The Earth Read online

  At this very same moment, Françoise awoke with a start, got up and opened the window of her attic for a breath of air. She had dreamt that people were fighting and that dogs were biting away at the door below. As soon as the air had cooled her somewhat, her thoughts came back to the two men, one of whom desired her, the other who had possessed her; and her thoughts went no further, she simply let the ideas go round and round in her head without attempting to come to any conclusion. But suddenly she pricked up her ears: was it a dream after all? A dog was howling in the distance down by the Aigre. Then she remembered: it was Hilarion who, since nightfall, had been howling beside Palmyre's dead body. People had tried to drive him away and he had clung on, biting and snapping and refusing to leave the remains of the sister who was his wife, his all; and he kept on howling and howling endlessly, until it filled the whole night. Trembling, Françoise remained listening for a long while.

  Chapter 5

  ‘I DO hope Coliche doesn't have her calf at the same time as me,’ Lise would say every morning.

  And she would drag her enormous belly along to the cowshed and stand lost in thought, anxiously watching the cow whose belly had grown enormous too. Never had a cow had such a swollen belly, as round as a barrel and perched on top of legs that seemed to have grown thinner. The nine months would be up exactly on Saint Fiacre's Day, because Françoise had carefully noted the date when she had taken her to the bull. Unfortunately, it was Lise who was not so certain within a few days either way. The baby had materialized so oddly that she was unable to know exactly. But it would certainly be making its appearance around Saint Fiacre's Day, perhaps the day before, perhaps the day after. And she kept on repeating dolefully:

  ‘I do hope Coliche doesn't have her calf at the same time as me! What a nuisance that would be. Good heavens, we'd really be in the soup!’

  Coliche was the spoilt darling of the household where she had now been for the last ten years. She had become one of the family. The Buteaus took refuge beside her because they had no other heating than her warm body. And the cow herself was very affectionate, particularly towards Françoise. She would lick her with her rough tongue until she almost drew blood and take a corner of her skirt between her teeth to make her come and stay beside her. So as her time drew near they took particular care of her: hot soup, little outings at the right time of the day, and attention at all times. It was not only that they loved her; she also represented five hundred francs and milk, butter and cheese, a real fortune that would disappear if they lost her.

  A fortnight had gone by since the harvest. Françoise had resumed her normal life in the household as if nothing had happened between her and Buteau. He seemed to have forgotten and she herself was trying not to think about such disturbing things. She had seen Jean and warned him not to come to the house. He hung about under the hedgerows looking for her and implored her to slip away and come and meet him in certain ditches which he described to her. But she was scared and kept refusing, hiding her coldness under a cloak of caution: later on, when she wouldn't be needed so much at home. And one evening when he came on her unexpectedly as she was going down to buy some sugar at Macqueron's, she stubbornly refused to follow him behind the church and would talk of nothing but Coliche all the time, and how her bones were beginning to give way and her behind opening up, proof positive, as he himself confirmed, that her calf was nearly due.

  Then what should happen but on the very eve of Saint Fiacre's Day, after dinner, Lise was crippled by griping pains as she was standing in the cowshed with her sister watching the cow, which was also standing with her thighs apart because of her swollen belly and gently lowing because she too was in pain:

  ‘I told you so,’ she cried angrily, ‘now we are in the soup!’

  Bent double, holding her belly in both hands and squeezing it hard as a punishment, she launched into loud recriminations: for Christ's sake, don't bother me now! You could at least have waited! It felt like flies biting her down the side and the pains, starting in her back, shot right down to her knees. She stamped her foot and refused to go and lie down, repeating that she would push it back in.

  At about ten o'clock, when young Jules had been put to bed, Buteau decided to go to sleep himself, annoyed that nothing was happening. He left Lise and Françoise in the cowshed, patiently watching over Coliche, whose pains were getting worse. They were both getting worried because there did not appear to be much progress, even although the bones seemed to have moved into the right position. Now that the passage was all ready, why didn't the calf come? They stroked her and encouraged her and brought her sweets and sugar, which she refused, hanging her head and violently jerking her hindquarters. At midnight Lise, who had till now been writhing in pain, suddenly felt relief: for her it had just been a false alarm, a few stray pains, but she was convinced that it was she who had forced the baby back in, as if she had stopped herself from emptying her bowels. And she and her sister kept watch over Coliche all night, relieving her by applying burning hot flannels to her skin, whilst Rougette, the other cow which they had bought at Cloyes market, surprised by the lighted candle, watched them with her big drowsy blue-black eyes.

