“So that women who have no children are good for nothing, I suppose, Monsieur le Curé?”
The Curé Ponosse realized his blunder. In sheer terror he found soothing words to say to her:
“My dear lady, how excited you get! Quite the contrary. The Church has need of saintly minds. You yourself are numbered amongst these, thanks to a predestination which God reserves only for those whom He has specially chosen. I can say this without prejudice to the dogma of Grace. But these choice spirits are few and far between. We cannot pledge a whole community of young people to remain in this path . . . er . . . this path of . . . er . . . virginity, my dear lady, which calls for qualities of altogether too exceptional a nature.”
“Then, as regards the urinal,” Justine Putet asked, “your advice—”
“Would be to leave it where it is—provisionally, my dear lady, provisionally. An encounter between the church and the town council could only have a disquieting effect on people’s minds at the present moment. Have a little patience. And should you chance to notice any further incident of an indelicate nature, just look the other way, dear lady, and turn your gaze to those vast spectacles of Nature which Providence has placed before our eyes. These little annoyances will add to the sum of your merits, which are already so numerous. So far as I myself am concerned, I shall pray for a happy solution, Mademoiselle Putet, I shall pray earnestly.”
“Very well, then,” said Justine Putet, coldly, “I will leave all this filthy behavior to flaunt itself quite openly. But you will be sorry that you did not listen to me, Monsieur le Curé. Mark my words.”
The incident of the Beaujolais Stores was soon known throughout the whole of Clochemerle, thanks chiefly to diligent efforts on the part of Babette Manapoux and Mme. Fouache, two eloquent people who made it their business to maintain in a flourishing condition all the town tittle-tattle, and to bring all confidential episodes within reach of those who could develop them profitably.
The first of these communicative ladies, Babette Manapoux, was the most active gossip in the lower portion of the town. She gave vigorous performances at the washhouse, before a crowd of understudies whose training in aggressive methods had been stimulated by their daily exertions with the beater on dirty linen, terrible viragoes of whom even the men stood in awe, and who were known to be extremely formidable in all verbal conflicts. Any reputation which might fall into the hands of these dauntless women was quickly torn to pieces and distributed in shreds, together with the rolls of washing, at the various houses.
Mme. Fouache, tobacconist and postmistress, showed no less zeal in recording the actions and conduct of the upper part of the town, though by very different methods. While the more plebeian chroniclers, hands on hips, would make violent asseverations loaded with uncomplimentary epithets, Mme. Fouache, a person of excellent manners and behavior, and with a constant eye to impartiality in her criticisms (on account of her tobacconist’s shop, which had always to remain neutral territory), proceeded by means of gentle insinuations, indirect questions, tolerant reticences, plaintive interjections of terror, fear, or pity, and a vast profusion of irresistible encouragements, such as “Oh! my dear—poor lady!—if it were not you who were telling me I should never have believed it,” and so on, all of which were gentle incitements by means of which this sympathetic personage extracted confidences from the most reticent people.
Thus it was that through the kindly efforts of Babette Manapoux and Mme. Fouache, who by some mysterious privilege were always the first to hear of the most trifling events, a rumor was spread abroad in Clochemerle that a violent altercation had just taken place at the Beaujolais Stores between the Toumignons and Justine Putet. An exaggerated version even represented these ladies as having had a grand set-to; hair was torn out and faces scratched, it was said, while Toumignon shook his wife’s enemy “like a plum tree.” Some even insisted that they had heard shrieks, while others testified to having seen Toumignon’s foot being vigorously aimed at the hinder portion of Putet’s gaunt anatomy.
Word went around that the old maid, concealed by her curtain, took note of the doings of the townspeople, and allowed none of the liberties taken by certain of them against the wall of the alley to escape her.
It was now the beginning of July. There had been no storms in that corner of Beaujolais: preparations for the vintage were well advanced, and the weather was still ideal. There was nothing more to do but quietly await the ripening of the grapes and pass the time in drinking and gossip. Justine Putet’s escapade was widely discussed in the town, and people’s imaginations enlarged upon this mock-heroic theme and enriched it with highly entertaining details.
