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  Lise was greeting each stage of the operation with a heartrending sigh and it was difficult to say whether it was for herself or the calf. But suddenly Buteau brought in the head to show her. Everyone exclaimed out loud:

  ‘Oh, what a lovely calf!’

  Without stopping in her labour and still pushing harder than ever, with her muscles all tense and her thighs swollen, she seemed inconsolably sad.

  ‘Oh, goodness, what bad luck! Oh goodness, what a lovely calf! What bad luck, such a lovely calf, so lovely a calf, we've never seen a lovelier one!’

  Françoise was wailing, too, and all their expressions of grief seemed so aggressive and full of veiled criticism that Patoir took offence. He came rushing into the room, but had the decency to stop at the doorway.

  ‘I say, you there, don't say I didn't warn you. You begged me on bended knees to save your cow… I know you, you crafty lot. You're not to go about saying that I was responsible for killing your calf, d'you understand?’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Buteau mumbled, going back with him into the cowshed. ‘All the same, it was you who cut it out.’

  As Lise sat between her three chairs on the ground, ripples were running under her skin, starting from her waist, and ending at the top of her thighs, as her flesh kept stretching more and more. And Françoise, who had hitherto been too disconsolate to look, was suddenly flabbergasted as she stood in front of her sister and saw her nakedness, foreshortened so that all she could see were her knees drawn up at an angle on each side of her balloon of a belly, with a round cavity in between. It was so unexpected and distorted and enormous that she was not even embarrassed. She could never have imagined anything like it, this gaping hole like a barrel with the top knocked in or a wide-open skylight in a hayloft for tossing the hay through, with a curly black rim of bushy ivy round it; and then she noticed another, smaller ball, the baby's head moving in and out with every push, like a jack-in-the-box, and she was seized with such a violent urge to laugh that she had to cough in order not to appear callous.

  ‘Not much longer,’ promised Frimat's wife, ‘keep going, it's nearly there.’

  She was kneeling down between Lise's legs, watching the baby and ready to catch it. But it was being awkward, as Buteau would say; it even disappeared altogether for a moment and you might have thought it had gone back in. Only then was Françoise able to tear her eyes away from this fascinating sight, like an oven door staring her in the face; and she at once became embarrassed, so she walked round to take hold of her sister's hand, feeling sorry for Lise now that she had looked away.

  ‘Oh, poor Lise, it's hard going.’

  ‘Oh yes, it is, and nobody's got any sympathy for me… If only someone was sorry for me… Oh dear, it's beginning again, won't he ever come out!’

  This could have gone on for some time, but suddenly there were cries of astonishment from the cowshed. It was Patoir who, surprised that Coliche was still twisting and lowing, suspected that there might be a second calf; and in fact when he thrust his hand in again he brought another one out, this time without any trouble, like taking a handkerchief out of his pocket. Always one for a joke, he was so amused that he lost all sense of propriety and rushed into the bedroom carrying the calf, followed by Buteau, who was also laughing.

  ‘Well, old girl, you wanted one and here it is.’

  And it was laughable to see him stark-naked under his apron, his arms, face and entire body spattered with dung and the calf still dripping wet, looking drunk with its heavy head and surprised expression.

  Amidst the delighted cries of everyone, as soon as Lise saw him she was seized by an interminable and uncontrollable fit of hysterical laughter.

  ‘Oh God, he's funny! Oh, it's silly of you to make me laugh like this! Oh dear, how it's hurting me, I'm splitting. No, please don't make me laugh any more, I just can't stand it, it'll finish me.’

  Her laughter was rumbling away in her fat bosom and down into her stomach where it echoed like a gale of wind. She was all distended and the child's head had started pumping to and fro again, like a cannon-ball about to be fired.

  But the climax came when, putting the calf down at his feet, Patoir tried to wipe the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. He left behind a large trail of cowdung, like a scar, and everyone split their sides with laughter while Lise choked and uttered shrill cackles like a hen laying an egg.