  At daybreak, seeing that there was still nothing happening, Françoise decided to go and fetch their neighbour, Frimat's wife. She was the recognized expert and had helped so many cows that people were always ready to call her in for difficult cases, to avoid sending for the veterinary surgeon. As soon as she arrived, she pulled a face:

  ‘She doesn't look too good,’ she muttered. ‘How long has she been like that?’

  ‘About twelve hours.’

  The old woman continued to circle round behind the cow, sticking her nose in everywhere, with little jerks of her chin and a grim expression which scared the other two women.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said finally, ‘here's the sac coming. We must wait and see.’

  So they spent the whole day watching the sac forming as it filled up and was pushed out by the waters. They studied it, measured it, assessed it: a bag that was as good as any other, after all, even if it was too long and big. But at nine o'clock, progress halted again and the bag hung down, stationary and pitiful, swinging to and fro like a pendulum moved by the convulsive quivering of the cow whose condition was visibly deteriorating.

  When Buteau came in from the fields for lunch he was scared, too, and talked of fetching the vet, despite his qualms at the thought of what it would cost him.

  ‘A vet?’ said Frimat's wife acidly. ‘So you want him to kill the poor beast, do you, like old Saucisse's cow, right under their very noses? No, look, I'm going to burst the sac and I'll go in and fetch your calf out myself.’

  ‘But Monsieur Patoir doesn't like you to burst the sac,’ Françoise pointed out. ‘He says that the water in it helps.’

  Frimat's wife shrugged her shoulders. Patoir was an ass! And she cut the bag with a stroke of her scissors. The waters poured out like water through a sluice-gate, and as they failed to jump back in time, they were all splashed. For a moment, Coliche breathed more freely and the old woman said triumphantly, ‘I told you so!’ She smeared her right hand with butter and inserted it to try to discover the exact position of the calf. She slowly felt around inside. Lise and Françoise looked on, blinking anxiously. Buteau, who had not gone back to work, was himself waiting breathlessly, without a movement.

  ‘I can feel the feet,’ she murmured, ‘but there's no head… That's not very good when you can't feel the head.’

  She had to withdraw her hand. Coliche had such a violent contraction that the legs appeared. That was something, at least, and the Buteaus sighed in relief: at the sight of these feet they felt that a bit of their calf was on its way, and they at once had only one idea in mind, which was to pull it out, so that they could have all of it straight away, as if afraid that it might go back in and not come out again.

  ‘Better not rush her,’ said Frimat's wife cautiously. ‘It'll come out in the end.’

  Françoise agree
d. But Buteau was becoming excited and kept continually catching hold of the feet, annoyed that they were not becoming any longer. All of a sudden, he took a piece of rope and tied a strong knot in it, helped by his wife who was as excited as he was; and as Bécu's wife, always with a nose for something out of the ordinary, came in at that very moment, they all hung onto the rope and pulled, first Buteau, then Frimat's wife, then Bécu's wife, Françoise and even Lise, crouching down with her big belly.

  ‘Heave ho!’ Buteau was crying. ‘All together! Ah, the brute, he hasn't budged an inch, he's stuck. Come out, you bugger!’

  The women, breathless and bathed in perspiration, were repeating: ‘Heave ho! Come out, you bugger!’

  But then an accident occurred. The old piece of rope, half rotten, broke and they all fell head over heels in the litter, shouting and swearing.

  ‘It doesn't matter, there's no harm done,’ said Lise, as they hurried to pick her up where she had tumbled against the wall.

