Complete Works of Emile Zola (948 page)

As they entered Cloyes, Jean applied the brake and urged the horse down the steep declivity near the burying-ground. As he came out at the intersection of the Rue Grande and the Rue Grouaise, intending to put up at “The Jolly Ploughman” hostelry, he pointed abruptly to the back of a man who was going along the latter street.

“Hallo! That looks like Buteau,” he said.

“It is Buteau,” declared Lise.

“No doubt he’s going to Monsieur Baillehache’s. Does he mean to accept his share of the land?”

Jean smacked his whip with a laugh.

“There’s no knowing,” he said. “He’s a deep one!”

Although Buteau had recognised them a good way off, he made no sign. He went trudging on, with his back bent; and they both watched him out of sight, thinking to themselves that possibly they would have an opportunity for an explanation on reaching the courtyard of “The Jolly Ploughman.” Françoise, who had remained silent, got down first by one of the wheels. The yard was already full of unharnessed vehicles, resting on their shafts, and the old buildings of the inn were buzzing with life.

“Now, are we going there?” asked Jean on his return from the stable, whither he had been with his horse.

“Certainly, at once.”

When outside, however, instead of making straight for the cattle-market — which stood on the Place Saint-Georges — by taking the Rue du Temple, the young man and the girls hung about and sauntered down the Rue Grande, through the vegetable and fruit-sellers who lined the street on either side. He wore a silk cap, and a large blue blouse over black cloth trousers; while the girls, likewise in holiday clothes, with their hair done up close under their little round caps, wore dresses to match each other — a dark-coloured woollen bodice above an iron-grey skirt, relieved by a large cotton apron with narrow pink stripes. They did not link arms, but walked in Indian file, their hands swinging loosely amid the jostling of the crowd. There was a crush of servants and ladies in front of the squatting peasant-women, who, on arriving with one or two baskets apiece, had set them down on the ground and opened them. They recognised La Frimat, whose hands were blue with having carried her load from Rognes, and who had a little of everything in her two overflowing baskets — some salad, beans, plums, and even three live rabbits. An old man, alongside, had just emptied out a cart-load of potatoes, which he was selling by the bushel. Two women, mother and daughter — the latter a notorious street-walker, named Norine — had exposed on a rickety table some cod, salt herrings, and bloaters, the mere remnants of barrels, the strong brine of which made one’s throat smart. The Rue Grande, so deserted on the other days of the week, despite its handsome shops — its chemist’s, its ironmonger’s, and, above all, its emporium of Parisian novelties, Lambourdieu’s bazaar — proved too narrow every Saturday; the shops being crammed full, the vehicles blocked, and the roadway fairly choked by the encroachments of the market-women.

Lise and Françoise, followed by Jean, worked their way as far as the poultry-market, in the Rue Beaudonnière, whither the farmers had sent vast crates, in which cocks were crowing, and from which the necks of affrighted ducks protruded. Chickens, dead and plucked, were ranged in deep layers inside numerous packing-cases. Here also one saw some more peasant-women, each of whom had brought her four or five pounds of butter, her two dozen eggs, and her cheeses — large dry ones, small rich ones, and others of a greyish tinge, which had been moistened with wine, and had a pronounced pungent flavour. Others had come with two pairs of fowls tied by their feet. Ladies were haggling, and a large consignment of eggs had caused a crowd to cluster in front of an inn—”The Poulterer’s Meeting House.” It so happened that Palmyre was among the men who were unloading the eggs. Indeed, on Saturdays, when there was a dearth of work at Rognes, she hired out her services at Cloyes, carrying burdens which made her stagger.

“There’s no denying she earns her livelihood!” remarked Jean.

The crowd was now growing denser and denser. Vehicles still poured in by the Mondoubleau road, defiling over the bridge at a jog trot. On either hand stretched the gentle curves of the Loir, running flush with the meadows, and embanked on the left with the town gardens, whose lilacs and laburnums drooped down to the water’s edge. There was a bark-mill, clicking noisily up stream, together with a large flour-mill — a huge building, whitened by a constant stream of meal from the blowers on the roof.

“Well!” said Jean again, “are we going there?”

“Yes, yes.”

