With her torrid heat, her lovely colors, her fertility, and her sky of cloudless blue, such was the spell that Nature cast over the inhabitants of Clochemerle. In wintertime they would have been more at rest, keeping themselves warm in their snug houses and amusing themselves with their family quarrels and jealousy of their neighbors. But at this time of year, doors and windows were flung wide open, and the inmates were forced into the street. Clouds of rumors pervaded the air, scattering their fruitful seeds which blossomed riotously in overheated brains.
It was a mad riot of unrestrained speech, not easy to explain. Along the gentle slopes of the mountain golden tints of autumn were already appearing; the pleasant, smiling landscape of this happy region stretched far away to the horizon, under a sky radiating kindness and affection. But Clochemerle’s three thousand inhabitants, heads buzzing with stupid frenzy, were spoiling all this delightful peace and calm. The whole town was pervaded by a booming undercurrent of the sounds of back-biting, threats, quarrels, plots, and scandal. Placed though it was in surroundings which should have made it the capital of contentment’s kingdom, an oasis of dreams in a world of tumult, this little borough, failing to uphold its tradition of good sense and good behavior, went raving mad.
Since the abominable morning of the 16th of August the situation had gotten worse: event followed event in headlong, subversive rhythm. Political controversy put the finishing touch to the universal bewilderment which was splitting up the town into two opposing factions, both equally incapable of justice and good faith, as always happens when conflicting views are held with impassioned conviction. It was the old antagonism between good and evil, the struggle between the righteous and the unrighteous. Each, be it said, deemed himself to be the righteous one, never doubting that truth and justice were on his side—save a few well-informed personages such as Piéchut, Girodot, or the Baroness, who acted in the name of altogether higher principles, before which truth must bow in humble submission.
A preliminary article by Tafardel, breathing out fire and slaughter, appeared in the Vintners’ Gazette of Belleville-sur-Saone, and found its way to Clochemerle, where it aroused violent comments among the Church party. It is a pity that we cannot reproduce it in full. It began with a series of imposing headlines:
SHOCKING ATTACK IN A CHURCH
INTOXICATED BEADLE HURLS HIMSELF FEROCIOUSLY
AT PEACEFUL CITIZEN
CURÉ ENCOURAGES SHAMEFUL OUTBREAK
All that followed was in a similar strain. Justly proud of himself, Tafardel went about everywhere, saying: “That’s one in the eye for the Jesuits, the Girodots, and the aristocracy!” The Baroness’ “whipper-snapper” had never ceased to rankle in his mind.
This dazzling composition awoke immediate echoes in the Lyons Chronicle, the principal organ of the Left. It so happened that the editor of the Vintners’ Gazette was the correspondent of this journal. The scandal at Clochemerle provided him with material for a lengthy article—at so much per line—preceded by headlines derived from his own imagination which, for sheer vigor, were by no means inferior to those devised by Tafardel. The people at Lyons were delighted to publish this. A municipal election was on the way, and was the occasion for an exchange between two newspapers, the Lyons Chronicle and the Standard, of blows of a particularly treacherous nature. The scandals of Clochemerle, as set forth in Tafardel’s version, gave the Lyons Chronicle the upper hand. But the Standard retorted superbly. Forty-eight hours later it published a still more intentionally misleading version—worked out in the private office of the editor himself—the headlines of which ran as follows:
NEW OUTRAGES
CORRUPT COUNCILORS INSTIGATE DRUNKEN BRAWL
SACRED EDIFICE PROFANED
DISTURBER EJECTED BY INDIGNANT WORSHIPERS
Given in this form, the news required further explanation. This was duly supplied during the following days. Rival contributors, despite their beggarly remuneration, displayed great zeal in inventing abominable intrigues, and slinging mud at people of whom they knew nothing, including Barthélemy Piéchut, Tafardel, the Baroness, Girodot, and the Cure Ponosse. Any unprejudiced person consulting the two hostile journals alternately must have arrived at the conclusion that the population of the town of Clochemerle in Beaujolais consisted entirely of scoundrels.
The effect of newspapers on simple minds, though not easy to fathom, is certainly overpowering. Violently rejecting the evidence of known facts, and setting aside a long-standing tradition of forbearance and brotherly love, the inhabitants of Clochemerle arrived at a state of mind in which their mutual feelings were based entirely on revelations culled from several journals with equal care, by one party with rejoicing, by the other with indignation. The result was soon apparent: anger became the prevailing sentiment, to the exclusion of any other feeling. The affair of Rose Bivaque, the disappearance of Hortense Girodot, and the interference of the Montéjour people, put the finishing touch to the process by which public opinion was being led to that pitch of blind delusion which paves the way for great catastrophes. The stage of insults was succeeded by one of assaults. A second window in the church was broken, this time intentionally. Stones were thrown at the windows of Justine Putet, Piéchut, Girodot, and Tafardel. They bombarded the presbytery garden, where Honorine had a narrow escape. Scribblings on doors became more numerous. Justine Putet called Tafardel a liar, accused him of complicity, and slapped his face. Under the violence of the blow the precious panama fell from his head. The old maid trampled on it. The window of the limousine in which the Baroness was driving was smashed by a projectile. Several anonymous letters were delivered by Blazot. Finally, a public misadventure was the occasion of a severe shock to the dignity of Oscar de Saint-Choul.