The subject of the old maid came up for discussion one day at the Skylark Café. The mention of her name stirred up dangerous rivalry among Fadet’s followers.
“If she’s curious, old Putet,” they said, “we can easily satisfy her.”
They went in a body to Monks’ Alley as daylight was beginning to fail. The expedition had been organized with military precision. When they were in the alley, the young scoundrels drew up in line, called Justine in order that she might lose no details of the spectacle, and on the word of command “Present arms!” went to the limits of indecency. They had the satisfaction of seeing the old maid’s shadow moving behind her curtain.
From that time onwards this species of Saturnalia became a daily diversion for the inhabitants of Clochemerle. One cannot but deplore their thoughtless attitude, taking pleasure as they did in these pastimes which were in such lamentable taste. However, this thoughtlessness and unconcern must be attributed in the present instance—as indeed throughout this history—to the lack of amusements from which the inhabitants of small places suffer. The people of Clochemerle were inclined to be tolerant for another reason, namely, that quite young boys were in question, and the concept of the freshness and charm of youth remained closely associated in their minds with these youthful exploits. The women grew tender at the thought of it. But the right-thinking people in the town felt convinced that these hateful pastimes could only have a pernicious effect on the old maid’s mind.
One would have preferred to pass over these reprehensible improprieties in silence. But they greatly affected the course of subsequent events at Clochemerle. Moreover, history teems with instances of amorous intrigues and sexual irregularities which have been the determining factors in events of far-reaching importance, and in devastating catastrophes. There was Lauzun, hiding under the bed wherein his royal master took his pleasure, in order to overhear secrets of State. There was Louis XVI, a monarch who could never make up his mind, seeing difficulties where none existed whenever he had to take Marie Antoinette in hand. There was Bonaparte, a young general, lean and lank and of tragic pallor, rising to power through the infidelities of Josephine. Without the Creole’s judicious mixture of love and politics her husband’s genius might never have asserted itself. As for the princes who have set the world in a blaze for love of a wench (a princess herself maybe), they are legion. Illicit love began the Trojan war. All those happenings, if one comes to consider the matter, were neither more nor less reprehensible and scabrous than the exploits of the young people we are describing.
But the effects upon Justine Putet were serious. The exhibitions increased in number, and the stories spread far and wide. The whole countryside enjoyed itself at her expense. She was profoundly humiliated; and worse still, her secluded life became henceforth unbearable to her. For long years she had managed to endure her solitude by forcing herself to forget the things which create bonds between men and women. Now this was made impossible for her, and her loneliness was overwhelming; her sleep haunted, feverish, and defiled by squalid nightmares and visions of infamy. In her dreams, the men of Clochemerle filed past her in procession. Diabolically virile, they bent over her with gestures of obscenity, till she awoke to find herself bathed in perspiration. Her imagination, which had been stilled by years of effort and prayer, thereupon broke loose in distorted forms
that were utterly strange to her. In this state of torture, Justine Putet decided to take drastic steps, and proceeded to visit no less a person than the mayor himself.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Clochemerle Takes Sides
THE MAYOR OF Clochemerle had been expecting this visit for a fortnight. And the fact that he had been expecting it had given him time to rehearse a great show of astonishment.
“Dear me,” he said, “Mademoiselle Putet! Well, I suppose it’s for some good work or other that you have come? I will send my wife to you.”
“It is to you I wish to speak, Monsieur le Maire,” the old maid replied with much emphasis.
“To me—you really mean it? Come in, then.”
He led her to his desk and invited her to sit down.
“You know what is going on, Monsieur le Maire?” Justine Putet asked.
“What are you referring to?”
“In Monks’ Alley.”
“No, indeed I don’t, Mademoiselle Putet! Anything unusual happening? It’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
Before sitting down himself, he asked:
“You’ll take something? A liqueur? It’s not often I have this opportunity. My wife makes black currant liqueur. You can tell me what you think of it.”
