The Earth Page 35

  It so happened that one day when Fouan was walking back from Cloyes after collecting his money from his lawyer and had sat down to rest in a ditch, Jesus Christ, who was strolling around examining rabbit burrows, caught sight of him very absorbed in counting five-franc pieces into his handkerchief. He immediately crouched down, crept along and came to a spot where he could look down on his father. And lying flat on the ground, he was surprised to see him carefully wrap up a considerable sum of money, perhaps as much as eighty francs in his handkerchief. His eyes glinted and he gave a woolfish grin. His old idea of a secret nest-egg had immediately sprung to mind. The old man had obviously some bonds tucked away somewhere and took advantage of his quarterly visit to Monsieur Baillehache to collect the interest. Jesus Christ's first thought was to wheedle twenty francs out of his father by blubbering. But then that seemed to him too petty and a more ambitious scheme began to take shape in his mind. He slid away like a snake as gently as he had come, so that having returned to the road Fouan had no suspicions when he met him a hundred yards further on, walking with the casual air of a young fellow also on his way back to Rognes. They finished the journey together, chatting; the father inevitably came round to the topic of the Buteaus, a heartless lot, and he accused them of starving him; and his son, his eyes full of tears, good-naturedly offered to rescue him from such scum by taking him in himself. Why not come? It would be fun, there was never a dull moment with him! La Trouille cooked for two, she would cook for three. And damned good cooking, too, when they had the money.

  Surprised and vaguely suspicious at this proposal, Fouan refused. No, he was too old to keep running about from one person to another, changing his habits every year.

  ‘Well, Father, you know I mean it, think it over. Anyhow, you can always be sure you won't find yourself on the street. When you've had your fill of those swine, come up to the Castle.’

  And Jesus Christ left him, puzzled and intrigued and wondering what the old boy could be blueing his money on, since he obviously had quite a lot. A pile of five-franc pieces like that, four times a year, must add up to at least three hundred francs. And if he wasn't blueing it, then he must be saving it? That would be worth looking into. That'd be a really tidy sum!

  That day, a mild, damp November day, when Fouan came home, Buteau tried to relieve him of the thirty-seven francs and fifty centimes that he received every three months from the sale of his house. It had been agreed, in any case, that the old man should hand them over, as well as the two hundred francs a year from the Delhommes. But this time, a five-franc piece had found its way in with the ones he had tied up in his handkerchief, and after he had turned out his pockets and produced only thirty-two francs and fifty centimes his son flew into a rage, accused his father of cheating and squandering the five francs on drink and foul practices of some sort or other. Startled and keeping his hand on his handkerchief, with the secret fear that they might search him, his father was stammering an explanation and swearing to heaven that he must have lost it when he had blown his nose. Once again, the household was in an uproar until the evening.

  Buteau was in a particularly savage mood because as he was coming back with his harrow he had caught a glimpse of Jean and Françoise slipping behind a wall. The latter had gone out on the pretext of fetching grass for her cows and had failed to reappear because she suspected the sort of welcome she would receive. Night was already falling and Buteau kept furiously going out into the yard and down the road to watch out for that slut coming back from her fancy man. He was swearing loudly and shouting abuse without noticing old Fouan on the stone bench where he had gone to calm down after the quarrel and take a breath of warm air, for this mild sunny November was really springlike.

  A sound of clogs was heard coming up the slope and Françoise appeared, bent double under an enormous bundle of grass tied in a piece of old canvas cloth on her shoulders. She was gasping and sweating, half hidden under her load.

  ‘Well, you Christ-forsaken little whore!’ yelled Buteau. ‘If you think you can make a fool of me and spend two hours being upped by your lover when there's work to do here!’

  And he tipped her up into the bundle of grass, which had fallen on the ground, and flung himself on her just as Lise came out of the house to pitch into her as well:

  ‘Well, you bloody shirker, just come here and feel my foot up your behind! Aren't you ashamed of yourself?’

  But Buteau had already thrust his arm up her skirt and grabbed a handful of her flesh. His rages always used to turn into a sudden frenzy of desire. While he was lifting her skirts on the grass, he grunted and gasped, all purple and bloated in the face:

  ‘Bloody trollop, this time it's my turn. God strike me blind if I don't have you after him!’

  A furious struggle began. In the dark, old Fouan could not see exactly what was happening. But he did see Lise standing watching and doing nothing; while her husband, sprawling at full length and continually being unsaddled, still kept trying without success until finally he relieved himself as best he could without caring where.

  When he had finished, Françoise at last jerked herself free, panting and stammering:

  ‘Beast! Beast! Dirty beast! You couldn't manage it, that doesn't count. I don't give a damn for that! You'll never do it, never, never, never!’

  Triumphantly she took a handful of grass and wiped her thigh, her whole body trembling, as if it too had been partly satisfied by her obstinate refusal. And then, with a gesture of bravado, she flung the handful of grass at her sister's feet:

  ‘Here you are! That's yours and it's not your fault if I can give it back to you!’

  Lise slapped her across her mouth to keep her quiet when old Fouan, utterly disgusted, stood up flourishing his stick and intervened:

  ‘Dirty swine, the pair of you! Leave her alone, will you? That's enough.’