This dashing young nobleman had plumed himself on being able to restore peace and quiet to Clochemerle by exploiting his prestige and eloquence—qualities which his stylish appearance, with its prevailing light-colored tints, should render irresistible. He arrived on horseback one evening with many airs and graces, on a very poor mount which had ceased to respond to the encouragements of the spur, and obstinately continued to indulge some equine whim which made him entirely unmanageable. The suspicious animal displayed his bad temper by moving along at a jog trot as though he were but a sorry nag—a method of progression as uncomfortable to the rider as it was disastrous to his prospects of cutting a fine figure. Anxious to alter the horse’s pace, Oscar de Saint-Choul seized the first excuse for calling a halt, which, curiously enough, occurred at the washing place. He saluted the washerwomen in an off hand manner, with an easy movement of his arm which brought the knob of his ridingwhip to the level of his hat.
“Well, my good women,” he said, with the patronizing familiarity of those in high places, “having a good day’s washing?”
Fifteen stout gossips were there assembled—fifteenladies of the you-can’t-shut-me-up variety, invincible champions in tournaments of backchat and repartee; and among them was Babette Manapoux, who happened to be in a very excited state that day. She looked up.
“Why, I declare,” this buxom lady remarked, “if it isn’t our naughty boy! Well, my duck, left your darling behind and out on the loose for a bit?”
Fifteen resounding bursts of laughter made a din beneath the roof of the washhouse, the hearty joyousness of which was truly exasperating. The young nobleman had counted on being received with a deference which he would have no difficulty in sustaining. This kind of welcome was embarrassing, and made it hard for him to preserve the self-control of good breeding. Then his horse, attracted by the sound of running water, looked as though he were going to move forward to drink. Saint-Choul pretended to have a question to ask:
“Tell me, my good women—”
But for the life of him he could think of nothing more. He was encouraged by Babette Manapoux.
“Go ahead, duckie! Just you tell us all you’ve got to say. No need to be shy with the ladies, my gay young spark!”
At last, with a des
perate effort, the young nobleman managed to utter the following words:
“Tell me, my good women, are you not frightfully hot?”
As he spoke these words, it occurred to him that the gift of a twenty-franc note would secure him an honorable retreat. But his horse left him no time to proceed to action. This whimsical steed was unexpectedly seized by an attack of singular and unwonted energy, which called for the utmost tenacity on Saint-Choul’s part to enable him to retain his seat. This, moreover, became a most urgent necessity, for, as he realized, to subside at the feet of these ladies of the washhouse would have been the direst calamity; while the contortions and grimaces he made in his efforts to remain in the saddle were so extraordinary that the clamorous delight of these bold ladies, spreading from house to house, drew the attention of the women of Clochemerle to the unhappy Oscar, who was now taking flight in the direction of his own manor house as though he were the hindmost straggler in a squadron of cavalry which had just turned tail and fled. Such an embodiment of terror was he that these women became suddenly endowed with a mighty access of courage. The Baroness’ son-in-law was accompanied to the confines of the lower town by a volley of very ripe tomatoes, and three of these domestic hand grenades, in a very juicy condition, burst open upon his light-colored suit.
This insult came to the Baroness’ ears. As we have already related, she regarded her son-in-law as a simpleton—a simpleton from every aspect and point of view.
If this great lady despised Oscar de Saint-Choul, however, she considered nevertheless that the most trifling insult offered to an idiot of good birth was a sufficient occasion for chastising a whole village of clodhoppers. Her ruthlessness was based on this maxim: “The imbeciles of our class are not vulgar imbeciles.” She decided to intervene in higher quarters without delay.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Time for Action
MONSEIGNEUR DE GIACCONE administered the diocess of Lyons with rare distinction. He had a Roman head, the manners of an old-time diplomat, and the subtle, mellifluous eloquence of the early Italian courts. He was, moreover, descended from a certain Giuseppe Giaccone, a friend of the famous Gadagne family, who made his way to France in the company of François I, with whom he had found favor, and took up his abode in the neighborhood of the Exchange, at Lyons, where he rapidly made a fortune in the bank. In the years that followed, the members of the family made brilliant marriages, and invariably succeeded in preserving—or regaining—their wealth, sometimes by their wonderful ability in business or administration, at others by their fine appearance. There is an old saying which bears witness to this: “When a Giaccone’s purse is empty, the passion in his eyes refills it and procures him a mistress.” It was a matter of tradition that a Giaccone in every generation should be a dignitary of the Church, and this tradition has been maintained down to the present day.
In his ecclesiastical career, Emmanuel de Giaccone displayed qualities of intelligence and adaptability which secured his appointment, at the age of fifty-one, to one of the highest offices in the Catholic Church. His administration was marked by a smiling and varied, though in reality unbending, graciousness of manner.