He returned with a bottle, and glasses which he filled.
“Your very good health, Mademoiselle Putet! What do you think of that?”
“It’s excellent, Monsieur le Maire, excellent!”
“Isn’t it? It’s very old stuff. There’s no better made. Well, you were saying—about Monks’ Alley?”
“Don’t you ever hear about anything, Monsieur le Maire?”
Barthélemy Piéchut threw up his hands.
“My dear lady, I can’t be everywhere at the same time and look after everything! There’s the town hall and all my papers to attend to, and this person and that coming to ask me for advice, and the people with disputes to be settled. Then there are the vines, and the weather, and meetings, and journeys to be taken. I simply can’t be everywhere! I know less about this matter than any single person in Clochemerle with only his own affairs to look after. Tell me the whole story, that will be the best way.”
Bashful and shy, shifting about on her chair, and staring at the tile flooring at her feet, the old maid replied:
“It is hard to explain . . .”
“Well, what’s it all about?”
“It is about the urinal, Monsieur le Maire.”
“The urinal? Yes, what then?” asked Piéchut, who was beginning to enjoy himself.
Justine Putet collected her courage.
“There arc men who . . . do it at the side.”
“Oh, do they?” Piéchut said. “It would certainly be better elsewhere. But I’ll tell you something. When there was no urinal, all the men went outside. Now, most of them do it in there. That means progress.”
Justine Putet, however, still kept her eyes lowered, and seemed as though she were sitting on sharp spikes. But she pulled herself together.
“But that is not the worst. There are men who show—”
“Who show, you say, Mademoiselle Putet?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Maire, who show—” the old maid answered with relief, thinking that she had been understood.
But Piéchut took pleasure in prolonging the torture which her modesty had been enduring. He scratched his head.
“I don’t quite understand, Mademoiselle Putet. . . . What is it that they show?”
Justine Putet had to drain to the dregs her bitter cup of shame.
“The whole caboodle!” she said in an undertone, and with deep disgust.
The mayor burst into a roar of hearty honest laughter.
“Well, those are funny things you’re telling me!” he said, by way of excuse.
Resuming his gravity he continued:
“And what else happened?”
“What else?” muttered the old maid. “That was all!”
“Oh, that was all! Good! Well, Mademoiselle Putet?” Piéchut said, coldly.
“What do you mean? I have come here to make a complaint, Monsieur le Maire. It’s a scandal. There are outrages being committed here in Clochemerle.”
“Please, please, Mademoiselle! Let us be quite clear about this, if you don’t mind,” the mayor said seriously. “You don’t imply that all the men in Clochemerle behave improperly? It’s only a matter of involuntary, accidental gestures.”
“On the contrary, they are done on purpose.”
“Are you quite certain about this? Who are they? Old men—young men?”
“Young ones, Monsieur le Maire. It’s that gang of Fadet’s, those young scoundrels at the Skylark. I know them. They ought to be in prison.”
“How you rush at things, Mademoiselle! To arrest people you must have proofs of misdemeanor. I am quite willing to take drastic steps, mark you. But you must give me proofs. Have you any witnesses?”
“There are plenty of them. But people seem to enjoy it. . . .”
At this point the mayor took an opportunity for a piece of revenge. Anticipating that his words would be repeated, he said:
“I am afraid there is nothing I can do, Mademoiselle. Now the Curé Ponosse is only too glad to describe me as ‘a thoroughly worthy man,’ and ready to do anything he is asked. Will you tell him from me that I am extremely sorry—”
“Then this filthy behavior is to go on?” Justine Putet asked, aggressively.
By way of closing the interview, Piéchut gave her a piece of advice. “Listen, Mademoiselle,” he said. “When you leave here, go to the police station. Tell Cudoine about your trouble. He will see whether he can have an eye kept on the place.”
“The only thing to be done,” the old maid suddenly exclaimed with violence, “is to remove the urinal altogether. It’s a scandal to have put it where it is.”
