Clochemerle

  One morning when Arthur Torbayon was busy in the cellar bottling wine, Adèle Torbayon went up to Hippolyte Foncimagne’s room, carrying a warm gargle prepared in accordance with instructions given by Dr. Mouraille. (“You couldn’t leave that poor boy to shift for himself, and if he only had his Judith to look after him he’d probably die.”) Since the previous day a nasty southwest wind had been blowing, heralding the storm which threatened to break; and every fiber in Adèle Torbayon’s body, softened and relaxed, cried out for some means of putting an end to her physical discomfort, a feeling of oppression which gripped her across the chest and paralyzed her legs. She was conscious of a vague desire to burst into tears, to become defenseless, to heave deep sighs and utter cries half suppressed.

  She entered the room and went up to Foncimagne’s bed, where he lay in a plaintive mood, his mind filled with restless, feverish fancies under whose stimulus he felt that his strength was returning to him. His hostess arrived at such an opportune moment for giving concrete reality to these daydreams that he put his arm around Adèle’s hips—which were wide and firm and easy to hold—with the air of a sick child full of whims and waiting to be spoiled. A great wave of calm refreshing peace surged through the body of Adèle Torbayon; it was as though the storm had broken at last, and big raindrops were falling to cool her fevered flesh. Her show of indignation lacked conviction:

  “Come, come, you’d never dream of such a thing, Monsieur Hippolyte!” she said in a tone of quite inadequate severity.

  “On the contrary, I’m dreaming of it very vividly, my lovely Adèle!” the sly fellow retorted, taking advantage of his hostess’ encumbrance (she was still holding the tray) to strengthen his position.

  Profoundly disturbed, and with her senses now thoroughly awakened, the innkeeper’s wife defended her husband’s honor with hastily conceived—and very feeble—objections.

  “But just think, Monsieur Hippolyte, I’ve got a roomful of people downstairs!”

  “That’s right, my lovely Adèle,” was the irresistible reply, “it would never do to keep all those people waiting!” With a dexterous movement he secured the small bolt, which he could reach from the head of his bed.

  “You’re locking me in, Monsieur Hippolyte, that’s not nice of you!” the innkeeper’s wife murmured.

  Having arranged to secure this alibi for herself at all hazards, come what might—though she knew well enough, in her occupation, the value of time—it was with gentle unhurried leisure that Adèle Torbayon made her surrender. In her case, an indifferent manner and dull, unattractive clothes only served to conceal a genuine aptitude for the task in hand, together with physical qualifications of an unexpectedly high order—a valuable tonic for a man recovering from illness and highly appreciated by him after a long period of low diet. The innkeeper’s wife was no less fortunate in her partner. In the art of love Foncimagne had excellent manners and great skill; he possessed the knack of gradation, of transition, and he displayed all the inventive superiority of a man who habitually works with his brain. (“You can always spot intelligence wherever you find it!” was the subconscious thought in Adèle’s mind. Then, suddenly, another thought emerged from its dim recesses, and became the crowning point of her happiness: “And there’s Arthur bottling wine. . . .”) Yes, this clever fellow, this charming Foncimagne, was a very different pair of shoes from Arthur. A strong sturdy man, Arthur was, there was no denying it, but he didn’t know how to use his strength and hadn’t a streak of imagination anywhere.

  “Well, well,” Adèle Torbayon remarked later, with a show of modesty that might have been earlier displayed, “well, well, Monsieur Hippolyte, I’d never have believed it of you!”

  This ambiguous statement could have been taken either as eulogy or as kindly reproof. But Foncimagne’s feelings had been too thoroughly reciprocated for him to feel in the slightest degree disturbed. This reassuring recollection enabled him to make a display of false modesty.

  “Then you weren’t too disappointed, my poor Adèle?” he asked hypocritically, as though he were commiserating with her and making excuses for himself.

