Complete Works of Emile Zola (961 page)

At the last moment there had been serious difficulties with the Abbé Godard, who was now incessantly at loggerheads with Rognes. So long as he had cherished the hope that the Municipal Council would indulge in the luxury of a priest of its own, he had been content to bear his troubles patiently: such as the four miles or so which he had to walk for each mass, and the vexatious demands which this irreligious village made upon him. But he could now no longer deceive himself with false hopes. Every year the council regularly refused to repair the parsonage. Hourdequin, the mayor, declared that the expenses were already too heavy; and Macqueron, the assessor, alone paid court to the priesthood, in furtherance of certain hidden ambitious designs. So the Abbé Godard, no longer having any reason to keep on good terms with Rognes, became severe in his treatment of the village, and only vouch­safed it the strictest minimum of worship. He did not treat the inhabitants to any extra prayers, or any display of tapers and incense for amusement’s sake. He was always quarrelling with the women of the village. In June there had been quite a pitched battle on the subject of the first communion. Five children — two little girls and three boys — had been attending his catechism class on Sundays after mass, and to avoid having to return to confess them, he insisted on their coming to him at Bazoches-le-Doyen. Thereupon a first sedition arose among the women. A pretty thing, indeed! Three-quarters of a league to go there, and the same distance back! Who was to know what might happen, with boys and girls running about together? Next, there was a terrible storm when he refused point-blank to celebrate the full ceremony at Rognes: high mass, with singing, and so forth. He intended to hold this celebration in his own parish, whither the five children were free to repair, if they wished to do so. For a whole fortnight the women raved with fury round the fountain. What! He christened them, married them, and buried them in their own village, and now he wouldn’t give them a decent communion! He was obstinate, however, and merely officiated at low mass, dismissing the five communicants without even a blossom or an oremus by way of consolation. When the women, vexed even to tears at seeing such a paltry ceremony, entreated him to have vespers sung in the afternoon, he flew into a passion! Nothing of the kind! He gave them their due. They would have had high mass, vespers, and everything else at Bazoches if their obstinacy had not made them rebel even against the blessed God Himself! After this quarrel a rupture seemed imminent between the Abbé Godard and Rognes, and the least jar would certainly bring about a catastrophe.

When Lise went to see the priest about the christening of her baby, he talked of fixing it for the Sunday, after mass. But she begged of him to return on the Tuesday at two o’clock, for the godmother would not return from Chartres till the morning of that day; and he eventually consented, recom­mending the party to be punctual, for he was determined, he cried, that he would not wait a second.

On the Tuesday, at two o’clock precisely, the Abbé Godard reached the church, panting from his journey, and damp owing to a sudden shower. No one had yet arrived. There was only Hilarion, who, at the entrance of the nave, was engaged in clearing up a corner of the baptistery, encumbered with fragments of old flag-stones, which had always been seen there. Since the death of his sister, the cripple had lived on public charity, and it had occurred to the priest, who used to slip odd francs into the poor fellow’s hand from time to time, to employ him on this work of clearance, which had been resolved upon scores of times but always deferred. For a few moments he interested himself in watching Hilarion’s task. Then he was taken with a first fit of anger.

“Good gracious! are they making a fool of me? It’s already ten minutes past two,” he exclaimed.

Then, as he looked at the Buteaus’ silent, sleepy-looking house across the square, he noticed the rural constable waiting under the porch, and smoking his pipe.

“Ring the bell, Bécu!” he cried; “that’ll bring the slug­gards along.”

So Bécu, who was very drunk, as usual, hung on to the bell-rope, while the priest went to put on his surplice. He had drawn up the entry in the register on the previous Sunday, and he intended to perform the ceremony by himself, without the help of the choir-children, who brought him to the verge of distraction. When all was ready, he again became im­patient. Ten minutes more had elapsed, and the bell still rang out, with exasperating persistence, amid the deep silence of the deserted village.

“What on earth are they about? They ought to have some one at their backs with a stick!” said the priest.

At last he saw La Grande come forth from the Buteaus’ house, walking along in her spiteful, old-queen-like way, dry and upright, like a thistle, despite her eighty-five years.

