“All this is just to let you see how Putet was certainly the most mischievous wretch of a woman that’s ever been a stench in the nostrils of this town. And if you look at it in another way, she was a poor, unhappy old maid as well. You don’t often find spiteful, ill-natured people are happy, that’s so, isn’t it? They’re just their own poison. Putet must have made her own life not worth living. And yet it wasn’t her fault, seeing she’d never asked to be put into this world such a dowdy fright as she was, so that for a whole lifetime not a man would have anything to do with her. If she’d had her share like the other women she wouldn’t have been jealous of them. It isn’t virtue that warms your heart, whatever you may say. Yes, in a way you may say she was just a poor, unhappy creature, one of the different kinds of victims of the cursed, hopeless mess and muddle that this world is.
“And now I’ve told you the last of Putet. And when she disappeared, that was also the end of the famous disturbances, and there’s never been anything like them since. And I may tell you it’s a good thing too, for it’s not the sort of life you’d choose, when people are for ever fighting and quarreling and abusing each other. Epecially in a countryside where good wine’s grown, as you see it is here. What you’re drinking is Clochemerle 1924. That was a fine year. The harvest gave about thirteen per cent strength. A wine fit for the Pope’s Mass, that was, sir!”
Epilogue
In the month of October 1932, ten years after the period at which our narrative opens, two men were walking one evening slowly side by side in the main square of Clochemerle-en-Beaujolais; and these two men were they who walked there ten years earlier, at the same hour: Barthélemy Piéchut and Tafardel.
But they had changed. And this change, doubtless, owed less to the lapse of time than to the dissimilarity in the development of their careers. The social gulf that lay between them, as evidenced by differences in manner and bearing, intonation, gesture, and details of dress, was more obvious now than it had been in the past. In a thousand different ways impossible to define, the mayor, now a senator, compelled respect. This was not especially due to the way in which he was dressed, or to any affectation of manner or speech, but rather to the general effect of the man’s whole personality, and the strength, the calm self-confidence, and the air of authority which radiated from it. Piéchut was enshrouded in an aura of infallibility and of general well-being. Seeing him thus, one had the rare but satisfying impression, of a man whose success in life can go no further, and who, knowing that nothing he says will be disputed, can enjoy a victory in debate with no need to raise his voice or force the note, in an atmosphere of restful ease and friendly speech.
Taken in conjunction with this simplicity of manner, Tafardel’s pompous grandiloquence appeared at first sight a trifle absurd; but a little further thought might well have revealed an element of pathos in it. For this excessive pompousness was his compensation for a sorry lack of material success. His merits had not blossomed forth into landed property, highly paid office, distinguished connections. With his retirement due three years hence, Tafardel still remained the pure intellectual, a man apart from his fellows, a confirmed and honest Republican, whose stipend was no more than nineteen thousand francs—a sum, however, which at Clochemerle was an ample income, especially with the schoolmaster’s simple tastes. But Tafardel made poor use of his means; and the art of being well-dressed, in particular, was a closed book to him. His conception of a respectable get-up for a model schoolmaster stopped short at a celluloid collar, an alpaca jacket, drill trousers, and a panama hat. These adornments, which he procured at ready-made clothing shops, fitted his meager frame to an extent which could not even be called approximate. The shiny coat, and the trousers shrunken by several washings, betrayed their own antiquity. This should not be taken as evidence of miserliness on Tafardel’s part; but his youth had been molded in the harsh school of poverty, and his later life in that of the poorly paid functionary. As the result of these experiences he had acquired a fixed and permanent habit of careful economy and total disregard of outward appearances. Lastly, his fondness for the wine of Beaujolais, which was the outcome of his indignation over the events of 1923, added still further to his disreputable untidiness of dress. It cannot, however, be denied that it was this taste of his which kept alive in him a faculty of fiery eloquence and vigorous profession of faith which saved him from the mental apathy that overtakes so many men as their sixtieth year approaches.
That evening Piéchut, with a crown of honor and success upon his brow, made his way to the edge of the terrace and gazed at the lovely expanse of the Beaujolais countryside that lay beneath him, where the mere mention of his name called forth respect. He pondered over the advances which he had made within the space of a few short years, and with no resources other than those of his own quick-witted intelligence. Tafardel, buried in the obscurity of his humble post, served as a point of comparison by which he could measure the height of his own exalted position; and for this reason he always took pleasure in the society of the schoolmaster, an artless, naive confidant with whom he could be perfectly open and at his ease. The latter, proud of the trust which the Senator placed in him, proud of his allegiance to a cause which could boast of striking victories in the successes which the other man had achieved, cherished an undying affection for him. At that moment Tafardel was saying:
“I have a feeling, Monsieur Piéchut, that our people are becoming hidebound. We should do something to stir them up.”
“And what is that, my good friend?”
“I am still a little doubtful. But I have two or three reforms in mind. . . .”
But he was interrupted by Piéchut, who said to him in an amicable and kindly, but nevertheless very firm, tone:
“My good friend, no more reforms, please! We’ve done with them, you and I. We have had our days of strife, others will have theirs in due season. You have to give men time to digest progress. In the existing order of things, which is far from being perfect, there is still much that is good. Before you destroy, you must think . . . think. . . .”
With a wide sweep of his arm, the Senator pointed to the surrounding hills, to which the sun’s last rays were bidding a warm farewell.
“See there,” he said, gravely, “the example that nature sets us. How calm and peaceful her evenings after the heat and fervor of the day. You and I, my dear friend, are at the evening of our lives. Let us preserve this peace, leaving the twilight of a full life unspoiled.”
“Oh, but Monsieur Piéchut! . . .” Tafardel was not yet satisfied.
Piéchut would not let him finish.
“Well, I have thought of a reform myself. . . .”
He seized his companion by the lapel of his coat, where the ribbon of his decoration made a fine splash of purple.
“We are going to turn this ribbon into a rosette,” he said, with a sly, roguish air. “And now what do you think of my reform?”
“Oh, Monsieur Piéchut! . . .” Tafardel murmured. He was almost trembling with delight.
Then the schoolmaster glanced instinctively at the red ribbon which adorned the Senator’s buttonhole. The latter noticed his glance.
“Well, who knows?” Piéchut said.
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Copyright © Gabriel Chevallier 1936
Translation copyright © Jocelyn Godefroi 1936
Gabriel Chevallier has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
First published in Great Britain by Secker & Warburg in 1936
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