Complete Works of Emile Zola (990 page)

“So, then, we’re without a priest again?” exclaimed La Frimat. “I wonder if the Abbé Godard would come back to us.”

“Ah, the surly fellow!” cried La Grande;” he would burst with spite if he had to come!”

The sudden arrival of Fanny made them silent. She was the only member of her family who had come to see Françoise on the previous evening, and she had now returned to ascertain how she was getting on. Jean pointed to his wife with his trembling hand. The room was hushed in sympathetic silence, and Fanny lowered her voice to inquire if the dying woman had asked for her sister. No, they said, she had never opened her mouth on the subject; it was just as if Lise had not existed. Forsooth, it was very strange, for death is death, all previous quarrelling notwithstanding; and when should peace be made if not ere the final departure?

La Grande now expressed the opinion that Françoise should be questioned on the subject. She got up from her seat, and stooped over the dying woman.

“Tell me, my dear,” she said, “wouldn’t you like to see Lise?”

But Françoise lay perfectly still; she gave no other sign than a scarcely perceptible quiver of her closed eyelids.

“She is perhaps expecting us to bring her. I’ll go for her.”

Then, still keeping her eyes closed, and turning her head on the pillow, Françoise softly said “No.” Jean desired that her wishes should be respected, and the three women sat down again. They now began to feel astonished that Lise did not come of her own accord; but there was often a great amount of obstinate feeling shown in families, they reflected.

“What endless troubles one has!” Fanny now exclaimed with a sigh. “Ever since this morning, I’ve been nearly worried to death over this balloting; and yet really I’ve no cause for worry, since I know very well that Nénesse won’t be taken from us.”

“Ah! yes, indeed,” murmured La Frimat; “but one can’t help feeling anxious and excited, all the same.”

Once again the dying woman was entirely forgotten, and the gossips began to talk about luck and chance, about the young men who would be marched off, and about those who would remain. It was now three o’clock, and although the party was not expected back till five o’clock at the earliest, reports of what had happened were already circulating in the village, wafted over from Cloyes, no one knew how, by that species of serial telegraphy which flies from village to village. The Briquets’ son had drawn No. 13, so there was no chance of his escaping! The Couillots’ son, on the other hand, had drawn No. 106, and that was certainly a safe number! How­ever, nothing positive seemed to be known about the others. There was only a lot of contradictory reports, which tended to increase the excitement. Nobody appeared to know how Delphin and Nénesse had fared.

“My heart is palpitating dreadfully,” exclaimed Fanny. “How stupid of me!”

Then they called out to Madame Bécu, who happened to be passing. She had been to the church again, and was now wandering backwards and forwards like a disembodied spirit. Her trouble was so great that she did not even stop to talk.

“I can’t contain myself any longer; I’m going to meet them!” said she.

Jean was standing in front of the window, gazing vaguely out of it, and paying no attention to the women’s talk. Several times since the morning he had seen old Fouan prowl­ing round the house with his dragging gait. He now suddenly caught sight of him again, pressing his face against one of the panes of glass, and trying to make out what was going on inside the room. Jean thereupon opened the window, and the old man, looking quite stupefied, began to ask in stammering tones how Françoise was. Very bad, Jean told him; in fact, it was all over with her. Then Fouan thrust his head in at the open window, and stood gazing at Françoise for such a long time that it almost seemed as though he were unable to go away. When Fanny and La Grande saw him, they returned to their previous idea of sending for Lise. But when they tried to get the old fellow to fetch her, he shivered with alarm and made his escape. He muttered and repeated over and over again:

“No, no; impossible, impossible!”

Jean seemed struck by the old man’s appearance of terror; however, the women let the matter drop. After all, it only concerned the two sisters, and it was no business of theirs to force them to see and kiss each other. At this moment a sound was heard, feeble at first, and like the droning of a big fly; then it grew louder and louder, rolling along like a gust of wind breaking among trees.

Fanny leaped up excitedly.

“The drum!” she cried. “Here they come! Good evening!”

And thereupon she hurried away, without even giving her cousin a last kiss.