  The innkeeper’s wife fell into the trap that the handsome but vain young man had laid for her. Astonished that a thing so long deferred should have been so easily brought to pass, she was still overcome by her feelings of gratitude and of general well-being. Her gratitude she expressed, in these words:

  “Oh! Monsieur Hippolyte, anyone could see you were a well-educated man!”

  “Well enough to hold a pen?”

  “You’re a rascal all the same!” Adèle said tenderly, stroking her lodger’s hair.

  Already she was conscious of a renewed stirring within her of feelings deeply and strangely aroused. But this time the call of duty was too strong for her. Disregarding with an effort the superficial compliments which, as a matter of politeness, the young clerk of the Court was showering upon her, and seizing her tray, she declared:

  “I must go and see what’s happening downstairs! If the customers call out, Arthur’ll come running up from the cellar. . . .”

  At these words they smiled at each other. Adèle, bending over him, burst out effusively:

  “You monster of a man, this is the first time I’ve ever been unfaithful to him, and that’s a fact!”

  “It wasn’t so terrible?”

  “I’d thought of it as something awful! Isn’t that funny?”

  And, with a final fond glance at him, his good hostess slipped out of the room and closed the door noiselessly behind her.

  Left alone, Foncimagne fell once more into daydreams, now considerably enriched by this episode which had introduced so delectable a variety into his life. He was himself henceforth the possessor of the two prettiest women in Clochemerle, sworn enemies, moreover, which added a certain piquancy to the whole business. He offered thanks to Fate for having sent him two striking victories at so little cost. Next, leaving Fate aside, for Fate after all had not achieved them unaided, he came to the conclusion that he himself had been largely responsible for these successes. He indulged in an orgy of that exquisite pleasure that is derived from complete self-satisfaction. Then he applied himself to a comparison of the respective merits of these two amiable ladies. Although their most irresistible points of attraction were differently distributed, and displayed a highly individual character in each case in the matter of modeling and general outline, each had her own peculiar charm, on both Nature’s gifts had been richly bestowed. Judith may have been the more ardent, the more generously responsive; but Adèle’s passive, purring ways were not without allurement. In any case, both women displayed a wholehearted sincerity; indeed, in view of the danger of gossip, their straightforward methods would have been the better for some restraining hand.

  Foncimagne was happy in the thought that while one was a brilliant blonde, the other was a dark-haired brunette. Such contrast would be an excellent stimulant, for this alternation in the game of love, by breaking the monotony of a liaison which had already lasted for a long time, would give the latter fresh charm. The effect of the pleasure he had just enjoyed with Adèle was to make him vividly conscious of the power of his attachment to Judith. But his attachment in no wise prevented him from feeling sincerely grateful to Adèle, who had just yielded to him with a straightforward simplicity which he could only regard as having been highly opportune, at a moment when he was feeling bored in his lonely room and tired of reading. A slight weariness overcame him and restored to him a precious inclination to sleep, which had evaded him for the past forty-eight hours. He would have time for a good nap before his afternoon gargle, which Adèle would bring up at about four o’clock.

  His sore throat forgotten, he fell sound asleep, in that peace of mind which comes from a feeling that all’s well with the world, when the senses are at rest.

  Adèle Torbayon descended the stairs, still exalted with emotion after the display of those refinements of the art of love which the clerk of the Court had been making for her benef
it, and took up her stand at the door of her house. On the opposite side of the road Judith Toumignon was also standing at the entrance to her shop. The two ladies then exchanged looks. Judith Toumignon was dumbfounded by the unaccustomed expression which appeared on her enemy’s face. The look of hatred she bore at other times, as of a woman who has been insulted and whose revenge has yet to come, had been replaced by one of forbearance mingled with contempt—the look of the victor for the vanquished.