  However, hardly was she on her feet than she came over dizzy and had to sit down. A quarter of an hour later she was sitting holding her stomach with the same violent, regular pains that she had had the evening before. And she had thought she'd made it go back in! But what real bad luck it was that the cow was so slow and she had started up again, so strongly that she might even be first. You can't escape fate, it must have been written that they would both give birth together. She was heaving great sighs and a quarrel broke out between her and her husband. Why had she joined them in tugging, for Christ's sake? What business of hers was someone else's sac? Empty your own first, for God's sake! She was in such pain that she returned his insults: dirty beast, if he hadn't filled her up it wouldn't be giving her all that trouble now.

  ‘That's just talk,’ remarked Frimat's wife. ‘It won't get you anywhere.’

  And Bécu's wife added:

  ‘But it does make you feel better.’

  Fortunately, they had got rid of young Jules by sending him off to Cousin Delhomme's. It was three o'clock, the house was all upside-down: on the one hand there was Lise, who insisted on sitting on an old chair, writhing and groaning, on the other Coliche, who kept making the same sort of sound, trembling and sweating and looking worse and worse. The second cow, Rougette, had started lowing with fright. Then Françoise lost her head and, swearing and shouting, Buteau suggested having another tug. They called in two neighbours and the six of them set to pulling as if they were uprooting an oak, using a new rope which did not break. But Coliche swayed, fell on her side in the straw and lay stretched out gasping pitifully.

  ‘The bugger, we shan't get him,’ said Buteau, covered in sweat, ‘and we'll lose the bloody cow as well.’

  Françoise clasped her hands and implored him to go and fetch Monsieur Patoir. ‘It doesn't matter what it costs, go and fetch him!’

  He was looking glum, but after a final struggle, without saying a word, he got out his cart.

  Ever since they had mentioned Patoir's name, Frimat's wife had been pretending to have nothing further to do with the cow but she now became concerned about Lise. She was also an expert on childbirth and all her neighbours had passed through her hands. She seemed worried and she imparted her fears to Bécu's wife, who called Buteau back as he was hitching up the cart.

  ‘I say, your wife's in great pain. How about bringing a doctor as well?’

  His eyes nearly popped out of his head and for a moment he was at a loss for words. What? Someone else who wanted to be petted and pampered! He certainly wasn't going to pay for everybody!

  ‘Don't do it,’ cried Lise between two spasms. ‘I can manage. We haven't got money to fling down the drain.’

  Buteau hastily whipped up his horse and as night was falling the cart disappeared down the road to Cloyes. When Patoir arrived a couple of hours later, he found everything at the same stage, Coliche at her last gasp, still lying on her side, and Lise half slipping off her chair and wriggling like a worm. All this had now been going on for twenty-four hours.

  ‘Which one's mine?’ enquired the vet, who was something of a wag.

  And then, turning to Lise, he added familiarly:

  ‘Well, old girl, if it's not you, will you do me the favour of popping straight into bed? You need to.’

  She did not reply and made no move to go. He was already examining the cow.

  ‘What the devil! She's in a pretty poor state, your cow. You always send for me too late. And you've been tugging at it, I can see that, eh? You'd sooner have split her in two than wait, wouldn't you, you clumsy lot!’

  They all stood, listening respectfully, and full of gloom, with hangdog expressions. Patoir took off his coat, tucked up his sleeves and pushed the feet back in, after tying them together with a cord, in order to be able to retrieve them. Then he thrust his right hand in.

  ‘Of course,’ he said after a moment. ‘It's just what I thought. The head's twisted backwards to the left, you could have pulled until doomsday and not got it out. And let me tell you, your calf's a goner. I'm not anxious to cut my fingers on his toothy-pegs trying to turn him round. In any case, I couldn't manage it even then and I'd risk damaging your cow.’

  Françoise burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, Monsieur Patoir, please save our cow. Poor old Coliche is so fond of me.’

  And both Lise, pale in the face as a sudden spasm seized her, and Buteau, himself fit as a fiddle and normally so hard-hearted about other people's misfortunes, added their own lamentations and supplications:

  ‘Please save our cow, she's been giving us such lovely milk for years and years. Do save her, Monsieur Patoir.’

