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  And each time he uttered a sentence between his sobs, he cast a sidelong glance at the plate, which sent a shiver down the old man's back. And now, pretending to choke, he broke into ear-splitting shrieks like a man having his throat slit.

  Greatly distressed and unable to resist his sobs, Rose clasped her hands and begged Fouan:

  ‘Oh, husband, please.’

  But, still refusing to give in, he cut her short:

  ‘No, I won't, he's having us on. Stop making all that row! You stupid bugger! What's the point of caterwauling like that? You'll bring the neighbours around, you're driving us all crazy.’

  The only effect of this was to cause the drunkard to scream all the louder. He bellowed:

  ‘I haven't told you everything… The bailiffs are coming tomorrow to foreclose on me, for an IOU I gave Lambourdieu. I'm a rotten swine, I'm bringing disgrace on the family, I'm going to put an end to it all… Yes, I'm just a swine, I'm only fit to go and jump in the Aigre… If only I had thirty francs.’

  Exasperated and completely overcome by this scene, Fouan gave a start at the mention of thirty francs. He removed the plate. What was the point since the bugger could see how many coins there were through the plate?

  ‘So you want the lot? Do be sensible, for God's sake… Here you are, you're getting on my nerves, take half and clear off and don't come back.’

  Miraculously cured, Jesus Christ seemed to be debating with himself and then said:

  ‘No, fifteen francs is too little, it won't be enough. Make it twenty and I'll leave you in peace.’

  Then, having laid hands on the four five-franc pieces, he made them all laugh with his account of the trick he had played on Bécu by putting false ground lines in the protected section of the Aigre, so that the gamekeeper had fallen in when he tried to pull them up. And finally he left after accepting a glass of Delhomme's poor wine; and he called him a dirty dog for having the nerve to send his father such muck.

  ‘He's rather nice really,’ said Rose when the door had closed behind him.

  La Grande had stood up, folding up her knitting and about to go. She gave a long hard look at her sister-in-law and then at her brother; then she in her turn left, not before finally relieving her anger by shouting at them:

  ‘Not one penny, you bloody fools! Never ask me for a single penny!’

  Outside, she met Buteau, who had been at Macqueron's and had been surprised to see Jesus Christ come in, very cheerful, with a pocket jingling with five-franc pieces. He had a vague suspicion of what had happened.

  ‘That's right, that dirty loafer's gone off with your money. Ah, he's going to enjoy wetting his whistle at your expense!’

  Beside himself with rage, Buteau hammered on the Fouans' door with both fists. If they had not opened it, he would have battered it down. The two old folk were already going to bed, his mother had taken off her dress and cap and was in her petticoats, her grey hair falling over her ears. And when they finally decided to open up, he flung himself between the two of them screaming in a voice choking with rage:

  ‘My money, my money!’

  They were frightened and drew back bewildered, not yet understanding what was wrong.

  ‘Do you think that I'm going to squeeze myself dry for that lousy brother of mine? He does bugger all and I'm supposed to take it lying down. Oh no I won't!’

  Fouan made an attempt to deny it but the other man roughly cut him short.

  ‘So now you're trying to lie to me? I'm telling you he's got my money. I could feel it, I heard it jingling in the bastard's pocket! My money that I've sweated blood to earn, my money that he's going to spend on drink! And if that's not true, you show it to me! If you've still got those five-franc pieces, show me them. I know which they were, I'll recognize them. Show me them!’

  And he kept obstinately repeating the same phrase a score of times, whipping himself up into a frenzy. He even started thumping his fist on the table, demanding to see the coins at once, swearing that he wouldn't take them back but just wanted to see them. Then, as the trembling old couple could only stand there stammering, he exploded in fury:

  ‘He's got them, that's for sure! God strike me dead if I ever bring you another penny! I was prepared to bleed myself dry for you two but as for helping that swine, I'd sooner have my right arm cut off!’

  But his father was now beginning to lose his temper, too.