  The smile of mocking triumph which was faintly outlined on the lips of the innkeeper’s wife, and the kind of languorous happiness by which she was still permeated, gave rise to a terrible suspicion in Judith Toumignon’s mind. She recognized in her rival’s attitude the symptoms of that inner joy which often allowed her to consider other women with feelings of pity. She could have no doubt as to the origin of that peculiar radiance with which she herself habitually shone. Retreating once more into the shelter of her shop, where Adèle Torbayon could no longer see her, she gazed long and earnestly at the window of Foncimagne’s room, waiting in anguish for the usual token of fidelity from her lover—a gentle raising of the window curtain—which he was in the habit of giving her several times daily when they could not meet. But Foncimagne was sound asleep, enjoying a succession of dreams in the course of which women of admirably varied charms gave ardent proof of their gratitude for an adroitness in the art of love for which Clochemerle could find no parallel. The lovely Judith had to endure the unbearable suspense which comes from a presentiment of treason. Between her and her lover, separated by a distance of only a few yards, there lay all the obstacles which illicit love encounters, an insurmountable barrier which she could not cross to obtain the reassurance she so sorely needed. Several times during the day she saw the same smile on Adèle Torbayon’s face, a smile pregnant with meaning, which wounded her to the heart. She thought to herself:

  “Could it be true? I shall discover soon. . . .”

  Schemes of vengeance crowded into her mind. So cruel were they that her lovely features, at other times so calm and serene, were changed beyond recognition.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A Wave of Madness

  IT HAS ALWAYS been supposed at Clochemerle that the notary Girodot played a sinister part in the engineering of the disturbances which succeeded the brawl in the church. He was in league, it was said, with the Jesuits, from whom the curé of Montéjour received his instructions when there was any action to be taken in the political sphere.

  Actually, nothing was ever proved, and the whole matter is capable of various explanations, which do not necessarily involve complicity on the part of the Jesuits. But there is considerable reason to think that the notary Girodot did actually stir up trouble—in a way which it is difficult to specify—on account of his strong dislike for Barthélemy Piéchut, whom he could never forgive for holding the most important position in Clochemerle. A Government official and a university graduate, Girodot was privately of the opinion that the mayoralty was his by right, and should never have gone to a peasant. This was the term he applied to Piéchut, though he always greeted him quite pleasantly. But the mayor was not taken in by this; and he entrusted the greater part of his securities to a notary established elsewhere in the neighborhood.

  At Montéjour, a town of two thousand inhabitants, six kilometers from Clochemerle by a hilly road, there was a curé of feverish energy backed by a set of pugnacious youngsters, directly instigated by him, and known as the Catholic Youth. The hooliganism of these boys of fourteen to sixteen was sometimes directed in the Church’s interests. There had long been rivalry between Montéjour and Clochemerle, arising from the excessive freedom of behavior which the Clochemerle lads had displayed towards the girls of Montéjour at the annual festival of this town in 1912. Since that date, there had been constant fights between the inhabitants of these two places. The Clochemerle contingent usually got the best of it—not from any superior strength, but because they showed greater craftiness and resource, and their treacherous methods had more decision and were better timed. The blackguardism they displayed in these encounters was combined with a remarkable streak of military ability, due undoubtedly to the intermarriage that had taken place in former times in these districts so often visited by invaders.

  The people of Montéjour were very annoyed that their own underhand methods of fighting should prove unequal to the superior subtlety of similar ones employed by the inhabitants of Clochemerle, who excelled in luring the enemy into ambushes in which they gave him a thorough thrashing, with the advantage of superior numbers—the main object of the art of strategy, and one which Napoleon by no means despised. The inhabitants of Montéjour fought under a banner which had received the Church’s blessing, and they looked upon themselves as Soldiers of God; and this made it all the more painful for them to have to reappear in their own homes with faces bruised and battered by heretics. They did not fail to report that they had left large numbers of the enemy lying in ditches with their heads bashed; but these statements, though they saved their honor, did not restore their damaged self-esteem. The reader will now gather that the inhabitants of Montéjour were hardly reluctant to interfere in the events at Clochemerle—provided they could do so without personal risk. These zealous legionaries of the Lord felt a strong distaste for the thick sticks and hobnail shoes of the vigorous though profane inhabitants of Clochemerle.