  ‘You realize that I'll have to cut the calf up?’

  ‘Oh, damn the calf! Save our cow, Monsieur Patoir.’

  So the surgeon, who had brought along a big blue apron, asked to borrow some canvas trousers and, having stripped off completely in a corner behind Rougette, he simply slipped on the trousers and tied the apron round his waist. When he reappeared in this scanty outfit, short and stout with his nice, friendly pugface, Coliche raised her head and stopped moaning, doubtless in surprise. But everyone was too tense to smile.

  ‘Light some candles!’

  He stuck four of them on the ground and lay down in the straw on his stomach, behind the cow which could no longer get up. For a second he lay flat on the ground with his head stuck between the animal's thighs. Then he decided to pull the feet out with the cord and examined them closely. He lifted himself onto one elbow and was taking a lancet out of a small oblong bag when a hoarse moan made him sit up in surprise.

  ‘What's that? Oh, you're still there, old girl? I said to myself: that's not the cow.’

  It was Lise with agonizing labour pains and pushing hard.

  ‘For goodness' sake, go and do your job next door, will you, and let me do mine here? It's putting me off and getting on my nerves, damn it, hearing you pushing away behind me… Look, is there anyone with common sense around? Take her away, some of you!’

  Frimat's wife took one arm and Bécu's the other and together they finally got Lise into her bedroom. She slumped down between them with no further strength to resist. But as they went through the kitchen, lit by one solitary candle, she insisted that they leave all the doors open: she would not be so far away like that. Frimat's wife had already made up the childbed in the usual country manner: a sheet thrown over a bundle of straw and three chairs turned on their sides in the middle of the room. Lise crouched down, spread out her legs and leant back against one chair, with her right leg against the second one and her left against the third. She had not even undressed; she was bracing her feet in her floppy old slippers and her blue stockings came up to her knees, her skirt, pulled high over her chest, exposed her enormous belly and her very white, fat thighs, so spreadeagled that you could see right up inside her.

  Buteau and Françoise had stayed in the cowshed, squatting down on their haunches, each holding a candle close for Patoir, who had lain down again and was cutting thro
ugh the calf's left hock with his lancet. He detached the skin, tugged at the shoulder and loosened it until it came right away. But Françoise went pale and nearly fainted; dropping her candle, she ran off crying:

  ‘Poor old Coliche… I can't look at it!’

  Patoir lost his temper, especially as he had to stand up and put out an incipient blaze caused by the falling candle.

  ‘Silly little girl! You'd take her for a princess to be squeamish like that!… She'll make roast pork of us!’

  Françoise ran away and flung herself down in a chair in the room where Lise was in labour; her extraordinary spreadeagled posture made no impression on her, as though she found it quite natural after what she had just seen. Brushing away the sight of all that living flesh being sliced up, in a faltering voice she described what they were doing to the cow.

  ‘That won't do, I must go back,’ Lise said at once, and despite her pains she half raised herself among the chairs.

  But the two older women angrily held her down.

  ‘Now, will you stay still! What on earth's taken possession of you?’ And Frimat's wife added:

  ‘Look! Now you've burst your sac, too!’

  And the waters had indeed spurted out suddenly and been immediately soaked up by the straw under the sheet; and the final effort to expel the baby began. Her bare belly continued pushing instinctively, expanding like a balloon about to burst while her legs in their blue stockings bent up and straightened out convulsively like a frog diving.

  ‘I tell you what,’ Bécu's wife went on. ‘To keep you quiet I'll go over myself and let you know what's happening.’

  After that, she kept running to and fro from the room to the cowshed; but in the end, to save herself the journey, she stood in the middle of the kitchen and shouted. The veterinary surgeon was continuing his operation in the litter soaked in blood and slimy mucus, a foul and laborious job which left him in a revolting state, filthy from top to toe.

  ‘It's going all right,’ Bécu's wife was shouting. ‘Keep on pushing, no worry… We've got the other shoulder. And now they're tugging off the head. He's got the head, goodness me what a head. And it's all over now, the body came out in one go.’