  ‘That's enough, you funny man, you'll be the death of me! Stop it, damn you, I can't take any more… Oh, heavens, it's bursting…’

  The vast hole gaped even wider, so that you could have imagined that Frimat's wife, still kneeling there, was going to fall into it, and all at once, like a human cannon-ball, the baby shot out, all red, with its extremities pale and dripping wet. All they heard was the glug-glug of a vast bottle being emptied, then the newborn child started bawling while its mother went on laughing even more, shaking like a deflating goatskin bottle. So there were cries at one end and laughter at the other. And Buteau was slapping his thighs and Bécu's wife holding her sides, Patoir burst into loud guffaws and even Françoise, whose hand had been crushed by Lise during the final push, finally gave way to her feelings too, still seeing in her mind's eye her sister's hole, like a cathedral big enough to house the whole of her husband.

  ‘It's a girl!’ said Frimat's wife.

  ‘No, it can't be,’ said Lise. ‘I don't want her, I want a boy.’

  ‘All right, I'll send her back and you can start on a boy tomorrow.’

  This time they were almost sick with laughter. Then, as the calf was still lying on the floor in front of her, Lise, slowly regaining her composure, said sadly:

  ‘The other calf was such a lovely one… We really should have had two of them.’

  Patoir went off after giving Coliche three litres of sweetened wine. Frimat's wife undressed Lise and put her to bed in the bedroom while, helped by Françoise, Bécu's wife removed the straw and swept up. In ten minutes everything was tidy again and you would never have imagined that a birth had just taken place had it not been for the constant wailing of the baby girl who was being washed in warm water. But once she had been wrapped up and put into her cradle, she slowly quietened down; and her mother, now completely exhausted, slept like a log, her red face looking almost black against the rough unbleached linen sheets.

  At about eleven o'clock, after the two neighbours had left, Françoise told Buteau that he had better go and rest in the loft… She had spread a mattress on the ground for the night since she intended to sleep near her sister. He made no reply and finished off his pipe in silence. A great calm had settled over the house and the only sound was Lise's heavy breathing as she slept. Then, as Françoise was kneeling down on her mattress in the shadow at the foot of the bed itself, Buteau, still not saying a word, suddenly came up behind her and tipped her over. She turned round and his tense flushed face immediately told her what was happening. He was at it again, he hadn't given up the idea of having her, and his desire must have been very strong for him suddenly to want her like that, beside his wife, after such unappetizing sights. She pushed him away and he fell over backwards. Panting, the two struggled in silence.

  ‘What's up with you?’ he said with a grin, lowering his voice. ‘I can cope with the two of you.’

  He knew her well and was sure she would never cry out. And in fact she was resisting without uttering a word, too proud to involve her sister and not wanting anyone to meddle in her business, not even Lise. He was crushing her and on the point of overpowering her.

  ‘It'd be so nice. As we're living in the same house, we'd always be together.’

  But then he had to restrain a cry of pain. Silently, she had sunk her nails into his neck. Now he became really angry and mentioned Jean's name.

  ‘If you think you're going to marry that blackguard of yours… Never, not until you come of age.’

  This time, as he was coarsely groping with his hand right up her skirt, she gave him such a kick between
his legs that he yelled in pain. He sprang to his feet, casting a scared look towards the bed. His wife was still asleep and breathing gently. Nonetheless, he went away, with a menacing wave of his fist.

  When Françoise had stretched out on the mattress, she lay with her eyes open, in the great stillness which had descended on the room. Never would she let him do it, she wouldn't do it even if she wanted to. And she felt surprised, because the idea that she might marry Jean had not till now entered her head.

  Chapter 6

  FOR the last two days Jean had been working in the fields Hourdequin owned close to Rognes, where the farmer had set up a steam threshing machine, hired from a mechanic from Châteaudun who took it round the villages between Bonneval and Cloyes. The young man fetched the sheaves from the near-by stacks with his cart and two horses and then carried the grain away to the farm; while the machine puffed and blew from morning till night, sending up a golden cloud of dust in the sunlight and filling the surrounding countryside with its incessant loud rumble.

