by Emile Zola
When La Grande came round that very evening on Françoise's behalf to come to a polite agreement with Buteau as to the day when he was expecting to move out, Buteau, throwing caution to the winds, turned her out and replied with just one word: Shit!
She went happily away, merely calling to him that they would be sending the bailiffs along. And so, the very next day, looking pale and anxious and even shabbier than usual, Vimeux came gingerly up the street, watched by all the neighbouring gossips. No one answered, so he knocked more loudly and timidly called out that it was the summons requiring them to leave. At that the attic window opened and a voice yelled the same single monosyllable:
‘Shit!’
And a chamber-pot full of the stuff was emptied out. Spattered from head to foot, Vimeux was forced to go away with the summons undelivered. This incident is remembered with glee in Rognes, to this very day.
La Grande immediately took Jean to Châteaudun to see a solicitor. He explained that it would take at least five days to evict them: the provisional injunction, the order made by the court, the warrant from the clerk of the court and then the final eviction, for which the bailiff's man would be helped by the police if necessary. La Grande pressed him to speed up the process by one day and, when she got back to Rognes, which was on Tuesday, she announced to all and sundry that the Buteaus would be thrown out into the street on Saturday evening at the point of the sword, like thieves, unless they had previously left the house peaceably.
When the news came to Buteau's ears, he shook his fist in wild defiance. He shouted to anyone prepared to listen that they'd have to fetch him out dead and that the soldiers would have to knock the house down before they could drag him out. And in the village, they could not tell whether he was pretending to be mad or whether he really was, because his rage took such extravagant forms. He drove about at a gallop, standing in the front of his cart, without a word of warning to stand clear or making any reply to anyone; he had even been seen at night all over the village, coming back from Lord knows where. He had slashed out with his whip at one man who had approached him. He spread terror everywhere and the village was soon in a continual state of alarm. One morning it was realized that he had barricaded himself in; and fearful cries came from behind the locked doors, screams which seemed to be coming from Lise and her two children. The neighbours were so upset that they held a council of war and finally an old peasant bravely agreed to lean a ladder against the wall and climb up to see. But the window was opened and Buteau tipped the ladder backwards so that the old man nearly broke his legs. Aren't I free to do what I want in my own house? He was brandishing his fists and shouting that he'd do them all in if they disturbed him again. The worst thing was that Lise appeared too, with her two brats, swearing and accusing everyone of sticking their nose into things that didn't concern them. After that, nobody dared to interfere. But at every fresh sound their anxiety increased and people listened in fear and trembling to the dreadful things they could hear in the street. There were wiseacres who thought that he knew perfectly well what he was doing. Others were quite certain that he was going out of his mind and that it would end in a tragedy. No one ever knew exactly.
On Friday, the day before the expected eviction, there was one particularly affecting scene. Meeting his father near the church, Buteau started crying bitterly and fell on his knees in front of him, asking his forgiveness for having been such a bad son in the past. Perhaps this was why he was being punished now. He implored him to come back and live with them, he seemed to think that this was the only way to end his bad luck. Annoyed by his bawling and surprised at his apparent repentance, Fouan agreed to do so when all the family squabbles had been settled.
Finally, Saturday came. Buteau's state had become more and more disturbed, he had been hitching up and unhitching his cart without rhyme or reason from morning till night, and people hurriedly moved out of his way as he drove wildly round, all the more bewildered because of the pointlessness of his actions. On Saturday he hitched up again at eight o'clock in the morning but, instead of driving, he merely stood in the doorway shouting to his neighbours as they passed, jeering and sobbing, and broadcasting his plight in the crudest terms. It really was funny, wasn't it, to be buggered about by a bitch who'd been your trollop for the last five years! Yes, just a whore! And his wife as well. Two proper whores, that pair of sisters, who would fight to be the first one to be fucked by him! He kept returning to this lie in the most disgusting detail, taking his revenge. Lise came out and a dreadful quarrel flared up: he gave her a thrashing in public and sent her back into the house, calmed and pacified, feeling relieved himself because he had really let himself go. And he stood waiting on his doorstep, taunting and insulting the law and all its minions. Perhaps they had gone and got fucked on the way? He was exultant, they wouldn't be coming now.
It wasn't until four o'clock that Vimeux appeared with two gendarmes. Buteau went pale and quickly shut the door leading into the yard. Perhaps he had never imagined that they would pursue the matter to the bitter end. The house became as silent as the grave. Arrogant now that he had the protection of the gendarmes, Vimeux banged with both fists on the door. There was no answer. The gendarmes intervened and battered on the old door with the butts of their rifles. They had been followed by a long queue of men, women and children: the whole of Rognes had turned out in anticipation of the expected scene. And suddenly the gate opened and Buteau was seen standing at the front of his cart whipping up his horse and galloping straight for the crowd. As cries of fright arose, he yelled:
‘I'm going to drown myself! I'm going to drown myself!’
There was nothing left for him to do but to put an end to everything; he'd throw himself into the Aigre with his cart, his horse, the lot!
‘Mind out! I'm going to drown myself!’