  ‘That's enough of that. It's no business of yours what I do with my money, I can spend it as I like.’

  ‘What's that?’ said Buteau walking towards him with his fists clenched, livid with rage. ‘So you want me to speak my mind, do you?… Well, I think it's a shit's trick, yes, a real shit's trick to squeeze money out of your children when it's absolutely certain you've enough to live on. Oh, don't try and deny it! You've got a nest-egg tucked away somewhere. I know you have.’

  Shattered, the old man tried to force his son to leave but all his former authority had gone. Feebly sawing the air, he stammered:

  ‘No, I haven't got a brass farthing… Will you fuck off!’

  ‘Suppose I look? Suppose I look?’ Buteau repeated, starting to open drawers and tap on the walls.

  At this Rose, terrified at the thought that father and son might come to blows, hung on her son's shoulders crying brokenly:

  ‘Do you want to be the death of us, you miserable boy?’

  Buteau suddenly turned towards her, seized her by the wrist, and thrusting his head against hers, without heeding her tired, worn face or her grey hair, he screamed:

  ‘It's all your fault. It's you who gave Hyacinthe the money. You've never loved me, you're an old witch!’

  And he pushed her away so violently that she reeled back and with a dull moan slid down against the wall. He looked at her for a moment, slumped forward like a limp rag; then he left with a wild look, slamming the door and blaspheming:

  ‘Christ All-bloody-mighty!’

  Next day, Rose was unable to leave her bed. They sent for Doctor Finet. He came three times but there was nothing he could do and on his third visit, seeing that she was at death's door, he drew Fouan on one side and asked as a favour whether he might not draw up the death certificate and leave it with him straight away: this would save him a further call, it was a practice he used in outlying districts. However, she lasted for another thirty-six hours. When asked about his wife, Fouan explained that it was the result of work and old age and once a body was worn out there was nothing else to do but to leave. But in Rognes, where the story was known, everyone said that it was shock. The funeral was attended by large numbers of people and Buteau and the rest of the family behaved very well.

  And when the hole in the churchyard had been filled in, old Fouan went back alone to the house where for fifty years they had lived and suffered. He ate some bread and cheese without sitting down and then he prowled round the empty buildings and garden, not knowing how to calm his grief. Unable to think of anything else to do, he went out and made his way up to the plateau to see if the wheat was growing in the fields that had once been his.

  Chapter 3

  AND so for a whole year Fouan lived like this in silence in his deserted house. He could always be found roaming around with trembling hands, never sitting down, doing nothing. He would stay for hours contemplating the rotting old manger in the cowshed and then go and stand by the door of the empty barn, as though plunged in a daydream. His garden kept him partly occupied; but his strength was failing, his stoop more pronounced as if the earth were drawing him into its bosom; on two occasions they had had to help him when he had fallen flat on his face in his lettuces.

  Ever since Jesus Christ had been given those twenty francs, only Delhomme had continued to pay him his pension, for Buteau firmly refused to hand over another penny: he would sooner be taken to court than see his money making its way into his rascally brother's pocket. Indeed, the latter was still managing to extract unwilling charity from his father, who could never resist his son's tears.

&nb
sp; At this point, seeing the old man so abandoned, exploited and desperately lonely, Delhomme hit upon the idea of offering to take him into his own home. Why not sell his house and come and live with his daughter? He would have everything he wanted and it would no longer be necessary to pay him his two hundred francs pension. Next day, having heard of this offer, Buteau rushed round to make a similar one, with a great display of filial duty. He didn't have the money to provide any luxuries, of course, but since it was for his father and nobody else, he could come along and get bed and board, in comfort. In his heart, he must have felt that his sister was trying to inveigle the old man into her house with the ulterior motive of laying hands on his alleged nest-egg. Buteau himself, however, was beginning to doubt the existence of this money which he had been vainly trying to track down. And being very much in two minds, it was pride which led him to offer asylum to his father, relying on the latter's probable refusal. He was unhappy at the thought that he might perhaps accept Delhomme's hospitality. In the event, Fouan showed extreme reluctance and indeed fear at both these suggestions. No, it was better to eat a crust of bread in your own home than meat in someone else's, it tasted less bitter. He'd lived there and there he'd die.