  Lights were coming on in the houses all around, people were beginning to be uneasy at this dreadful uproar and Buteau hurriedly pushed his father and the girl into the kitchen at the back where there was a candle alight, revealing Laure and Jules crouching terrified in a corner. Lise came in too, not saying a word, startled by the old man's sudden appearance in the dark. He went on, addressing his daughter.

  ‘You really are too disgusting and stupid. You were watching, I saw you.’

  With all his strength Buteau banged his fist down on the edge of the table:

  ‘Shut up! That's enough; I'll bash the first person who opens his mouth.’

  ‘And suppose I don't want to shut up?’ asked Fouan, in a quivering voice. ‘Will you bash me?’

  ‘You or anyone else. You're getting on my wick!’

  Françoise bravely put herself between the two men.

  ‘Please, Uncle, don't interfere. You can see that I'm big enough to defend myself.’

  But the old man pushed her aside:

  ‘No, leave me alone, this doesn't concern you, it's my business.’

  And raising his stick:

  ‘So you'd strike me, would you, you dirty swine! We'll have to see about that. I might want to give you a thrashing myself.’

  Buteau quickly snatched his stick from him and flung it under the cupboard, then, with a wild look in his eyes, he stuck his face under the old man's nose and jeered:

  ‘Will you shut your bloody trap? If you think I'm going to put up with your airs and graces, you're mistaken! Just look at me, I'll show you what I'm made of!’

  The two men stood glaring at each other in silence, each trying to outstare the other. Since he had come into his property, the son had broadened out and stood thickset and sturdy on his legs, his jaws protruding even more like a bulldog's beneath his narrow receding skull; whereas his father, broken by sixty years of toil, had become even more desiccated and bent; his only strong remaining feature was his enormous nose.

  ‘What you're made of?’ repeated Fouan. ‘I know that only too well because I made you.’

  Buteau sneered:

  ‘That's your f
ault. But now I'm here and it's my turn. I take after you, I don't like people mucking me about. And once again, shut your trap or there'll be trouble.’

  ‘Trouble for you. I would never have dared speak to my father like that.’

  ‘Oh, I like that. You'd've done him in, if he hadn't died first.’

  ‘That's a lie, you dirty swine! And by Christ, you'll take that back straight away.’

  Once again Françoise tried to place herself between the two and, in despair at this new upset, even Lise made an effort. But the two men brushed them aside in order to stand closer to each other, breathing fire and brimstone, father against son, the brutal authority of one confronting the same brutal authority bequeathed to his offspring.

  Fouan tried to make himself taller in an attempt to achieve his former absolute mastery as head of the family. For half a century, he had spread fear and trembling amongst his wife, his children and his beasts at the time when he possessed not only power but wealth.

  ‘Say that you were lying, you swine, say that you were lying or I'll make you dance as sure as this candle is lighting us.’

  He raised his hand, threatening him with the same gesture that had made them cower in the past.

  In his youth, Buteau's teeth would have chattered as he shrank back, with elbow raised to parry the blow; but now he merely shrugged his shoulders with an insulting, insolent air:

  ‘If you think you can frighten me like that! That sort of lark was all right when you were the master.’

  ‘I am the master, I'm your father.’

  ‘Oh, for God's sake, you silly old man. You're nothing at all. So shut your trap, for Christ's sake.’

  And as the old man's shaking hand came down to strike him, he caught it in mid-air and held it, crushing it in his grip.

  ‘You obstinate old bugger, so I'll have to lose my temper to get it into your thick head that we don't give a damn for you now! Are you any good to anybody? You're just an expense, that's all! Once you've had your day and handed your land on to someone else, you kick the bucket and stop buggering them about.’

  He was shaking his father to emphasize his words, and then, with a final jerk, he flung him backwards, stumbling and trembling, into a chair beside the window. And the old man remained there, unable to breathe for a minute, beaten and humiliated, his authority destroyed. This was the end, he was of no account since he had handed over his property.

  There was utter silence. Everyone stood with their hands dangling by their sides. The children had not uttered a sound, for fear of a clout. Then they all set to work again as though nothing had happened.

  ‘What about the grass?’ Lise enquired. ‘Is it going to be left in the yard?’

  ‘I'll go and put it under cover,’ Françoise replied.

  When she had come in and they had had dinner, Buteau, incorrigible, put his hand into her bodice to find a flea which she said was biting her. She now showed no annoyance and even made a joke.

  ‘No, it's not there, it's somewhere else where you'd get bitten.’

  Fouan had not stirred, sitting stiff and silent in his dark corner. Two large tears were running down his cheeks. He was thinking of the evening when he had left the Delhommes; and the same thing was happening again, the same humiliation now that he was no longer the master. They had called out three times to tell him the soup was on the table; he would refuse to come. Suddenly he stood up and disappeared into his bedroom. Next day, at dawn, he left the Buteaus and settled in with Jesus Christ.

