Clochemerle

by Gabriel Chevallier

  Other forms of consolation, too, he found through the medium of Baroness Courtebiche, after she took up permanent residence at Clochemerle in 1917. At least twice each month he dined at the château, at the Baroness’ table, where the consideration shown to him was given less on personal grounds than on account of the institution of which he was merely a rustic representative (“rather an oaf,” the great lady used to say of him behind his back). But he was unconscious of this subtle distinction, and attentions bestowed on him with a brusqueness due to a lordly desire to keep everyone in his right place nevertheless entirely won his heart.

  In his declining years, and at a time when he no longer looked for any new source of pleasure, he enjoyed a revelation of all that is implied by the choicest food and drink served by well-trained footmen amidst a gorgeous display of table linen, glass, and emblazoned silver, the use of which embarrassed but also enraptured him. Thus the Curé Ponosse, at about the age of fifty-five, made acquaintance with the pomp and circumstance of that social sphere which he had humbly served by his teaching of the Christian virtue of resignation—a virtue which so favors the growth of great fortunes.

  At his first visit to the château, he felt he had a clear intuition of the celestial joys which will in due time be the heritage of the righteous. Unable to conceive of heavenly bliss unless he clothed it with material equivalents borrowed from the realities of this world below, the Curé Ponosse had vaguely imagined that time in Paradise would be spent in perpetually drinking Clochemerle wine and (sin having been abolished) in taking lawful pleasure with fair ladies, whose coloring and figure it would be possible to vary according to one’s taste. (His exclusive—and dull—relations with Honorine had filled him with a great desire for change, and made him interested in fantasy and strange experiences.) These imaginings lay dormant in a corner of his brain which was rarely awake. If he wanted to enjoy them he resorted to a subterfuge. He said to himself, “Supposing I were in Heaven, and that nothing were forbidden.” The sky thereupon became peopled with forms of surpassing sweetness wherein could be recognized detached portions of his prettiest parishioners—in a magnified form brought about by privations extending over a lifetime, and enlarged a hundredfold in a kind of superhuman mirage. Without evil intent, and protected by his mental reservation, he refreshed himself with these imagined pictures. These nebulous beauties procured him a form of bliss that was independent of matter and unrelated to any of his former earthly desires. Thus it was that, as he approached his sixtieth year, he could indulge without danger in these visions of Eden at times when he had exhausted the resources of his breviary. But he did not resort to them too freely, for they left him in a state of depression, and of amazement at the realization of what unsettling aspirations may haunt the recesses of a pious mind.

  Since the Curé Ponosse had become one of the Baroness’ regular guests, his idea of Heaven had increased in grandeur. He conceived it as being furnished and decorated ad infinitum in the same manner as the château of the Courtebiche family, the most splendid residence he knew. The joys of eternity remained unaltered, but henceforth they assumed a matchless quality derived from the beauty of the setting, the distinction of the surroundings, and the large staff of mute, angelic servants which ministered to them. As for the fair ladies for recreation, they were no longer of common stock, but marchionesses or princesses, with subtle charms, and skilled in following up the pleasures of witty conversation with seraphic but amorous overtures to the blessed, who in their turn need feel no shame or place restraint on their delights. The fullness of complete self-abandonment was a thing that the Curé Ponosse had never known on earth, held back as he ever was by scruple and by the questionable charm of the object of his affections, who smelled rather of floor polish than of the perfumes of the boudoir.

  Such, morally and physically, was the Curé Ponosse in the year 1922. The passage of time had brought him wisdom and calm, and had also decreased his height, which was formerly five feet six inches, but now two and a half inches less. His diameter at the waist, however, had increased twofold. His health was good except for breathlessness, occasional bleeding at the nose, attacks of rheumatism in winter, and (at all times of the year) irritating discomfort in the region of the liver. The worthy man bore these troubles patiently, offering them to God by way of expiation, and entered on a peaceful old age, sheltered by a blameless reputation unclouded by the least breath of scandal.

