A Life (29 page)

When Monsieur Le Perthuis turned round, he saw his daugh ter on her knees, sobbing among the little puppies and gathering them up into her skirt. He strode over to her, gesticulating and shouting:

'See! See! A man of the cloth! Now do you see what he's like?'

The farm-tenants had come running up, and everyone was gazing at the murdered animal.

'It don't seem possible!' Mère Couillard declared: 'To think that anyone could be so cruel?

Jeanne, however, had picked up the seven pups and said that she intended to raise them herself.

They tried to give, them some milk; but three died the follow ing day. Then Père Simon scoured the district for a bitch with a litter. He could not find one, but came back with a cat which he claimed would do just as well. So they put down three more of the litter and gave the remaining pup to this wet-nurse from  another species. She adopted it immediately and lay down on her side, offering it her teat.

So that the puppy should not exhaust its adoptive mother, they weaned it a fortnight later, and Jeanne assumed responsibility for feeding it with a baby's bottle. She had called it Toto. The Baron, without asking, changed its name to 'Slaughter'.

The priest did not return, but the following Sunday, from his pulpit, he uttered a stream of oaths and curses and threats against the chateau, saying how it took a red-hot iron to treat a run ning sore, heaping anathemas upon the Baronmuch to his amusementand hinting, with a veiled and as yet tentative allu sion, at Julien's latest amours. The Vicomte was infuriated, but the fear of a dreadful scandal cooled his anger.

Thereafter, in sermon after sermon, the priest continued to announce his forthcoming vengeance, prophesying that the hour of the Lord was at hand, that His enemies would be cast down, every one.

Julien wrote a respectful but firm letter to the Archbishop. The Abbé Tolbiac was threatened with public disgrace. He fell silent.

He could be seen now going for long solitary walks, striding along with an exalted look on his face. Gilberte and Julien kept seeing him in the course of their rides, sometimes in the distance as a black speck on the far side of a plain or by the edge of a cliff, sometimes reading his breviary in some narrow valley which they were about to enter. They would turn away so as not to have to pass near him.

Spring had arrived, stirring their love into new life and throw ing them each day into one another's arms, in this place or that, in whatever sheltered spot their rides took them to.

As the leaves on the trees were as yet sparse, and the grass wet, and since they could not disappear into the undergrowth in the woods as they did in the middle of summer, they had mostly chosen to conceal their embraces in a shepherd's caravan, which had been left abandoned since the previous autumn on the top of the cliff at Vaucotte.

There it remained, out on its own, perched on its big wheels, some five hundred metres from the cliff-edge, just where the  valley begins its rapid descent to the sea. They could not be surprised here, since they had a clear view right across the plain; and their horses would wait for them, tethered to the shafts of the caravan, until they had wearied of their embraces.

But it so happened one day, just as they were leaving this refuge, that they caught sight of the Abbé Tolbiac sitting almost hidden from view amidst the gorse growing on the cliff-top.

'In future we'd better leave our horses in the ravine', said Julien. 'They might be seen from the distance and give us away.' So they adopted the habit of tethering the horses in a fold in the valley where there were plenty of bushes.

Then, one evening as they were both returning to La Vrillette, where they were to join the Comte for dinner, they met the priest from Étouvent just leaving the chateau. He stood aside to let them pass, and bid them good-day but without looking them in the eye.

They were worried for a moment, but soon forgot all about it.

Now one afternoon, when there was a strong gale blowing (this was at the beginning of May), Jeanne was sitting reading by the fire when suddenly she caught sight of the Comte de Fourville arriving on foot and at such speed that she thought something dreadful must have happened.

She rushed downstairs to receive him, and on seeing him face to face she thought he had gone mad. He was wearing a thick fur cap which he only ever wore at home and the loose smock he usually went shooting in; and he was so pale that his red mous tache, which did not normally stand out particularly against his ruddy complexion, looked like a streak of flame. And he had a wild look in his eyes, rolling his eyeballs as though his mind were completely blank.

'My wife is here, isn't she?' he stammered.

Jeanne, not thinking, replied:

'Well no, I haven't, seen her at all today.'

He sat down, as if his legs had given way beneath him, and took off his cap, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, sev eral times, quite unaware of what he was doing. Then suddenly he leapt to his feet and came towards Jeanne, holding out his  hands, his mouth open as though he were about to say something, to share some terrible sorrow with her. Then he stopped, stared at her, and said in a kind of trance:

'But it's your husband . . . You too. . .'

And he fled in the direction of the sea.

Jeanne ran to try and stop him, calling to him, pleading with him, her heart numb with terror, and thinking:

'He knows everything! What is he going to do? Oh! Just as long as he doesn't find them!'

But she couldn't catch up with him, and anyway he wasn't listening to her. He just kept on, not pausing for an instant, sure of his goal. He crossed the ditch and made towards the cliff, striding over the gorse-bushes with a giant's steps.

Jeanne stood on the woody bank for a long time and watched him go; and then, when she had lost sight of him, she returned indoors in a torment of apprehension.

He had turned to the right and broken into a run. The heavy sea churned; great black clouds came rolling in at vertiginous speed and passed overhead, only to be followed by others; and each one pelted the coastline with a furious burst of rain. The wind shrieked and moaned, skimming the grass and flattening the new crops, taking hold of large white birds, like flakes of spume, and sweeping them far away inland.