La Grande and La Frimat also left the room and went to look out at the door. Only Françoise and Jean were left: the wife still persisting in her obstinate silence and rigidity, hearing, perhaps, everything that was said, but wishing to die, like some wild animal earthed-up at the bottom of its burrow; the husband standing in front of the open window, racked by uncertainty, and overwhelmed by a troubled grief to which everything seemed to contribute. Ah, that drum! how the sound of it vibrated and echoed through his whole being. And as its roll broke ceaselessly through the air, with his grief of to-day there mingled recollections of the past, of barracks and battles, and of the dog’s life led by poor wretches who had neither wife nor child to love them!

As soon as the banner came into sight, far away in the distance, on the flat level road looking grey and dingy in the fading light of the evening, a swarm of children scampered off to meet the conscripts, and a group of relatives posted them­selves just at the entrance to the village. The nine young men and the drummer were already very drunk, and as they came along in the mournful evening light, decorated with tri-coloured ribbons, and the greater part of them having numbers pinned upon their hats, they bellowed out a warlike chorus. As they approached the village, they roared out the words of their song louder than ever, and by way of brag, marched forward with a swaggering air.

Delphin was still carrying the banner; but he was holding it on his shoulder, as though it were some troublesome rag of which he could not conceive the use. He came along wearily, with a gloomy expression on his face, and did not join in the singing of the others. There was no number pinned on his cap. As soon as Madame Bécu caught sight of him, she rushed forward in a tremble, at the risk of being overturned by the advancing band of conscripts.

“Well?” she cried.

But Delphin angrily thrust her aside without slackening his pace.

“Get out of the way, and don’t bother me!” Bécu himself had also stepped forward, as full of anxiety as his wife; but when he heard his son’s surly words, he did not dare to say anything; and, as his wife broke out sobbing, it was all he could do to restrain his own tears, despite all his patriotic enthusiasm.

“It’s of no use talking about it! He’s been drawn!” They now both lagged behind on the deserted road, and slowly and sadly returned to the village — the husband thinking of the hard life he had endured in the past as a soldier, and the wife swelling with wrath against the God to whom she had twice prayed, and who had not hearkened to her.

Nénesse was wearing a magnificent number “214” on his cap, daubed in red and blue paint. This was one of the highest numbers, and the young fellow was triumphing in his luck, brandishing his cane and keeping the time as he led the wild chorus of his comrades. When Fanny saw the number, instead of rejoicing, she broke out into a cry of deep regret. Ah! if they could only have foreseen this they would never have invested those thousand francs in Monsieur Baillehache’s lottery to ensure their son’s exemption! Still, although the young man was thus ensured against being taken from them, his mother and father both embraced him as if he had just escaped from some great peril. But he hastily exclaimed: “Do leave me alone! and don’t worry me in this way!” The little troop continued on its tipsy, riotous march through the wildly excited village. The young men’s relations dared not venture upon any further questions or demonstra­tions, as it was clear that they would only meet with an angry repulse. All the young fellows seemed to have come back in the same surly frame of mind, both those who had been taken and those who had escaped. But, anyway, they would not have been able to give a clear account of what had happened, for their eyes were projecting wildly from their heads, and they were as drunk and noisy as though they had all been at some uproarious merry-making. While one little fellow who had been taken, was facetiously trumpeting with his nose, two others who would almost certainly escape came along with pale faces and downcast eyes. Still, if the wildly excited drummer at their head had led them down into the depths of the Aigre, they would all have followed impetuously in his train.

When they at length halted in front of the municipal offices, Delphin gave up the banner.

“There, thank heaven; I’ve had enough of that damned thing which has brought me nothing but ill-luck!” he said.

Then he seized hold of Nénesse’s arm, and dragged him off with him, while the rest of the party invaded Lengaigne’s tavern, where they were joined by their relations and friends, who at last succeeded in learning what had happened. Macqueron meanwhile looked out from his door, heart-sore at the brisk business his rival was doing.