  Sick at heart, Jean was racking his brains to see how he could have Françoise again. A month had already gone by since he had held her in his arms, at the very spot where he was threshing the wheat, and now she was scared and avoiding him. He despaired of ever having her again and his lust was growing into an obsession. As he drove his horses, he would ask himself why he shouldn't just go to the Buteaus and ask for her hand in marriage. As yet there had been no open or definitive quarrel between them. He always called out a greeting to them when he went by. And once the idea had entered his head that marriage was the only way of possessing her again, he soon persuaded himself that it was his duty and it would be wrong of him not to marry her.

  All the same, when Jean went back to his machine the following morning, he felt apprehensive. He would never have dared make the approach had he not seen Buteau and Françoise going off to work in the fields together. He thought that as Lise had always been friendly disposed towards him, he would be less scared of her, so he handed his horses over to a friend and slipped away.

  ‘Hallo, Jean, so it's you,’ Lise cried cheerfully, now thoroughly recovered from the birth of her daughter. ‘We haven't seen you for ages. What's up?’

  He apologized and then, with the abruptness often found in shy people, he explained the purpose of his visit. At first she might have imagined that it was herself he was making advances to, because he reminded her that he had been in love with her and would have been happy to marry her. Then he added quickly:

  ‘And that's why I'd be happy to marry Françoise, if anyone asked me to.’

  She looked at him in such surprise that he faltered:

  ‘Oh, I know that's not the way to do it… I just wanted to tell you.’

  ‘Well, I never!’ she said in the end… ‘I'm surprised because I didn't really expect it, seeing the difference in age… But first of all we must find out what Françoise thinks about it all.’

  He had gone along with the intention of admitting everything, so that he would be forced to marry Françoise. But at the last moment, he had qualms. If Françoise hadn't confessed to her sister and nobody knew about it, had he the right to mention it first? He felt discouraged and ashamed at being thirty-three years old.

  ‘Of course,’ he mumbled, ‘we'd talk to her about it, nobody would force her.’

  Meanwhile, now that her surprise was over, Lise was looking at him in her cheerful way and it was plain that the prospect was quite to her liking. She was even inviting.

  ‘It'll be up to her, Jean. I don't agree with Buteau that she's too young. She's rising eighteen and sturdy enough to take on two men rather than one… And then it's all very well being fond of each other as sisters, you know, but now that she's a young woman I'd sooner have a servant who I could give orders to. If she says yes, then you marry her. You're a good sort and there's many a good tune played on an old fiddle.’

  It was a cry from the heart, revealing the slow breach which was inexorably opening between her and her younger sister, a hostility that sprang from the aggravations of daily life, a dull hatred and jealousy which had been simmering inside her ever since there was a male in the house, with all his demands and appetites.

  In delight Jean gave her a big kiss on both cheeks when she added:

  ‘And we're baptizing our little girl today and the family are coming to dinner this evening… Come along and you can ask old Fouan, who's her guardian, if Françoise will have you.’

  ‘All right,’ he cried, ‘see you this evening!’

  And he strode back to his horses and drove them hard all day to the music of his whip, which cracked like the guns they let off on the morning of a village holiday.

  The Buteaus were indeed finally having their daughter baptized, after many delays. First of all, Lise had insisted on being quite recovered, so that she could fully enjoy the party. Then, being ambitious, she was determined to have the Charles as godparents; and when they condescendingly agreed, it had been necessary to wait while Madame Charles lent her daughter a hand in the business: it was September and fair-time and the house in the Rue aux Juifs was working overtime. And as Lise had explained to Jean, it was going to be a purely family gathering: Fouan, La Grande and the Delhommes, in addition to the two godparents.