Then they retraced their steps up the Rue Grande, stopping once more on the Place Saint-Lubin, opposite the municipal offices, where the corn-market was held. Lengaigne, who had brought four sacks, was standing there with his hands in his pockets. In the middle of a ring of silent, downcast peasants, Hourdequin was angrily holding forth. A rise had been looked for; but even the current price — eighteen francs — was unsteady, and a final fall of five sous was apprehended. Macqueron went by with his daughter Berthe on his arm; he in a badly-cleaned overcoat, and she dressed in muslin, with a bunch of roses in her hat.

As Lise and Françoise, after turning down the Rue du Temple, were skirting Saint-George’s Church, against which the hawkers installed themselves with haberdashery, ironmongery, and parcels of stuffs, they ejaculated: “Oh, there’s aunt Rose.”

And, indeed, it was the old woman. Fanny had come in­stead of Delhomme to deliver some oats, and had brought her mother in the cart, just to give her an outing. They were both waiting in front of the movable stall of a knife-grinder, to whom the old woman had given her scissors. For thirty years past he had ground them.

“Hallo! It’s you!” said Fanny, as she turned round; and on perceiving Jean, she added: “So you’re out for an airing?”

But when Rose and Fanny found out that the cousins were going to buy a cow, to supply the place of La Rousse, they grew interested and joined them, the oats having been already delivered.

The young man, left to himself, now walked behind the four women, who formed an open line, all abreast; and thus they turned on to the Place Saint-Georges.

This was a huge square, more than a hundred yards each way, stretching behind the apsis of the church, which overshadowed it with its old and lofty clock-tower of ruddy stone. Avenues of leafy limes enclosed the four sides, along two of which, moreover, there extended some chains riveted to stone posts, while on the other two sides there were long bars of wood, to which the animals were tethered. On this side of the open space, which fronted some gardens, the grass was growing as in an open meadow; but the opposite side, which was flanked by two roads and bordered by various inns—”The Saint-George,” “The Root,” and “The Jolly Reapers” — was downtrodden, hardened, and white with dust, which the wind blew to and fro.

Lise and Françoise, followed by the others, had some difficulty in making their way across the centre of the Place, where the crowd was congregated. Amid the confused mass of blouses of all shades, from the bright blue of new linen to the pale blue of twenty washings, nothing could be seen of the women save the round white spots of their little caps. A few ladies were bearing glistening silk parasols hither and thither. Laughter and sudden shouts were heard, mingling at last with the mighty animate murmur, upon which now and then there broke the neigh of a horse or the lowing of a cow. A donkey also set a-braying lustily.

“This way,” said Lise, turning her head. The horses were at the far end, tethered to the bar, their coats bare and quiver­ing, and with a cord knotted to their necks and tails. On the left, the cows were almost all loose, and were led to and fro by the vendors, who wished to show them off better. Groups of people stopped and looked at them; and hereabouts there was no laughter and but little talking, merely a few scattered words now and then.

The four women at once fell into contemplation of a black and white Cotentine cow, which was offered for sale by a man and his wife. The latter, dark-complexioned and stubborn-looking, stood holding the animal in front; the man being in the rear, motionless and uncommunicative. The scrutiny lasted ten minutes, and was solemn and exhaustive; but not a word or a glance was exchanged. They moved on, and stationed themselves similarly in front of a second cow twenty paces off. This was a huge one, quite black, and was offered for sale by a young and pretty-looking girl, almost a child, who held a hazel-rod in her hand. Then followed seven more halts, as long and as silent as the previous ones, till the line of animals for sale was exhausted. Finally the four women went back to the first cow, and again became absorbed in contemplation.

This time, however, it was a more serious matter. Drawn up in a line, they pierced the Cotentine cow through and through with their keen, concentrated gaze. On her side, also, the woman who wished to sell it had said nothing, and her glance was elsewhere, as if she had not seen them come back and draw up in line.

At last Fanny bent down and whispered a brief remark to Lise about the animal. Old Rose and Françoise also ex­changed impressions in a whisper. Then they relapsed into silence and immobility, and the scrutiny was continued.

“How much?” Lise suddenly asked.