  Let us now continue our walk, turning to the right as we come out of the church. The first house we meet, which is at a corner of Monks’ Alley, is the Beaujolais Stores, the principal shop in Clochemerle. Linen drapery, textiles, hats, ready-made clothes, haberdashery, hosiery, grocery, Liqueurs of superior quality, toys, and household utensils are to be found there. Any kind of goods not ordinarily supplied by the other shops in the town is readily available. At that time the attractions of this fine establishment, and its prosperity, were due to a single individual.

  Near the entrance of the Beaujolais Stores, Judith Toumignon could be seen and admired, a veritable daughter of fire, with her flamboyant shock of hair, flaming tresses that might have been stolen from the sun. The common herd, impervious to fine distinctions, spoke of her merely as “red-haired,” or spitefully as “ginger.” But there are differences to note. Red hair in women may be lusterless or brick-colored, a dull unattractive red. But Judith Toumignon’s hair was not like that; on the contrary, it was of reddish gold, the tint of mirabelle plums ripened in the sun. This beautiful woman was, in fact, a triumph of blonde beauty, a dazzling apotheosis of the warm tints which constitute the Venetian type. The heavy, glowing turban which adorned her head, only to vanish at the nape of her neck in rapturous sweetness, compelled the gaze of one and all, which lingered over her from head to foot in fascination and delight, finding at all points occasion for extraordinary gratification. The men relished her charm in secret, but could not always hide what they felt from their wives, whose misgivings, profound enough to affect them physically, endowed them with some sort of second sight revealing clearly who the insolent usurper was.

  There are times when Nature’s whim, in defiance of circumstances of rank, education, or means, produces a masterpiece. This creation of her sovereign fancy she places where she will. It may be a shepherdess, it may be a circus girl. By these challenges to probability she gives a new and furious impetus to social displacements, and paves the way for new combinations, social graftings, and bargainings between sensual appetite and the desire for gain. Judith Toumignon was an incarnation of one of these masterpieces of Nature, the complete success of which is rarely seen. A perverse and prankish destiny had placed her in the center of the town, where she was engaged in receiving customers at a shop. But a picture of her thus occupied would be incomplete, for her principle role, unseen but profoundly human, was that of inciting to the raptures of love. Though on her own account she was not inactive in this matter, and practiced no niggardly restraint therein, her participation in the sum total of Clochemerle’s embraces should be regarded as trifling in comparison with the function of suggestion that she exercised, and the allegorical position she occupied, throughout the district. This radiant, flaming creature was a torch, a Vestal richly endowed, entrusted by some pagan goddess with the task of keeping alight at Clochemerle the fires of passion.

  As applied to Judith Toumignon, the word masterpiece may be used without hesitation. Her face beneath its fascinating fringe was a trifle wide. Its outline was graceful in the extreme, with its firm jaw, the faultless teeth of a woman with good appetite and juicy lips continually moistened by her tongue, and enlivened by a pair of black eyes which still further accentuated its brilliance. One cannot enter into details where her too intoxicating form is concerned. Its lovely curves were so designed that your gaze was held fast until you had taken them all in. It seemed as though Phidias, Raphael, and Rubens had worked together to produce it, with such complete mastery had the modeling of the prominent points been carried out, eschewing
scantiness in every way, and dexterously insisting upon amplitude and fullness in such manner as to provide the eyes of desire with conspicuous landmarks on which to rest. Her breasts were two lovely promontories. Wherever one looked, one discovered soft open spaces, alluring estuaries, pleasant glades, hillocks, mounds, where pilgrims could have lingered in prayer. But without a passport—and such was rarely given—this rich territory was forbidden ground. A glance might skim its surface, might detect some shady spot, might linger on some peak. But none might venture farther, none might touch. So milk-white was her flesh, so silky its texture, that at sight of it the men of Clochemerle grew hoarse of speech and were overcome by feelings of recklessness and desperation.

  Ruthlessly intent on finding in her some blemish or defect, the women broke tooth and nail on that armor of faultless beauty. It made of Judith Toumignon a being under special protection, whose overflowing kindliness appeared on her lovely lips in calm and generous smiles. It pierced like daggers the flesh of her jealous but uncourted rivals.