  Things continued like this until mid July, Saint Swithin's Day, which was the feast of Rognes's patron saint. A fair normally set up a tent for dancing in the meadows down by the Aigre and on the roadway opposite the town-hall there were three stalls, a shooting-gallery, a bazaar selling everything, including ribbons, and a lottery wheel which gave sticks of barley-sugar as prizes. So on that day Monsieur Baillehache, who was lunching at La Borderie, had stopped to have a chat with Delhomme and was persuaded to accompany him to old Fouan's house to try to make him see reason. Ever since Rose's death, the lawyer had also been advising the old man that it was pointless to go on living in a house that was now too large for him and that he should sell up and go and live with his daughter. The house was worth at least three thousand francs and Baillehache even offered to hold the money on his behalf and pay him a small pension out of it, for any little extra he might be needing.

  They found the old man in his usual state of bewilderment, loafing aimlessly about, standing stupidly in front of a pile of wood which needed sawing but lacking the strength to do it. That morning his poor old hands were trembling worse than ever because the day before he had suffered badly at the hands of Jesus Christ, who, wanting to wheedle twenty francs out of him to spend on the next day's festivities, had pulled out every stop, bellowing enough to drive the old man crazy, squirming about all over the floor and threatening to stab himself with a cutlass which he had slipped up his sleeve for the occasion. And the old man had handed over the twenty francs, as he confessed to the lawyer straight away with an anxious look.

  ‘Well, what would you have done? As for me, I just can't stand it, I can't put up with it any longer.’

  Monsieur Baillehache seized the opportunity thus offered:

  ‘You mustn't put up with it, it'll be the death of you. At your age it's not sensible to live alone, and if you don't want to be squeezed dry you must listen to your daughter, sell up and go and live with her.’

  ‘That's your advice, too, is it?’ mumbled Fouan.

  He was furtively watching Delhomme, who was pretending not to interfere, but seeing his father-in-law's suspicious glance he too spoke up.

  ‘You know, Father, I'm keeping quiet because you may be thinking it's in my interest to take you in… But heaven knows it won't be, it'll be a great upset for us… Only, you see, it annoys me to see you in such poor shape when you could be so comfortable.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ the old man replied. ‘I'll think about it a bit longer. When I've made up my mind I'll let you know, don't worry.’

  And neither Delhomme nor the lawyer could get anything more out of him. He complained that people were trying to rush him; but his obstinate refusal, even at the cost of his own comfort, was the old man's final attempt to hold on to the fading remnants of his former authority. Apart from his vague dread of being homeless, over and above having lost his land, he was saying no because everyone wanted him to say yes. So there must be something in it for those buggers? He'd say yes when he wanted to.

  The previous night a delighted Jesus Christ had been silly enough to show La Trouille his four five-franc pieces and as a result had gone to sleep clutching them in his fist, because last time the young hussy, taking advantage of the fact that he had come home tipsy, had sneaked one from under the bolster and claimed that he must have lost it. On waking up, he had a terrible shock because he had let go of the coins while sleeping; but he discovered that he had been keeping them cosy under his behind and was suddenly filled with great rejoicing, licking his lips in anticipation of blueing the lot at Lengaigne's; it was a holiday and only an idiot would have any money left in his pockets at the end of the day.

  Throughout that morning, La Trouille vainly tried to wheedle some money out of him, just a little bit, she said. He refused to listen and did not even thank her for the omelette she made for him with eggs she had stolen. No, being fond of your father just wasn't enough: money was men's business. So she crossly flung on her clothes, a blue poplin dress, a present dating from more affluent days, and said she was going to have a good time, too. And before she was twenty yards from the door, she turned round and shouted:

  ‘Father, Father, take a look at this!’