A great worry was distracting the family. All the guests were there, excepting the godmother, who had been vainly awaited since the morning. Monsieur Charles, quite dumb­founded, declared over and over again that it was most surprising, that he had received a letter only the night before, and that Madame Charles, who was detained perhaps at Cloyes, would certainly arrive in a minute or two. Lise, anxious, and knowing that the priest was not over-fond of waiting, finally took it into her head to despatch La Grande to him, so as to keep him patient.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he asked her, from a dis­tance. “Are we going to begin to-day or to-morrow? Per­haps you think that God Almighty is at your beck and call?”

“In a moment, your reverence; in a moment.” replied the old woman, with her impassive calmness.

Hilarion was just then bringing out the last fragments of the flag-stones, and he went by carrying an immense block against his stomach. He swayed from side to side on his crooked shanks, but he did not bend, being as firmly set as a rock, with muscles strong enough to have carried an ox. His hare-lip was dribbling, but not a drop of sweat moistened his hardened skin.

The Abbé Godard, provoked by La Grande’s equanimity, fell upon her at once.

“Look here, La Grande,” said he, “now that I’ve got hold of you, is it charitable of you, who are so well off, to let your only grandson beg his bread along the roads?”

“The mother disobeyed me; the child is nothing to me,” she answered harshly.

“Well, I’ve given you fair warning, and I tell you again that if you’re so hard-hearted as that you’ll go to Hell. He would have starved to death the other day but for what I gave him, and now I’m obliged to invent a job for him.”

On hearing the word “Hell” La Grande slightly smiled. As she herself said, she knew too much about it: the poor folks’ Hell was on this earth. The sight of Hilarion carrying paving-stones set her thinking, however, far more than the priest’s threats did. She was surprised; she would never have imagined that he was so strong, with his jacket-sleeve shanks.

“If it’s work he wants,” she replied at last, “I daresay he can be found some.”

“His proper place is with you. Take him, La Grande,” said the priest.

“We’ll see. Let him come to-morrow.”

Hilarion, who had understood, began to tremble to such a degree that he all but crushed his feet as he dropped his last slab. As he went off he cast a furtive glance on his grandmother, like a whipped, terrified, submissive animal.

Another half-hour went by. Bécu, tired of ringing, was smoking his pipe once more in the sunshine. La Grande re­mained there, silent and imperturbable, as if her mere presence sufficed as a mark of respect to the priest; while the latter, whose exasperation was on the increase, kept running every instant to the church door to cast a fiery look across the empty square towards the Buteaus’ house.

“Ring, Bécu, why don’t you!” he shouted all at once. “If they’re not here in three minutes’ time, I’m off!”

Then as the bell pealed out madly once more, and set the aged ravens a-fluttering and a-cawing, the Buteaus and their party were seen to leave the house one by one and cross the square. Lise was in consternation; the godmother had still not arrived, and so they settled to stroll quietly over to the church, in hopes that perhaps that would bring her a little quicker. But they were only a hundred yards away, and the Abbé Godard at once began to hurry them up.

“I say, you know, are you trying to make a fool of me?” he called. “I consult your convenience, and in return I’m kept waiting an hour! Make haste! Make haste! “

Then he pushed them all towards the baptistery: the mother carrying her newly-born child, the father, grandfather Fouan, uncle Delhomme, aunt Fanny, and even Monsieur Charles, who, in his black frock-coat, looked very dignified as a god­parent.

“Your reverence,” said Buteau, with an exaggerated air of humility, in which a sniggering slyness lurked, “if you would only be so good as to wait a tiny bit longer—”

“Wait! What for?”

“Why, for the godmother, your reverence!”

The Abbé Godard became so red that apoplexy seemed imminent. Half suffocating, he stuttered out:

“Get somebody else!”

They all looked at each other. Delhomme and Fanny shook their heads; and Fouan declared:

“Impossible. It would be bad breeding.’’

“A thousand pardons, your reverence,” said Monsieur Charles, who thought that it devolved upon him as a person of good breeding to explain matters; “it’s partly our fault, but not quite. My wife had expressly written me that she would be back this morning. She’s at Chartres.”