  The women of Clochemerle—those at least who were still in the running in the race for love—secretly hated Judith Toumignon. This hatred was, however, as ungrateful as it was unjust. There was not one of those discomfited women who, thanks to the darkness which lends itself to such forms of substitution, was not indebted to her for attentions which, deprived of their ideal object, still strove to attain it by such means as were available at the moment.

  The Beaujolais Stores were so situated, at the center of the town, that the men of Clochemerle passed by the shop nearly every day. Nearly every day, openly or stealthily, cynically or hypocritically, according to their character, their reputation, or their occupation, they gazed at the Olympian goddess. Seized with hunger at the sight of this sumptuous banquet, they returned home with an increased supply of the courage required for consuming the savorless wish-wash of legitimate repasts. In the nocturnal sky of Clochemerle, her glowing brilliance formed a constellation of Venus, a guiding polestar for poor hapless devils lost in the wilderness with inert and lifeless shrews as their night companions, and for youths athirst in the stifling solitudes of shyness. From the evening angelus till that of morning, all Clochemerle rested, dreamed, and loved under the star of Judith, of that smiling goddess of satisfying caresses and duties well fulfilled, of that dispenser of happy illusions to men of courage and good will. Thanks to this miraculous priestess, no man in Clochemerle was left idle or unemployed. The warmth of this overwhelming creature was felt even by old men asleep. Hiding from them none of the abundant treasures of her lovely form, like generous-hearted Ruth, bending over a quavering and toothless Boaz, she could induce in them still a few slight thrills, which gave them a little joy before they passed into the chill of the tomb.

  A still better picture can be given of this lovely daughter of commerce, at the moment when she was at the zenith of her power and splendor. Listen to the account of her given by the rural constable, Cyprien Beausoleil, who has always paid special attention to the women of Clochemerle—for professional reasons, so he says. “When the women keep quiet, everything goes all right. But to get ’em like that, the men have got to keep up to the mark.” Now there arc people who declare that in this respect Beausoleil was a friend in need, sympathetic and understanding, and always ready to lend a helping hand to those men of Clochemerle whose strength had been undermined and whose wives had taken to scolding and had got altogether above themselves. (It should be mentioned that the constable kept secret these little services rendered to his friends.) Let us hear his simple tale:

  “That Judith Toumignon, sir, whenever she laughed you could see all inside her mouth—wet it was, too—and all her teeth, not one missing, and her lovely big tongue right in the middle of ’em; it made you feel greedy, it did. Yes, it gave you something to think about. And that wasn’t all, neither. There were things you couldn’t see that—well, they weren’t likely to disappoint you. That confounded woman, sir, I can tell you, she made every man in Clochemerle ill!”

  “Ill, Monsieur Beausoleil?”

  “Yes, sir, downright ill they were. And for why? Holding themselves back from trying to touch her. Yes, she was just made for it, that woman. I’ve never seen anything like it. The times I’ve called her a bitch to myself—just letting off steam, as you might say, by cursing her, because I couldn’t stop thinking about her. And to stop thinking about her after you’d seen her—well, you just couldn’t. It was more than flesh and blood could stand, all that spread out before you, as though she wasn’t showing you anything at all, with that behind of hers under the tight-fitting stuff of her dress, and her round bosom shoved under your nose, just because her silly fool of a husband was there and you couldn’t even say a nice word to her! Just like a starving man you were, sir, when Judith came near you, and you got a sniff of that lovely soft white skin of hers, and it was a case of hands off, the devil take her!

  “The end of it was, I stopped going there. It upset me too much, seeing that woman. I got waves of giddiness, just like that time I nearly had a sunstroke. That was the year of the war when it was so hot. When you get those heat waves, like it happens in dry years, if you have to go out right into the sun you mustn’t drink wine stronger than ten per cent. And that day, at Lamolire’s . . .”