At the sight of his swirling whip and galloping horse the frightened spectators dispersed. But just as he was hurtling away down the slope at a speed likely to smash his wheels to smithereens, some men rushed after it to hold it back. That pigheaded bastard was quite capable of taking a dip in the river just to annoy everybody… They caught up with it but they had a struggle, hanging on to the horse's head and jumping up into the cart. When they had fetched him back, he kept grimly silent, his teeth clenched, his whole body tense, impotently submitting to fate, in wild, mute protest.
At this moment, La Grande brought Françoise and Jean along to take possession of the house. Buteau merely stared them full in the face with the same sombre look with which he was now contemplating the culmination of his misfortunes. But now it was Lise's turn to shout and fling her arms about like a madwoman. The gendarmes repeatedly told her to take her things and clear off. So she had to obey, since her husband wasn't man enough to defend her by standing up to them. With hands on hips, she now pitched into him:
‘You bloody weakling, letting us be thrown into the street! Haven't you got any guts? Why don't you set about those dirty pigs? You're just a coward, you're not a man!’
As she was shouting this in his face, infuriated by his passive attitude, he finally pushed her away so roughly that she screamed. But all he did was to give her the same sombre look and remain grimly silent.
‘Come along, old girl, hurry up,’ said Vimeux triumphantly. ‘We're not going to leave until you've handed over the keys to the new owners.’
At that, in a sudden burst of rage, Lise began to move out She and Buteau had already taken many things, the tools and the heavy kitchen utensils, over to Frimat's wife three days before; and people realized that they had in fact expected eviction because, in order to give themselves time to look round, they had come to an agreement with the old woman to rent her house, which was too large for her, leaving her with merely the bedroom for her paralysed husband. Since the furniture and the animals had been sold with the house, all that Lise had to do was to remove her bed-linen, her mattresses and her personal belongings. Everything was thrown out through the door and the windows while the tw
o children wept bitterly, thinking their last day had come. Laure was clinging to her mother's skirts and Jules lay sprawling on the heap of belongings piled up in the middle of the yard. As Buteau was not lifting a hand to help her, the gendarmes kindly started loading the baggage into the cart.
But trouble arose again when Lise noticed Françoise and Jean standing waiting behind La Grande. She rushed over and all the resentment which had been building up inside her suddenly exploded.
‘So you've come to watch with your pig of a husband, have you, you dirty slut? Well, you can see how we're suffering, it's like drinking our blood. You thief, you thief, you thief!’
She was choking on the word and she hurled it at her sister each time she brought some fresh article into the yard. Tight-lipped and pale, with her eyes blazing, Françoise made no reply; she was pretending, insultingly, to be watching what was happening carefully, to make sure that nothing of hers was removed. And at that very moment, she recognized a kitchen stool which had been included in the sale.
‘That's mine,’ she snapped.
‘Yours? Then you can go and fetch it,’ her sister replied, flinging it into the pond.
The house was free. Buteau took the horse's bridle, Lise collected the two children, her only two remaining bundles, Jules on her right arm, Laure on her left, went up to Françoise and spat in her face.
‘There you are! That's yours, too!’
Françoise immediately spat back.
‘And that's for you.’
And still glaring venomously at each other as they slowly wiped their faces, the two sisters took their leave, full of hatred and parted for ever with only the enmity of their impetuous Fouan blood as their sole remaining link.
At the end, Buteau shouted his parting words, with a menacing wave of his fist:
‘We'll be back soon!’
La Grande went after them to see the matter through to the end, determined, now that they were down and out, to turn against the others who seemed to be dropping her so quickly and were too happy, in any case. Groups of people stood around for a long time talking in undertones. Françoise and Jean had gone into the empty house.
Just as the Buteaus were busy unpacking their things at Frimat's place, they were surprised to see old Fouan appear and ask in a scared, breathless voice, looking behind him as if pursued by some malefactor:
‘Have you got a corner for me? I'd like to spend the night.’
He had run all the way from the Castle, pursued by a dreadful fear. Every time he woke up at night he would see the thin, boyish figure of La Trouille, in her scanty shift, prowling round his bedroom in search of the bonds which he had finally decided to hide outside, in a hole in the rock which he had then blocked up with earth. Jesus Christ used to send the little hussy in because she was so lithe and light-footed in her bare feet that she could glide everywhere, between the chairs, under the bed, like a snake; and she was thrilled by the search, for being convinced that the old man carried them on his person when he was dressed, she was furious at being unable to discover where he deposited them when he went to bed; there was certainly nothing in the bed, for her thin arm had gently inserted itself and groped around there, so skilfully that her grandfather could barely detect its rustling. But that day, after lunch, he had suddenly come over faint and fallen down, dazed, beside the table. And when he came to, still so shaken that he had not opened his eyes, he was lying on the ground in the same place and had the strange feeling that he was being undressed by Jesus Christ and La Trouille. Instead of coming to his aid, the devils had had only one thought – to take advantage of the situation and quickly search him. The girl particularly was angry and rough, no longer making any attempt to be gentle, tugging away at his coat and trousers and, God save us, even prying into his naked flesh, in every hole, to make sure he hadn't stuffed his nest-egg away there. She was turning him over with her two hands, pulling his legs apart, as though rummaging in an old empty pocket. Not a thing! Where was his hiding-place? It was enough to make you want to open him up and search inside! He was so terrified of being murdered if he stirred that he continued to pretend to be unconscious, keeping his eyes closed and his arms and legs limp. But once he was free he had taken to his heels, fully determined not to spend the night at the Castle.