  The Montéjour contingent came several times to Clochemerle, at night. They arrived and departed unseen, but certain of the inhabitants heard sounds of voices and of bicycles ridden at full speed, which were doubtless accompaniments of the malefactors’ flight. Traces of their visit were discovered in the morning: insulting inscriptions on the doors of the town hall, the Beaujolais Stores, and the doctor’s house—which proved that they were thoroughly well posted in the course of events. One night the municipal posters were torn to ribbons and the windows of the town hall broken. The infantryman on the war memorial was found one morning covered with red paint. The memorial was the pride of Clochemerle: a young woman, symbolical of France, had her hand on the shoulder of a determined-looking soldier who stood in an attitude of protection, with fixed bayonet.

  The effect of the war memorial soldier with a complete coat of red, in the very center of the main square, may be easily imagined. A single cry was heard throughout the town:

  “Have you seen it?”

  The whole of Clochemerle made its way to the highest point. The soldier with his covering of fresh paint was a strange sight. The town was furious, not so much at the color, which was not unpleasing, but at the insult. The Fadet gang proposed an expedition to Montéjour to paint their war memorial green or black; this memorial, too, showed a figure of France serene and undisturbed, and a dauntless soldier. But this proposal could not solve the situation. The town council met in haste to discuss the matter. Dr. Mouraille said that the red color produced a far more martial effect, and had the further advantage of making the monument more easily seen. He suggested keeping the color, and putting on a second coat of paint with great care.

  Anselme Lamolire raised strong objections to this proposal, on ethical grounds. Red, he observed, is the color of blood. It was most unsuitable that recollections of the war should be mingled with thoughts of blood. The men who fell in the war should be imagined as having had an ideal death, a glorious and peaceful end, and nothing sordid or vulgar or sad should be allowed to dim the luster of this conception. They must consider the younger generation, who should be taught to venerate the traditional heroism of the French private soldier, who knows how to die gracefully, with a smile on his lips. There is a way of meeting death in war that is essentially a French virtue, unique among the nations, and undoubtedly due to the sterling qualities of the French mind and character, the finest in the world, as everyone knows.

  The timeliness of this reminder of national supremacy sent a thrill of patriotic feeling coursing through the town councilors’ veins. With a few further flashes of eloquence delivered
point-blank at his opponent, Dr. Mouraille, Lamolire then finished him off.

  “I am quite ready to believe,” he said, “that people who have dissected bodies have no respect for anything. But because we happen to live in the country we should not on that account have lower ideals than the cynical jokers in the large towns. We should show them what’s what.”

  Eloquence supported by facts always has great power of persuasion. Anselme Lamolire was especially qualified to speak of those who laid down their lives in the war. He had lost three nephews and a son-in-law. He himself had guarded railway tracks for five months at the beginning. He ranked as a victim of the war. The council accordingly adopted his point of view, and decided to send for a specialist to restore the memorial to its old coloring.

  But there was worse to come. One night, in the small hours, Clochemerle was shaken by an explosion. The long-drawn-out echoes which followed it gave the impression of an earthquake; and the inhabitants of Clochemerle remained silent, wondering,. though in fact the houses still retained a vertical position, whether they themselves were still in a horizontal one. Then the more courageous spirits ventured down into the street. The smell of the explosion led them to Monks’ Alley, and very shortly, as day broke, they saw how matters stood. A dynamite cartridge had been placed under the urinal and had torn away the sheet iron; flying fragments of the metal had broken one of the church windows. On this occasion the damage affected both parties. This piece of vandalism aroused great indignation. On the following day, two natives of Montéjour, walking alone along the road, were surprised by a party of stout-hearted people from Clochemerle and left in a critical condition.