Complete Works of Emile Zola (950 page)

Buteau feeling anxious, and fearing he might be compromised if the old man did not recover, had left the table and given orders for the horses to be put to. As he stared vaguely at the walls, without saying a word about paying, although the invitation had come from him, Jean settled the bill. This capped Buteau’s good spirits; and in the yard, where the two vehicles were waiting, he took his companion by the shoulders, saying:

“I expect you to come, you know. The wedding will take place in three weeks’ time. I’ve been to the notary’s and signed the deed; all the papers will be ready.”

Then, helping Lise into his own cart: “Now then, up!” he added, “I’ll see you back. I’ll drive through Rognes, it won’t be much farther.”

Jean returned in his vehicle by himself. He considered this natural, and followed the others. Cloyes had relapsed into its death-like lethargy and was now asleep, lighted only by the yellow stars of the street lamps. Of the hubbub of the market nothing remained save the staggering, belated steps of some drunken peasant. The road stretched afar in deep dark­ness. Jean, however, did at last descry the other vehicle which was conveying the affianced pair. Better so, he thought; all was as it should be. And he whistled loudly, freshened up by the night air, and feeling free and cheery.

CHAPTER VII

Once more had the hay-making time come round, with a blue scorching sky, cooled by occasional breezes. The marriage had been fixed for Midsummer-Day, which fell that year on a Saturday.

The Fouans had enjoined upon Buteau to begin the invita­tions with La Grande, who was the oldest of the family. Like a rich and dreaded queen, she required to be treated with re­spect. Accordingly, one evening, Buteau and Lise, rigged out in their Sunday clothes, went to beg her to attend the wedding ceremony, and afterwards the dinner, which was to take place at the bride’s house.

When they arrived, La Grande was knitting in the kitchen by herself; and, without checking the play of her needles, she gazed at them fixedly, and let them explain their errand, and repeat the same phrases twice over. At last, in her shrill voice:

“The wedding? Nay, nay, certainly not!” said she. “What should I find to do at a wedding? Such things are only for those who amuse themselves.”

They had seen her parchment face light up at the thought of the junketing that would cost her nothing, and they were convinced that she would accept. But it was always cus­tomary to press her a great deal.

“Oh, but, aunt! Really it couldn’t go off without you,” they said.

“No, no! It’s not for folk like me. How am I to find the time, and get the clothes I should want. It’s always an ex­pense. People can get on very well without going to weddings.”

They had to repeat the invitation a dozen times before she eventually said, sulkily:

“All right; since I can’t get out of it, I’ll go. But I wouldn’t put myself out for anybody but you.”

Then, seeing that they did not leave, she battled with her­self; for, in such a case as the present one, a glass of wine was usually offered. Making up her mind, she at last went down into the cellar, although there was already an open bottle up­stairs. However, the fact was she kept for these occasions a remnant of wine which had turned, and which she could not drink, it was so sour. She called it “the gnat destroyer.” Having filled two glasses, she fixed her nephew and niece with so full an eye that they were obliged to drain them without blenching, for fear of giving offence. They left her with their throats burning.

The same evening, Buteau and Lise repaired to Rose-Blanche, where Monsieur Charles lived, arriving there in the midst of a tragic occurrence.

Monsieur Charles was in his garden, in a state of great agitation. No doubt some violent emotion had come upon him just as he was trimming a climbing rose-tree, for he had his pruning scissors in his hand, and the ladder was still resting against the wall. Controlling himself, however, he showed them into the drawing-room, where Elodie was embroidering with her modest air.

“So you’re marrying each other in a week’s time. That’s quite right, my children,” he said. “But we can’t be of your party, for Madame Charles is at Chartres, and won’t be back for a fortnight.”

So saying, he raised his heavy eyelids to glance at the young girl, and then resumed:

“At busy times, during the large fairs, Madame Charles goes over there to lend her daughter a helping hand. Business has its exigencies, you know, and there are days when they are overwhelmed with work at the shop. True, Estelle has taken over the management; but her mother is of great use to her, the more so as our son-in-law Vaucogne certainly doesn’t do much. And besides, Madame Charles is glad to see the house again. No wonder! We’ve left thirty years of our lives there, and that counts for something!”