  But it is time to return to Judith Toumignon, reigning sovereign of Clochemerle, to whom all the men paid their tribute of desire, and all the women their secret tribute of hate, hoping each day that ulcers and peeling skin might come to disfigure that insolent body of hers.

  The most relentless of Judith Toumignon’s calumniators was Justine Putet, her immediate neighbor, chief among Clochemerle’s virtuous women, who overlooked from her window the back premises of the Beaujolais Stores. Of all the different hatreds to which Judith Toumignon was exposed, that of the old maid proved to be the most tenacious and the most effective, being immensely reënforced by her piety, and doubtless also by an incurable virginity which was an added jewel in the Church’s crown. Entrenched within the citadel of her unassailable virtue, this Justine Putet was a rigid censor of the town’s morals, with special reference to those of Judith Toumignon. Judith’s general fascination and her joyful and melodious outbursts of laughter became for Justine a daily insult of the most painful nature. The lovely tradeswoman was happy and showed it—a hard thing to forgive.

  The position of official and legitimate owner of the beautiful Judith was held by François Toumignon, her husband. But the actual possessor of her person and her affections was Hippolyte Foncimagne, Clerk to the Justices of the Peace, a tall, dark, handsome fellow. He had a fine head of hair with a slight wave in it, and even during the week he wore cuffs and ties of unusual excellence—for Clochemerle, that is. Being a bachelor, he lodged at the Torbayon Inn.

  Guilty though it was, Judith found in this love affair frequent and passionate delight, which proved as beneficial to her complexion as it was to her temper. In this last respect, it was François Toumignon, blissfully ignorant, who reaped the benefit, and who thus unconsciously had his own dishonor to thank for the enviable peace and quiet which he enjoyed at home. In the disorder of human affairs these immoral situations are, alas, only too frequent.

  Of obscure origin, Judith had to earn her own living at an early age. For a beautiful girl with all her wits about her this presented no difficulties. At the age of sixteen she left Clochemerle for Villefranche, where she lodged with an aunt, and worked at various jobs in succession, in cafés, hotels, or shops. Wherever she went she made a deep impression and indeed caused such disturbance that most of her employers offered to leave their wives and their businesses and take her, and all the money they possessed, away with them. The offers of these important but deplorably obese gentlemen she haughtily refused, being enamored of love for its own sake, as typified by a handsome young man, and uncontaminated by considerations of money, with which she was physically unable to associate love. Her distaste for them dictated her conduct: passion was what she dem
anded, not paternal embraces or sentimental nonsense. She was subject to overwhelming impulses, and often preferred to bury in complete oblivion what had been a case of genuine surrender. Every day of her life some new joy was her portion, though it ended always in harrowing distress. At that time she had had some lovers and several passing fancies.

  In 1913, at the age of twenty-two, when her beauty was in full bloom, she reappeared in the district and made a general sensation. One in particular of Clochemerle’s inhabitants fell madly in love with her, François Toumignon, the “son of the Beaujolais Stores,” certain to inherit a fine commercial property. He was on the eve of becoming engaged to Adèle Machicourt, another beautiful girl. He left her and began harassing and entreating Judith. She, still under the smart of a disappointment, and smiling perhaps at the idea of getting the young man away from a rival, or wishing maybe to settle down once for all, allowed herself to be married to him. This was an insult that Adèle Machicourt, who ten months later had become Adèle Torbayon, was destined never to forgive. Not that the jilted woman regretted the loss of her first fiancé, for Arthur Torbayon was unquestionably a handsomer man than François Toumignon. But the affront was one of those that a woman who is at all worthy of the name never forgets, and which in the country may occupy the leisure of a whole lifetime.

  The proximity of the inn and the Beaujolais Stores, situated as they were on opposite sides of the street, fanned the flame of her resentment. Several times daily, from their doorsteps, these ladies observed each other. Each one eagerly surveyed the other’s beauty in the hope of finding some defect therein. To Adèle’s rancor, contempt on Judith’s part was a necessary reply. During this mutual observation the two women would assume an air of great happiness, very flattering to their husbands.