  But at the last minute, great difficulties had arisen with Father Godard, who was conducting a running feud with Rognes. He had tried to bear his soul in patience and accept the four miles he had to walk every time he held Mass, and the galling demands of a village which was basically irreligious, as long as there was hope that the town council would eventually offer itself the luxury of becoming a parish. But his patience was exhausted and he could no longer deceive himself. Every year the council rejected the proposal to repair the presbytery and the mayor, Hourdequin, claimed that the budget was already too high. The only person who showed any consideration for the priesthood was the deputy mayor, Macqueron, who had secret ambitions of his own. And so since there was no longer any point in humouring the village, the priest was treating it without compunction, paring the services to the bone, with no extra prayers thrown in or indulgences such as candles or incense. As a result, he was perpetually squabbling with the women of the village. In June especially there had almost been a pitched battle over the question of first communion. There were five children, two girls and three boys, in the catechism classes which he held every Sunday after Mass; and since it would have meant coming back to confess them, he had insisted on their going to him at Bazoches-le-Doyen. This caused a first uproar amongst the women; thanks very much! Two miles there and two miles back! And who knows what would happen when boys and girls were left by themselves, going about together like that? And then the storm broke – a storm of terrifying dimensions – when he bluntly refused to perform the ceremony in Rognes, High Mass and the rest. He was going to perform it in his own parish, the five children were free to come along if they so wished. For a fortnight, the women at the fountain were almost speechless with wrath: so he would baptize them, marry them and bury them in the village but he wasn't prepared to give them communion there! He stuck to his guns, said just a low Mass, despatched the five communicants at the double and refused to offer a single flower or an extra oremus in consolation; and he even sent them packing when, aggrieved at such a travesty of this solemn ceremony, they begged him with tears in their eyes to sing Vespers. Nothing at all! He was giving them what he was in duty bound to give, they could have had High Mass, Vespers and anything else they wanted at Bazoches if they hadn't been so unruly and in rebellion against the Lord. Ever since this incident, there was imminent danger of a complete break between Father Godard and Rognes and the slightest clash could bring disaster.

  When Lise went to see the priest to arrange for her daughter's baptism, he suggested one Sunday after Mass but she asked if he would come back at two o'clock on Tuesday because the godmother wouldn't be back from Chartres until that morning. He finally agreed, warning them to be on time, because, he adde
d firmly, he wasn't prepared to wait for them one second, not one second.

  On Tuesday, Father Godard arrived at the church punctually at two o'clock, out of breath from his walk and wet from a sudden shower. There was nobody in sight except Hilarion, who was at the entrance of the nave, clearing out a corner of the baptistery littered with old paving-stones which had always been there. Ever since his sister's death, the cripple had been living on public funds and the priest, who used to slip him a franc now and again, had had the idea of keeping him occupied by cleaning out this corner, something he had thought of having done many a time but had never got round to doing. He stood watching for a few minutes and then gave an angry start.

  ‘Good gracious, what do they take me for? It's ten past two already.’

  As he was looking across the square at the Buteaus' house, silent and dead, he caught sight of the gamekeeper standing waiting in the porch, smoking his pipe.

  ‘Go on, ring the bell, Bécu,’ he cried. ‘That'll fetch them along, the slowcoaches.’

  Bécu started tugging away, very drunk as always. The priest went to put on his surplice. He had already written up the register the previous Sunday and was intending to hurry through the service by himself, without the assistance of the choirboys, who drove him frantic. When everything was ready, he again lost patience. A further ten minutes went by and the bell continued to toll persistently and infuriatingly in the utter stillness of the deserted village.

  ‘What on earth are they up to? We'll have to drag them along by their ears.’

  At last he saw La Grande come out of the Buteaus', walking with her usual gait of an evil old queen, as straight and dry as an old stick, despite her eighty-five years. The family was in a state of great perturbation, for all the guests had arrived except the godmother, whom they had been vainly expecting ever since the morning, and an embarrassed Monsieur Charles kept saying that it was most surprising, because he had received a letter only the evening before; perhaps Madame Charles had been held up at Cloyes; she would surely be along any minute now. Uneasy because she knew that the priest disliked being kept waiting, Lise had finally thought of sending La Grande along to ask him to be patient a little longer.