  Chapter 3

  JESUS CHRIST was a very flatulent man and in his house many winds did blow, arousing much merriment. No, there was never a dull moment where he was, for he never broke wind without making some funny remark to accompany it. He would have nothing to do with those timid ones, muffled between your buttocks, clumsy, half-hearted little puffs of air. His were always honest explosions, as rousing and hearty as a cannon; and each time, with a jaunty, free and easy lift of his thigh, he would call out to his daughter, in a stern, commanding voice:

  ‘La Trouille, come here at once, for heaven's sake!’,

  She would come rushing up and it would go off like a gunshot in the empty air with a vibration that made her jump.

  ‘Go on, after it! And give it a bite to see if it's got any knots in it.’

  At other times, when she came in, he would give her his hand:

  ‘Pull hard, little girl! Make it go bang!’ And as soon as the explosion had occurred, with the blast of an overloaded mine:

  ‘Ah! That was a hard one, thanks all the same.’

  Or else he would put an imaginary gun to his shoulder and take long aim; then, after it had gone off:

  ‘Go and fetch it back, lazybones!’

  La Trouille would fall on her backside, choking with laughter. It was a never-ending, ever-increasing pleasure; although she knew the drill and expected the final thunderous roar, he still always managed to surprise her with his lively boisterous comments. What a clown her father was! Sometimes he said it was a lodger who wouldn't pay his rent and whom he was evicting, at other times he would turn round with surprise and give a solemn wave of his hand, as if returning the greeting of a tableful of friends; and at other times again he would produce a whole bunch of farts, one for the priest, one for the mayor and one for the ladies. The fellow seemed to be able to produce them out of his behind at will, like a musical box; so much so that at the Jolly Ploughman in Cloyes they would make a bet: ‘I'll buy you a drink if you can do six’; and he would do six, he never lost. It was becoming a sort of fame and La Trouille was proud and amused, splitting her sides in anticipation every time he lifted his thigh and watching him with the mingled awe and affection he inspired in her.

  And on the evening old Fouan settled in at the Castle, which was the name given to the former cellar where the poacher had gone to earth, the very first meal that the little girl served her father and grandfather, deferentially standing behind them like a maid, was given its duly resounding and cheerful musical accompaniment. The old man had provided five francs and there were delicious mouth-watering smells of kidney beans and veal and onion stew being cooked by the girl. As she was bringing in the beans, she nearly dropped the dish, with uncontrollable laughter. Before sitting down, Jesus Christ had let off three carefully timed rattlers.

  ‘A salvo to celebrate! Let the feast begin!’

  Then, collecting his strength, he let out a fourth enormous, insulting, single fart:

  ‘That's for those dirty Buteaus! They can have it for supper!’

  Fouan's face, which had been gloomy since he arrived, broke into a grin. He gave an approving nod of the head. It made him feel at home, for people used to say that he, too, had been a wag in his day; and his children had grown up listening quietly to their father's artillery barrage at home. He leant his elbows on the table and felt a wave of well-being creep over him as he sat opposite his hulking great son, who was looking at him with tears in his eyes in his rascally, good-humoured way.

  ‘Ah, Dad, what a lovely life we're going to have, bugger me if we're not. You'll see how things are here, I promise to buck you up! When you're pushing up the daisies, it'll be a fat lot of good having gone short now, won't it?’

  Shaken in his sober habits of a lifetime and feeling the need to forget his sorrows, Fouan ended by agreeing:

  ‘Yes, it's better to blue the lot than leave anything to that other bunch. Here's to your very good health, lad!’

  La Trouille was serving the veal and onions. Silence fell, and in order to keep the conversation going Jesus Christ let off a long-drawn-out one which modulated cantabile through the seat of his chair like a human voice. He immediately turned to his daughter and enquired in a serious voice:

  ‘What did you say?’

  She did not say anything for she was forced to sit down holding her sides. But the last straw was when the father and son finally let themselves go, after demolishing the veal and the cheese, as they sat smoking with a large bottle of spiri
ts between them. They had stopped talking; their mouths were thick and coated, they were very drunk.

  Jesus Christ slowly lifted a buttock, let off a rouser and then looked towards the door shouting:

  ‘Come in!’

  This provoked Fouan, who had been feeling vexed at playing second fiddle the whole evening. Suddenly rediscovering his lost youth, he raised his buttock and let off a rouser in his turn, crying:

  ‘Here I am!’

  They both clasped hands, leaning forward nose to nose, laughing and slobbering. That was a good one, that was! And it was too good for La Trouille, who had fallen squirming on the floor, laughing so frantically that she too let out a fart, but such a gentle musical one that it sounded like a tiny fife compared to the two men's full orchestra. Jesus Christ sprang up indignantly and, with a tragic gesture of authority and disgust, exclaimed:

  ‘Leave the room, dirty girl! Leave the room, malodorous wench! God help me, I'll teach you to respect your father and grandfather.’

  He would never tolerate such familiarity. It was for adults only! And he fanned the air with his hand, pretending to be asphyxiated by this flute-like puff of wind; his own, he claimed, smelt only of gunpowder. Then as the culprit, very red in the face and upset at having forgotten herself, started arguing and denying what had happened, he pushed her out of the room:

  ‘You filthy little girl, go and shake out your skirts. You can come back in an hour's time when you've had an airing.’