He was growing sentimental, and his eyes moistened as he vaguely gazed, as it were, into that past of theirs. It was true. In her dainty, snug retirement, full of flowers, birds, and sunshine, his wife was often seized with home-sickness for the little house in the Rue aux Juifs. Whenever she shut her eyes, a vision of old Chartres, sloping down from the Place de la Cathédrale to the banks of the Eure, rose up before her. She saw herself, on her arrival, threading the Rue de la Pie, and the Rue Porte-Cendreuse; then, in the Rue des Ecuyers, she took the shortest cut down the Tertre du Pied-Plat, where just at the bottom — at the corner of the Rue aux Juifs and the Rue de la Planche-aux-Carpes, Number 19 came into sight, with its white frontage and its green shutters, which were always closed. The two streets which it overlooked were wretched ones, and during thirty years she had beheld their miserable hovels and squalid inhabitants, with the gutter in the middle running with filthy water. But, then, how many weeks and months she had spent at home there, in the darkened rooms, without even crossing the threshold! She was still proud of the divans and mirrors of the drawing-room, of the bedding and the mahogany of the sleeping apartments, of all the chaste and comfortable luxury — their creation, their handi­work, to which they owed their fortune. A melancholy faintness came over her at the recollection of certain private corners, the clinging perfume of the toilet-waters, the peculiar scent of the whole house, which she had retained about her own person like a lingering regret. Thus she looked forward to all the periods of heavy work, and set out radiant and joyful, after receiving from her grand-daughter two hearty kisses, which she promised to give mamma that evening in the confectionery shop.

“How disappointing! How disappointing!” said Buteau, really vexed at the idea of Monsieur and Madame Charles not coming to the wedding. “But suppose our cousin wrote to aunt to come back?”

Elodie, who was in her fifteenth year, thin-haired, and so poor-blooded that the fresh air of the country seemed to make her more anæmical still, raised her puffy, chlorotic, virginal face:

“Oh, no!” she murmured, “grandmamma told me the sweetmeats would be sure to keep her more than a fortnight. She is to bring me back a bag of them, if I’m good.”

This was a pious fraud. At each journey she was brought some sweetmeats, which, she believed, had been manufactured at her parents’ place.

“Well!” proposed Lise at length, “come without her, uncle, and bring the girl.”

Monsieur Charles was not listening, however, having re­lapsed into an agitated state. He was going to the window, seemingly on the look-out for some one, and was swallowing a rising burst of anger. Unable to contain himself any further, he dismissed the young girl with a word.

“Go away and play for a minute or two, my darling,” he said.

Then, when she had left — being accustomed to be sent away while grown-up people talked — he took his stand in the middle of the room and folded his arms, while his full, yellow-tinted, respectable face — very like that of a retired magistrate — quivered with indignation.

“Would you believe it? Such an abominable thing! I was trimming my rose-tree, and I had got on to the highest rung of the ladder, and was bending mechanically over the wall, when what do I see? Honorine, my maid Honorine, with a man, at their dirty tricks! At the foot of my wall, too, the swine, the swine!”

He was choking, and began to pace up and down, with noble maledictory gestures.

“I’m waiting for her to pack her off, the disreputable hussy! We can’t keep one. They’re always put into the family-way. Regularly, at the end of six months, they become a perfect sight, and there’s no having them in a respectable family. And now this one, caught in the act! Ah! the end of the world is come; there are no bounds to debauchery now-a-days!”

Buteau and Lise, who were astounded, joined, out of deference, in his indignation.

“Certainly, it’s not proper; not at all proper — oh, no!”

He set himself in front of them once more. “And just fancy Elodie climbing up that ladder, and coming on a scene like that! She, so innocent, who knows nothing at all, over whose very thoughts we watch! On my honour, it makes one shiver! What a shock, if Madame Charles were here!”

At that very moment, glancing out of the window, he per­ceived the child, who had set her foot on the lowest rung of the ladder, out of mere curiosity. He rushed forward and called out, in an agonised voice, as if he had seen her on the brink of a precipice:

“Elodie! Elodie! Come down; go away for the love of Heaven!”

Then his legs gave way, and he sank into an arm-chair, continuing to lament over the immorality of servants. Had he not come upon one in the kitchen showing the child what the posteriors of fowls were like? He had quite enough worry as it was to keep her clear of the grossness of the peasantry, and the cynicism of animals; and he lost heart altogether to find a constant hot-bed of immorality in his own house.