The Abbé Godard started, and, losing all control, breaking all bounds, he shouted:

“At Chartres! At Chartres, indeed! I regret for your sake that you have a finger in this pie, Monsieur Charles. But the thing sha’n’t go on. No, no! I won’t put up with it any longer!”

Then he burst forth:

“No one here cares what outrage he offers God in my person; I get a fresh buffet every time I come to Rognes. I’ve threatened long enough, and now I’ll do it. I leave to-day, and I will never return. Tell your mayor that, and find a priest and pay him, if you want one. I’ll speak to the bishop, and tell him who you are; I’m sure he will approve of my course. We’ll soon see who’ll get the worst of it. You shall live priestless, like brute beasts.”

They were all staring at him curiously, with the inward indifference of practical folk who no longer feared the God of wrath and chastisement. What was the use of quaking and prostrating themselves, and purchasing forgiveness, when the very idea of the devil now made them smile, and when they had ceased to believe that the wind, the hail, and the thunder were controlled by an avenging Master? It was certainly waste of time. It was better for them to keep their respect for the Government gendarmes, who held the reins of power.

Despite their assumed air of deferential gravity, the Abbé Godard saw that Buteau was sniggering, that La Grande was disdainful, and that even Delhomme and Fouan were perfectly unmoved; and this loss of influence completed the rupture.

“I’m perfectly aware that your cows have more religion than you have,” said he. “Well, good-bye! Dip your bar­barian child into the pond, and christen it like that!”

Then he ran away and tore off his surplice, crossed the church again, and bolted in such a whirl of wrath that the christening party, thus left in the lurch, could not even get in a word, but stood open-mouthed and open-eyed.

The worst of it was that at that very moment, as the Abbé Godard was going down Macqueron’s new street, they saw a covered cart coming up the high-road — a cart containing Madame Charles and Elodie. The former explained that she had stopped at Châteaudun to kiss the child, who had been granted a two days’ holiday. She seemed extremely sorry for the delay, and declared that she had not even gone on to Rose-Blanche with her trunk.

“Some one must run after the priest,” said Lise; “it’s only dogs that are left unchristened.”

Buteau ran off, and was heard trotting down Macqueron’s street. But the Abbé Godard had got a good start; and Buteau crossed the bridge and mounted the slope, only catch­ing sight of the priest when he reached the crest of it, just where the road turned.

“Your reverence, your reverence!”

At last the priest turned round and waited.

“What is it?” he asked.

“The godmother’s there. Christening isn’t a thing to refuse one.”

For an instant the Abbé stood motionless. Then he came back down the hill behind the peasant, at the same furious pace; and thus they re-entered the church without exchanging another word. The ceremony was hurried through. The priest mangled the godparents’ Credo, anointed the child, applied the salt, and poured out the water, all with the same violence. He had soon got to the signing of the register.

“Your reverence,” now said Madame Charles, “I’ve a box of sweetmeats for you, but it’s in my trunk.”

He thanked her in dumb-show and went off, after turning to them all once more and repeating:

“Good-bye, again!”

The Buteaus and their party, breathless at having been carried along at such a pace, watched him as he disappeared at the corner of the square, with his black cassock flying behind him. All the villagers were in the fields; there were merely a few urchins about, on the chance of obtaining some plaster-of-Paris sweetmeats. Amid the deep silence one only heard the distant snorting of the steam thrasher, which never rested.

On re-entering the Buteaus’ house, at the door of which the cart with the trunk was waiting, they all agreed to have a little something to drink, and then to separate until dinner in the evening. It was now only four o’clock, so what would they have done in each other’s company till seven? Then, when the glasses and the two quarts of wine were set out on the kitchen table, Madame Charles absolutely insisted on having her trunk got down, so as to make her presents there and then. Opening the trunk, she first took out the baby’s dress and cap — which came somewhat behind time — and next six boxes of sweetmeats, which she gave to the mother.

“Do these come from mamma’s confectionary shop?” asked Elodie, who was looking at them.

For a second Madame Charles felt embarrassed. Then she calmly replied:

“No, my darling; your mother does not keep this kind.”