‘Well, have you got a corner to put me up?’ he asked again.
Buteau had cheered up at the unexpected return of his father. It meant more money coming in.
‘But of course, old man! We'll squeeze together a bit! It'll bring us luck. Ah! God knows how rich I'd be if a kind heart was the only thing needed!’
Françoise and Jean went slowly into the empty house. Darkness was falling and a last melancholy glimmer of light lit up the silent rooms. Everything seemed so old under this venerable roof, which had provided shelter for her wretched toiling ancestors over some three centuries, that there was the same solemn atmosphere that you feel in the shadow of old village churches. The doors had been left open and a blast of wind seemed to have blown through the timbers; chairs were lying in disorder on the floor, relics of the catastrophe of the eviction. The house seemed dead.
Slowly Françoise wandered round the house, looking at everything. Confused memories and vague emotions were stirring within her. Over there, she had played when a child. It was in this kitchen, beside this table, that her father had died. In the bedroom, standing beside the bed now stripped of its mattress, she thought of Lise and Buteau and the nights when they would make love so energetically that their gasps could be heard through the ceiling. Would they be continuing to torment her, even now? She could still sense Buteau's presence. Here, he had seized hold of her one evening and she had bitten him. And there as well. And over there. At every corner she was beset by disturbing thoughts.
Then, turning round, she was surprised to see Jean there. What was this stranger doing in her house? He looked embarrassed, like a mere visitor, not daring to touch anything. She was seized by a dreadful sensation of loneliness and despair at not having a greater feeling of rejoicing on her victory. She would have imagined herself coming in, shouting with joy and exulting behind her sister's back. And yet the house was causing her no pleasure; disquiet was growing at her heart. Perhaps it was because of the mournful, fading light? Long after nightfall, she and her man roamed about in the darkness from one room to the next without even the courage to light a candle.
But a sound brought them back into the kitchen and they laughed to see Gideon who, having found his way in as usual, was rummaging in the open sideboard. Old Coliche was lowing next door, at the far end of her shed.
Then Jean took Françoise into his arms and gently kissed her, as though to say that they were going to be happy, despite everything.
PART FIVE
Chapter 1
BEFORE the winter ploughing starts, Beauce is covered in manure as far as the eye can see. Under the pale September skies, from dawn till dusk, carts brimming over with steaming piles of old litter would make their way slowly along the country roads as though delivering heat itself to the land. On all sides the fields were covered with little heaps, a sort of heaving, surging, sea of manure from cowshed and stable, whilst in some of them the piles had been spread out and the soil could be seen from afar stained with the dark, flowing tide of dung. The whole future growth of spring was borne along on this fermenting flood of liquid, matter was decomposing and returning to Mother Earth; death would be producing a rebirth. And from one end of the vast plain to the other, you could smell the stench of all this animal excrement from which man's daily bread would come.
One afternoon Jean drove a big cartload of manure out to his Cornailles field. Françoise and he had now been settled in for a whole month and their lives had taken on the active, monotonous tenor of the countryside. As he came up, he caught sight of Buteau in the next field with a fork, spreading out the heaps of manure deposited there a week ago. The two men exchanged a furtive look. They often met and found themselves forced to work side by side
because they were neighbours; and Buteau suffered particularly because Françoise's share had been cut out of his own seven-and-a-half-acre field, leaving him with two separate sections to right and left, thereby forcing him to make a continual detour when passing from one to the other. They never spoke. Perhaps one day, when a quarrel broke out between them, they would slaughter each other.
Meanwhile Jean had started unloading his cart. Standing up to his waist in the manure, he was forking it out when Hourdequin came along the road, having been going his rounds ever since noon. The farmer had kept pleasant memories of his former labourer and he stopped for a chat. He looked old and his face was lined with worry, caused not only by his farm.
‘Why haven't you tried phosphate, Jean?’
And, without waiting for a reply, he launched into a long monologue, as though wishing to relieve his mind. The whole secret of farming was in manure and fertilizers. He had tried everything; indeed he had just been passing through that mad craze for fertilizers which often seizes farmers. He had experimented with one thing and another, various sorts of grass, leaves, vine pressings, rape-seed and colza cake; and then bone-meal, meatmeal and dry powdered blood; his great grief was to have been unable to try real liquid blood, there being no abattoirs in the district. Now he had taken to using road-sweepings, muck from ditches, clinker and ash, and above all, wool-waste which he bought from a cloth manufacturer in Châteaudun. His principle was that anything coming out of the land is good to go back into it. He had built huge compost-pits behind his farm, filled with all the refuse of the whole district, any odd shovelfuls of muck, dead animals, decomposing dog-droppings or filth drained from ponds. It was a real gold-mine.
‘I've sometimes had good results with phosphates,’ he added.