“There she is coming in,” he said, sharply. “You shall see.”

He rang the bell, and having by an effort recovered his calm dignity, he received Honorine seated, and in solemn fashion.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “pack up your box and leave at once. You shall be paid a week’s wages in lieu of notice.”

The servant, a skinny, insignificant chit of a thing, of humble and shame-faced aspect, attempted to explain, stammering out excuses.

“It’s no use. All I can do for you is not to hand you over to the authorities for indecent behaviour.”

Then she turned upon him.

“Oh, so it’s because I omitted to pay the fee.”

He rose from his seat, tall and upright, and dismissed her with a majestic gesture, his finger pointing to the door. When she had gone he relieved his feelings coarsely.

“The idea of a strumpet like that bringing dishonour on my house.”

“Ah, sure, she’s one; that she is!” repeated Lise and Buteau, complaisantly.

The latter thereupon resumed:

“Then it’s settled, isn’t it, uncle? You’ll come with the child?”

Monsieur Charles was still quivering. Feeling anxious, he had gone to look at himself in the glass, and was returning satisfied.

“Where? Oh, to be sure, to your wedding. It’s the right thing to do, my children, to marry. Rely on me. I will be there; but I don’t promise to bring Elodie, because, you know, people are a little free at weddings. I turned the baggage out pretty sharp, eh? I won’t put up with women annoying me. Good-bye, rely on my coming.”

The Delhommes, whom Buteau and Lise next invited, also accepted, after the usual refusal and insistance. Hyacinthe was the only one of the family that remained to be invited. But, in sooth, he had become unbearable, being on bad terms with everybody, and bringing all his people into discredit by playing the lowest pranks. So it was decided to put him on one side, though apprehensions were entertained that he would revenge himself in some abominable manner.

Rognes was on the tiptoe of expectation. This marriage, so long deferred, was quite an event. Hourdequin, the mayor, took the trouble to officiate in person at the civil ceremony; but when asked to attend the evening repast, he excused him­self, as he was obliged to pass that very night at Chartres on account of a lawsuit. Still, he promised that Madame Jacqueline should come, as they had the politeness to invite her also. For a moment, moreover, they had thought of inviting the Abbé Godard, by way of having some superior kind of person with them; but, as soon as the wedding was even mentioned, the priest lost his temper, because it was fixed for Midsummer-Day. He had to officiate that day at high mass, established by foundation, at Bazoches-le-Doyen, so how could he be expected to come to Rognes in the morning? However, the women — Lise, Rose, and Fanny — became obstinate, and he finished by giving way. He came at mid-day in such a passion that he flung their mass at their heads, as it were, and left them smarting under a deep sense of injury.

After discussion, it had been resolved that the wedding should take place quietly among the family, on account of the bride’s position — with a child now nearly three years old. They had been, however, to the Cloyes pastry-cook to order a pie and some dessert, on which they determined to spare no expense, so as to show people that they could make the money fly on proper occasions. As at the marriage of the eldest daughter of the Bordiers — some rich farmers at Mailleville — they were to have a regular wedding-cake, two ice creams, four sweet dishes, and some little tarts. At home, some meat soup would be provided, together with chitterlings, four stewed chickens, four rabbits, also stewed, and some roast beef and veal. And all this for fifteen or twenty people — they did not know the exact number. If there were any food left after the repast, they would finish it up on the morrow.

The sky, which had been a little dull in the morning, had cleared, and the day was drawing to its close, amid cheerful warmth and glow. The covers had been set in the middle of the spacious kitchen, right in front of the fireplace and the oven, where meats were roasting, and pots boiling over large fires. This made the room so hot that the two windows and the door were left wide open, and the sweet, penetrating scent of new-mown hay came in.

Since the day before, the Mouche girls had had the assist­ance of Rose and Fanny. There was a sensation when the pastry-cook’s cart made its appearance at three o’clock, bringing all the women in the village to their doors. The dessert was at once laid out on the table to see how it looked. Just then La Grande arrived, before the time. She sat down, clasped her stick between her knees, and never once took her hard eyes off the food. She questioned whether it wasn’t sinful to go to such an expense. She herself, however, had eaten nothing all the morning, so that she might be able to do full justice to the feast.