“Four hundred francs,” replied the peasant woman.

They affected to be driven away by this, and as they were looking for Jean they were surprised to find him behind them with Buteau, the two chatting together like old friends. Buteau had come from La Chamade to buy a porker, and was negotiating for one on the spot. The pigs, which were in a mov­able pen at the back-end of the vehicle that had brought them, were biting one another and deafening the air with their squeals.

“Will you take twenty francs?” asked Buteau.

“No; thirty!”

“Fiddle! Go to bed with ‘em!”

Bluff and merry, he went up to the women; accosting his mother, his sister, and his two cousins just as radiantly as if he had only left them on the previous day. They also were undisturbed, and seemed to have forgotten the two years of bickering and ill-feeling. The mother alone, who had been apprised of the first encounter in the Rue Grou­aise, watched him out of her puckered eyes; trying to gather why he had been to the notary’s. But of this there was no indication on his face, and neither of them said a word on the subject.

“So, cousin,” he went on, “you’re after buying a cow? Jean told me. Well, there’s one over there, something like an animal! The sturdiest in the market!”

He then pointed to the identical black and white Cotentine cow.

“Four hundred francs!” said Françoise. “Thank you for nothing.”

“Four hundred francs for you, my little dear!” said he, tapping her jocularly on the back.

She fired up, however, and returned his tap, angry and resentfully.

“Just you let me alone, will you? I don’t play with men.” He made merrier still at this, and turned to Lise, who had remained serious and rather pale.

“And you? Will you let me have a hand in it? I wager I’ll get it for three hundred. Will you bet five francs?”

“All right; if you like to have a try, you may.” Rose and Fanny nodded approval. They knew this ferocious fellow of old; a stubborn bargainer he was, an impudent liar and swindler, selling things at three times their value, and getting everything for a mere song. So the women let him go to the fore with Jean, while they hung back in the rear, so that he might not seem to belong to their party.

The crowd was growing denser around the cattle. The groups of loungers were leaving the sunny central space for the side avenues, where they strolled continually to and fro; the blue of their blouses darkened by the shadow of the lime-trees, and their ruddy countenances tinged with green by the reflection of the swaying patches of leaves. However, no one was as yet making purchases; not a sale had taken place, although the market had been open for more than an hour. The purchasers and vendors were taking time for consideration, and were warily scrutinising each other askance. In front of the cows there were now more people sauntering along and making prolonged halts. Overhead, the sound of a riot was borne past on the wings of the warm breeze. It was caused by two horses, tied side by side, who were rearing, biting each other, neighing furiously, and pawing the pavement with their hoofs. There was a fright, and some women fled, while quiet was restored by a shower of blows from a whip, crackling like a discharge of firearms, and accompanied by oaths. Then in the clearance made by the panic, a flock of pigeons alighted on the ground, and hurried along picking oats from the dung.

“Well, gammer! what’s your price?” Buteau asked the peasant-woman.

The latter, who had observed the manœuvres of the party, repeated calmly: “Four hundred francs.”

At first he treated the matter lightly, and joked, addressing the man, who was still standing silent and apart:

“I say, old ‘un! is your good-woman thrown in at that price?”

During his banter, however, he made a close examination of the cow, and found it constituted as a good milker should be — with a wiry head, slender horns, and big eyes; the belly well-developed and streaked with large veins; the limbs inclining to slimness; the tail thin, and set very high. Stooping down, he assured himself of the length of the udders and the elasticity of the teats, which were regularly defined in position and well pierced. Then, resting one hand on the animal, he began bargaining, while he mechanically felt the bones of the crupper.

“Four hundred francs, eh? You’re joking! Will you take three hundred?”

Meanwhile, with his hand he was verifying the strength and proper arrangement of the bones. Then he let his fingers slip between the thighs, to the part where the bare skin, of a fine saffron colour, bespoke an abundance of milk.

“Three hundred francs. Is it agreed? “

“No; four hundred,” replied the peasant-woman.

He then turned away. When he came back, she decided to speak.

“She’s a first-rate animal, indeed, in all points. She’ll be two year’s old come Trinity Sunday, and she’ll calve in a fortnight. She’d surely be just the thing for you.”