  Between her slim fingers she was holding up a fine, glittering five-franc piece. Thinking he had been robbed, Jesus Christ went pale and rummaged in his pockets. But the twenty francs were still there, the little tramp must have been doing some business with her geese; so he gave an appreciative grin at her sharpness and let her make herself scarce.

  There was only one point on which Jesus Christ was strict: morality. So he was very angry half an hour later when, just as he was closing his door to go off himself, a peasant in his Sunday best hailed him from the road below.

  ‘Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Your daughter's lying on her back.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Only that there's a man on top of her.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the ditch down at the corner of Guillaume's field.’

  He brandished his fists to heaven in fury.

  ‘Good! Thanks! I'll go and get my whip!… God-forsaken little bitch, bringing disgrace on the family!’

  He ran back into his house to unhook the big horsewhip which he kept hanging on the left, behind the door, especially for such occasions; and tucking it under his arm he went off, creeping along under the hedge like a man out shooting, so as to take the lovebirds unawares. But when he came out at the end in the road, he was spied by Nénesse, who was keeping watch on a heap of stones. It was Delphin who was on top of La Trouille, in fact, they were taking it in turns, one to keep cave while the other had his fun.

  ‘Look out,’ yelled Nénesse. ‘It's Jesus Christ!’

  He had seen the whip and he took to his heels over the fields, running like a hare.

  In the bottom of the grassy ditch, La Trouille quickly tipped Delphin off her; but she still had the presence of mind to hand him the five-franc piece.

  ‘Hide it in your shirt, you can let me have it back later. And now clear off quick, for Pete's sake!’

  Jesus Christ came thundering up, furiously cracking his long whip round his head, like rifle fire.

  ‘You hussy you, you trollop. I'm going to make you dance!’

  In his rage at seeing the gamekeeper's son, he missed him as he scrambled away on all fours through the brambles with his breeches half down. She was all tangled up, with her skirts in the air, and was in no position to deny what was happening. He gave her a lash round her thighs which brought her to her feet and dragged her out of the ditch. Then the pursuit began.

  ‘Take that, you slut! And see if that'll stuff it for you!’

  Without saying a word, La Trouil
le, used to this sort of chase, took off like a scalded cat. Her father's normal tactics were to drive her back to the house and then shut her in. So she was trying to make for the open country, hoping to tire him out. This time she nearly succeeded, thanks to a chance meeting. A moment earlier, Monsieur Charles and Élodie, whom he was taking to see the fair, had stopped in their tracks in the middle of the road. They had seen everything, the girl wide-eyed and stupefied with amazement, her father blushing for shame and bursting with respectable indignation. And worst of all, recognizing him, La Trouille shamelessly tried to put herself under his protection. He pushed her off, but the whip was after her and to avoid it she circled round her uncle and cousin, while her father, swearing like a trooper, abused her for her conduct as he followed her round, fiercely cracking his whip with all his might. Caught up in this disreputable circle, the only thing that the dazed and confused Monsieur Charles could do was to hide Élodie's face in his waistcoat. And so bewildered was he that he, too, started hurling abuse:

  ‘Get off, you dirty little slut! God, what have I done to deserve such a family in this Christ-forsaken village?’

  Forced into the open, La Trouille realized that she was lost. One whiplash caught her under the armpits and spun her round like a top; the next one removed a lock of her hair and flung her down onto the ground. After that, with no further escape possible, she had only one thought in mind: to make for shelter as rapidly as possible. Leaping over hedges and across ditches, she cut through the vineyards, nearly impaling herself on the stakes. But her legs were too short to keep up the struggle and the blows rained down on her plump shoulders and backside, still throbbing from her amorous antics, and all over her precocious little body. She even began to treat it as a joke, thinking it rather fun to be tickled so roughly. When she reached home and took refuge in a corner where the long whip could no longer reach her, she was even laughing, in a nervous, excited way.