not draw lots until two o'clock, after lunch. Grosbois accepted the Fouans' offer of a slice of bacon and a glass of wine; he then finished off the bottle and started on another one, drunk again, as was his habit.
At two o'clock there was still no sign of Buteau. So entering into the festive spirit of the village on this Sunday holiday, Jesus Christ went off to take a peep into Macqueron's drinking-shop; and he was successful, because the door was suddenly flung open, and Bécu appeared:
‘Come on in, you useless man, let me buy you a drink.’
He was still as stiff as a ramrod; in fact the more he drank the more dignified he became. As an old soldier and a drunk himself, he had a secret affection and fellow-feeling for the poacher; but when he was on duty and wearing his official armband, he avoided recognizing him; as he was always likely to catch him red-handed, he was torn between his duty and his feelings. In the pub, once he was drunk, he treated him to a drink like a brother.
‘A drop of wine, eh? And if the Arabs keep buggering us about, we'll chop their ears off!’
They sat down at a table and started playing cards; and one bottle followed the other.
Macqueron, with his big face and big moustache, was sitting slumped in a corner twiddling his thumbs. Ever since he had made some money by speculating in the new vineyards at Montigny, which produced a reasonable table wine, he had been overcome by laziness and spent his time shooting and fishing and giving himself superior airs; at the same time he had remained a very dirty man and dressed like a tramp, while his daughter Berthe flounced around in silk dresses. If his wife had been prepared to listen to him, they would have shut up shop, the tavern as well as the store; because as his vanity increased he began nursing secret ambitions of which he himself was as yet scarcely aware; she, however, was a skinflint of the first water and, although he never did a hand's turn himself, he was glad for her to continue serving her jugs of wine in the happy knowledge that it would annoy his neighbour Lengaigne, the tobacconist who also sold drinks. Theirs was a long-standing feud, dormant but always ready to flare up.
However, they had been at peace for some weeks now and it so happened that at this moment Lengaigne came in with his son Victor, a tall, awkward lad who was shortly going to draw lots to decide if he would be called up for military service. The father, a very lanky, dour man with a tiny owl-like head perched on broad bony shoulders, farmed a little land while his wife weighed out the tobacco and fetched wine from the cellar. His importance lay in the fact that he was the village barber, a trade which he had learnt during his military service and one which he exercised in his shop, surrounded by his customers, or in their homes, if they so wished.
‘Well now,’ he said to Macqueron, as soon as he was through the doorway, ‘are we going to have that shave today?’
‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Macqueron. ‘Yes, I'd asked you to come round. All right, let's do it at once, if you don't mind.’
He took an old shaving-mug down from its hook and fetched some soap and hot water while the other man started sharpening his long cutlass of a razor on a strap fastened to its case. But a shrill shout came from the adjacent grocery shop. It was Coelina:
‘Look here, you two!’ she cried. ‘You're not going to make your mess all over the tables, are you?… I don't want hairs in my glasses!’
This was an allusion to the cleanliness of the tavern next door, where she claime
d that you ate more hairs than you drank good wine.
‘Get on with your salt and pepper and leave us alone!’ retorted Macqueron, irritated at this outburst in front of his customers.
Jesus Christ and Bécu both grinned. That would put her in her place! So they ordered another litre of wine, which she brought without a word, inwardly raging. They were shuffling the cards and then slamming them down as though exchanging punches: ‘Trumps! And trumps to you, too!’
Lengaigne had already soaped his customer's face and was holding him by the nose when Lequeu, the village schoolmaster, pushed open the door.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen!’
He remained silently warming his back in front of the stove while young Victor stood behind the card players, absorbed in their game.
‘By the way,’ said Macqueron, taking advantage of a moment when Lengaigne was wiping some froth off his shoulders, ‘just before Mass earlier on, Monsieur Hourdequin brought up the question of the road again. We really ought to make up our minds about something!’
This was the famous direct road from Rognes to Châteaudun which was going to save some five miles, since traffic was now forced to go via Cloyes. The new route would naturally be of great advantage to the farm, and in order to persuade the local council the mayor was relying on the help of his deputy, who was also looking for an early decision. The proposal was, in fact, to link the road up to the lower one, thus making it easier for vehicles to drive up to the church, which at the moment was accessible only by goat tracks. The line of this link road simply followed the narrow alley between the two taverns, widening it by taking advantage of the slope; and as the grocer's property would be opened up, since it would be alongside the new street, its value would be very considerably increased.