“Come along,” said Delphin to Nénesse in a sharp, curt way, as though he were forming some determined resolution. “I want to show you something.”

Nénesse allowed himself to be taken off. They would have time to come back and drink afterwards. The noisy drum had ceased to din their ears, and they felt a sensation of pleasant quiet and repose, as they strolled off together along the now deserted road which was growing grey in the falling darkness. As Delphin walked on in silence, buried in reflections which could scarcely be pleasant ones, Nénesse began to talk to him about a very important matter. A couple of days previously, at Chartres, having obtained a few hours’ liberty from his employer, he had gone up to the Rue aux Juifs, and had there learnt that Vaucogne, Monsieur Charles’s son-in-law, wanted to dispose of his business. He was too unsteady to be able to make it pay, and he was robbed right and left by the women. But what a business it might become, and what profits might be reaped if it were in the hands of an energetic, steady-going young fellow, with a shrewd head and strong willing arms, and already with some experience of the trade! His idea was to frighten Monsieur and Madame Charles into the belief that Number 19 was in great danger of being suppressed by the police in consequence of the immoral proceedings that habitually took place there, and thus prevail upon them to let him have the place for a mere song. Ah, that would be much better than grubbing the soil! Why, he could be a gentlemen at once!

Delphin was listening in a very absent-minded fashion; in fact, he was busy with his own thoughts, from which he woke up with a start, as his companion gave him a sly poke in the ribs.

“Some folks are born to be lucky,” he murmured. “You were sent into the world to be a pride to your mother.”

Then he relapsed into silence again, and Nénesse, as though he had quite settled matters in his own mind, began to explain the improvements he would make at Number 19, if his parents would advance him the necessary money. He was perhaps a little young, he allowed, but he felt a genuine vocation for the business.

He now caught sight of La Trouille gliding up towards them along the gloomy road, on her way, probably, to some amatory assignation or other; and wishing to show his easy manner with women, he gave her a smart slap as she went past. La Trouille at once returned it, but then recognis­ing the two young men, she exclaimed:

“Hallo, is it you? How you have grown!”

She laughed merrily, at thought, no doubt, of their sprees in earlier days. Of the three, she had changed the least; and, despite her one and twenty years, she still looked a mere chit of a girl, being as slight and supple as a poplar shoot, with a bosom as undeveloped as a child’s. The meeting seemed to please her, and she kissed the two young men one after the other; she would even have been quite willing to proceed to further lengths if they had suggested it, by way of marking her pleasure at seeing them again, just as men clink glasses together when they meet after a separation.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” said Nénesse jokingly. “I’m very likely going to take Charles’s shop. Will you come and have a situation there?”

Then the girl abruptly ceased laughing, and was overcome with emotion, bursting into tears. The surrounding darkness seemed to lay hold of her, and she disappeared from sight, sobbing out like a broken-hearted child:

“Oh, how beastly! how beastly! I sha’n’t love you any more!”

Delphin had remained silent, and with an abstracted air he now resumed his course.

“But where is it you are taking me?” Nénesse finally asked. “What is this strange thing you want to show me?”

“Come along, and you will see by-and-bye.”

He then hastened his steps, and left the high-road to make a short cut through the vines to the house in which the rural constable had been lodged by the authorities since the parsonage had been given up to the priest! He lived there with his father; and he at once conducted his companion into the kitchen, where he lighted a candle, seeming pleased to find that his parents had not yet returned home.

“We’ll have a glass together,” he exclaimed, placing a bottle and a couple of glasses on the table.

When he had swallowed some of the wine, he smacked his tongue, and then continued:

“I want to tell you that if these fools think they are going to keep me, simply because I have drawn a bad number, they are mightily mistaken. When uncle Michel died, I was obliged to go and stay three days at Orléans, and it nearly killed me, I was so miserable at being away from home. I daresay you think it very foolish of me, but I can’t help it. The feeling is stronger than I am; and away from home I am like a tree torn up by the roots. And now they want to take me off and send me to the devil, to all sorts of places that I’ve never even heard the name of! Ah, well, they’ll find out their mistake pre­sently!”