Seated at his writing table, Monseigneur de Giaccone, Archbishop of Lyons, received intimation of the arrival of the Baroness Courtebiche. He made no reply, but nodded his head almost imperceptibly, while his lips twisted in a faint smile, thereby indicating that the visitor might be admitted. He watched her coming forward through the long, austere apartment, lighted on one side by three high windows; but he did not rise. He himself belonged to the nobility of the long robe. He had the privilege of offering her his ring to kiss, and thus of omitting the courtesies ordinarily shown to a woman. Any excess of politeness that he might have displayed would have involved the whole Church, and the Church holds herself superior to a baroness. But having been born a Giaccone, he was not unaware of the consideration due to a Courtebiche, née d’Eychaudailles d’Azin. Moreover, their families were acquainted. He gave the Baroness a charming and gracious welcome, which was a subtle improvement on the usual mellifluous episcopal manner, and motioned her to an armchair which stood near him.
“I am delighted to see you,” he said, in his gentle voice with its carefully controlled modulations. “I trust you are well?”
“Quite well, Monseigneur, I thank you. I have to put up with the little handicaps that one expects at my age. I do so with as much Christian resignation as my character permits. For patience has never been the D’Eychaudailles’ strong point.”
“You are doing an injustice to your own character, I am certain. In any case, a person of spirit accomplishes more than one who is indolent or slack; and I am told that you do a great deal for our charitable institutions.”
“There is no merit in that, Monseigneur,” the Baroness replied, without hypocrisy, and with a note of regret in her voice. “I have retired from the world now. I haven’t much left to amuse myself with. Each age has its own occupations. I shall have had them all in their due season. . . .”
“I know, I know,” the Archbishop murmured, with kindly indulgence. “You had something to tell me?”
The Baroness gave him an account, starting from the beginning, of the events which were causing the upheaval at Clochemerle. The Archbishop knew of them, but had not received detailed information. He had not supposed them to be so serious.
“In fact,” she concluded, “the situation is getting completely out of hand. The parish will soon be turned upside down. Our Curé Ponosse is a worthy man, but a weak fool, and incapable of enforcing respect for the rights of the Church, to whom the great families will always owe allegiance. That Piéchut, Tafardel, and the whole of their clique must be brought to their senses. We must get the authorities to move in the matter. Can you bring any influence to bear, Monseigneur?”
“But what about yourself, Baroness? I thought that you knew influential people—”
“Alas,” she replied, “my position in that respect is very different from what it used to be. Only a few years ago I should have been rushing off to Paris and should have had no trouble in getting the matter attended to there. I knew people everywhere. But now I have given up entertaining and lost touch with everybody. We women lose our influence at an early stage—as soon as our good looks desert us. Unless we turn into those old chattering parakeets who hold salons and preside over the silly twaddle of celebrities whose day is over. But that’s not in my line at all. I prefer to go into retirement.”
There was a brief silence. The white, carefully tended hand of the prelate toyed with the cross on his breast. With drooping head and a faraway look in his eyes, he pondered.
“I believe,” he said, “that we shall be able to get at those people through Luvelat.”
“Alexis Luvelat, the Minister . . . and Minister of what?”
“Of the Interior. I thought everybody knew that . . .”
“But he is one of the principal people in their party—one of our great enemies, in fact.”
Monsieur de Giaccone smiled. He rather enjoyed the astonishment he had caused. He was not disinclined, in certain circumstances, to disclose to people whom he deemed suitable some of the subterranean influences at work in the community. It was through these people that the idea of his own power was disseminated, and he thought it advisable occasionally to let it be known that his spheres of influence were many and varied. Certain of these revelations constituted warnings, or even threats, which always ended by reaching the people concerned. He proceeded to explain, speaking as though it were to himself:
“The Academy, even at the present day, enables us to exercise a really effective restraint over French thought.”
“I don’t quite see what this has to do with Clochemerle, Monseigneur.”
“But it has, nevertheless, and I am coming to that. Alexis Luvelat is eating his heart out to become a member of the Academy, and for that purpose this man of the Left has need of us, of the influence exercised by the Church through her high dignitar
ies; or at least he cannot afford to have the Church in decided opposition to him.”
“Is that opposition really so powerful? But surely, Monseigneur, writers who are professed Catholics do not form the majority in the Academy?”
“That is merely a delusion. I will not enumerate our supporters, but you would be surprised at their number. The truth is this, despite the attitude adopted by some elderly people, and the asseverations of youth: the Church has great power over those who have nothing to look forward to in this world but death. There comes an age when men realize that to think rightly means thinking more or less in harmony with us. For the men who have attained to public honors are all champions of the order which conferred those honors upon them and preserves their stability. Of this order, we are the most ancient, the most solid pillar and support. That is why nearly all those holding high positions in the State are to some extent adherents of the Church. Consequently, a candidate for membership of the Academy who has the Church against him is severely handicapped. This explains why a man like Alexis Luvelat has to be extremely careful to do nothing prejudicial to our interests. I may add moreover—and this is entirely between ourselves—that it will be some time before he can hope to get his membership. In his position as a candidate, which makes him nervous, he is very useful to us. We shall wait until he has given us certain proofs. He has done much that calls for atonement.”
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