Piéchut put on his hard expression. This, in his case, was habitually accompanied by a tone of voice of the utmost gentleness, of persistent inexorable gentleness.
“Remove the urinal? That would not be impossible. I will even tell you the best course to pursue. Get up a petition. If you have a majority here in Clochemerle, you may rest assured that the town council will fall in with it. You won’t have another liqueur, Mademoiselle Putet?”
In spite of Cudoine’s promises, the situation remained entirely unchanged. From time to time a gendarme appeared at Monks’ Alley, but the personnel of the constabulary was too limited to allow of any duty lasting for more than a short period. The result was that the gendarme, attracted by the pleasant sound of rippling water, made use of the urinal and then took his departure elsewhere. Thanks to advice given by Mme. Cudoine, who detested Justine Putet and was offended by her exaggerated displays of virtue, Cudoine’s orders had not been at all stringent. This lady could not bear the idea of an ordinary person with no official status competing in good works and civic zeal with the wife of a noncommissioned officer of the constabulary, a kind of military commandant of the town of Clochemerle. So everything went on as before, and the Fadet gang’s persecution of the old maid proceeded merrily, with the tacit approval of the greater portion of the inhabitants of Clochemerle.
Nevertheless, the hour of Justine Putet’s triumph was about to strike. On August 2nd, 1923, there was a report which set Clochemerle in an uproar. One of the Children of Mary, Rose Bivaque, who would not be eighteen until the following December, became pregnant. She was a thick-set, healthy-looking girl, with a robust figure, precociously developed, whose physical advantages in general were such as to compare very favorably with those of a grown woman of twenty-five. A cool, fresh-looking girl, this Rose Bivaque, with an air of serenity about her; big, wide-open eyes which seemed to bespeak an artless innocence; and an agreeable if slightly fatuous smile—well-adapted for inspiring confidence—on her tempting lips. No wanton was she, this little Rose Bivaque; on the contrary, she was very reserved, spoke little, was never impertinent or rude; she was all docility and submi
ssiveness, with a pretty polite way of dealing with old grandmothers and their driveling talk as well as with old unmarried ladies and their prim affected sermonizing; regular at confession, well-behaved in church, where she sang near the harmonium in a bright clear voice, and charmingly dainty in her white dress on Corpus Christi day; diligent at home in sewing, ironing, and cooking. Indeed, she was everything, a pearl of great price, and pretty withal, a girl of whom her family was justly proud, and the last in Clochemerle whom one would ever have thought capable of immoral behavior. And it was she and none other, little Rose Bivaque, whose name was on everyone’s lips.
“Now that this has happened—” Words such as these were being murmured in terror by the mothers of girls about fifteen years old.
At the tobacconist’s shop, whither a number of women bent on the discussion of an important event were diligently hastening, Mme. Fouache, with an air of sadness that did credit to her moral standards, was comparing the manners and customs of two epochs, to the entire advantage of former times:
“In the old days,” she was saying, “such things would never have been even thought of. Yet I was brought up in a large town, where there are many, many more opportunities, and everything is much smarter, and necessarily so. And when I was twenty, you can’t imagine how striking I was! People turned around in the street to look at me, I don’t mind saying that now. . . . But never, never, my dear friends, would I let any man touch me with the tip of his little finger, or speak to me, as I need hardly tell you! As my poor Adrien used to say—and he was a man with taste and judgment, seeing the high position he had, as you may imagine! ‘When I first knew you, Eugénie, I couldn’t look straight at you. Like the sun you were, Eugénie!’ A lovely talker and a fascinating man, my Adrien, but there he was, all of a tremble whenever he saw me, when I was a young girl. Later on he used to say to me: ‘I could never help feeling that I had to be careful whatever I said, so as not to hurt your innocent mind. I never knew anyone such a model of virtue as you were, Eugénie!’ You see, I’d had the same bringing up as if I’d been in the highest society at that time.”
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