The squalls lashed against the Comte's face, one after another, drenching his cheeks and dripping off his moustache, bringing uproar to his ears and tumult to his heart.

Ahead of him lay the entrance to the deep gorge of the Vau cotte valley. So far he had seen nothing, only a shepherd's caravan beside an empty sheep-pen. Two horses were tethered to its shafts. (Why fear to be seen in such a storm?)

The moment he saw the horses, the Comte lay down on the ground and then dragged himself forward on hands and knees, looking like some monster with his long body all covered in mud and his cap of animal fur. He crawled up to the solitary caravan and hid underneath so as not to be seen through the cracks in the wooden sides.

The horses had seen him and were restive. Slowly he cut  through their reins with his knife, which he kept open in his hand; and when a sudden gust blew, the animals ran off, unnerved by the hail which was beating down on the sloping roof of the caravan, making it rock on its wheels.

Then the Comte knelt up, put his eye to the gap under the door, and looked inside.

He did not move; he seemed to be waiting. Quite a long time passed; and all at once he stood up, covered in mud from head to foot. With a violent shove he shot the bolt that fastened the penthouse on the outside, grabbed hold of the shafts, and began to shake the little love-nest as though he wanted to break it into tiny pieces. Then suddenly he placed himself between the shafts and bent his tall body forward, straining with a desperate effort, pulling on them like an ox, and panting for breath; and he dragged the caravan and those shut up within it towards the steep slope.

Inside they were screaming, banging their fists against the walls, not understanding what was happening to them.

When he reached the top of the slope, he let go of the flimsy dwelling, and it began to roll downhill.

Gradually it gathered pace, careering madly downwards, faster and faster, leaping and stumbling like some living animal, its shaft banging on the ground.

An old beggar huddling in a ditch saw it pass in one bound over his head; and he heard the dreadful screams coming from the wooden box.

Suddenly it lost a wheel, torn off by one particular jolt; then it toppled over on its side, and resumed its course, rolling down the slope like a ball, or like an uprooted house tumbling from a moun tain summit. Then, on reaching the edge of the final gully, it bounced upwards, arcing through the air, and fell to the bottom, where it shattered like an egg.

As it lay broken on the stony ground, the old beggar who had seen it pass crept down through the brambles; and moved by peasant caution, not daring to approach the eviscerated box, he went to the nearby farm to report the accident.

People came running; some of the wreckage was pulled away;  two bodies were discovered. They were bruised, mangled, bleed ing. The man's forehead was split open, and his whole face was smashed. The woman's jaw was hanging down, severed during the fall; and their broken limbs were limp as if there were no bones left beneath the flesh.

People recognized them nevertheless; and they began to argue at length about how this disaster could have happened.

'What was they up to, then, in that there van?' asked a woman.

Then the old tramp said that they seemed to have taken refuge in it to shelter from the gale, and the strong winds must have blown the caravan over and sent it tumbling down the slope. And he explained how he himself had thought of taking cover there, when he had seen the horses tethered to the shafts and realized that the place was already occupied.

'Otherwise it were me that was a goner!' he added with satisfaction.

'Might 'a been better so,' said another voice.

At which the fellow flew into a terrible rage:

'Why might it 'a been better so? Just coz I be poor and them's rich! Well, just look at 'em. now! . . .'

And standing there shivering in his rags, soaked to the skin, filthy dirty, his beard matted and his long hair hanging down beneath his battered hat, he pointed to the two corpses with his crooked stick, and declared:

'We's are all equal when it come to this.'

But other peasants had arrived and stood watching shiftily, with a look in their eye that was at once uneasy, sly, horrified, selfish, and cowardly. Then they all discussed what to do; and it was decided that the bodies should be taken back to the two manors in the hope of a reward. So they hitched up two carts. But a new difficulty presented itself. Some wanted simply to put straw on the floor of the carts; others thought it more seemly to lay mattresses.

The woman who had already spoken shouted:

'But them mattresses'll get all covered in blood, and they'll 'ave to be washed in bleach.'

Then a stout farmer with a jovial face replied:

'But they'll pay for 'em. And the more it seems we've spent, the more they'll give us.' This argument carried the day.

And the two carts, perched high on springless wheels, set off at a trot, one to the right, the other to the left, jolting over the deep ruts in the road, shaking the remains of these two people who had once embraced and now would never meet again, and making them bounce up and down.

As soon as the Comte had seen the caravan rolling down the steep incline, he had fled the scene as fast as he could, tearing along through the wind and the rain. He ran like this for several hours, taking short cuts along the way, leaping over banks, push ing through gaps in the hedge, and he reached home at dusk without knowing quite how.

The servants were waiting for him, panic-stricken, with the news that the two horses had just returned riderless, Julien's having followed the other one.

On hearing this, Monsieur de Fourville staggered and said in a choked voice:

'They must have had some accident in this dreadful weather. Quick, everyone go and look for them.'

He set off again himself; but as soon as he was out of sight, he hid beneath some brambles, watching the road along which would return, dead or dying, perhaps crippled or disfigured for life, the woman he still loved with a savage passion.

And soon a cart passed by, bearing a strange-looking load.

It stopped outside the chateau, and then turned in. This was the one, yes, this was Her; but a terrible anguish rooted him to the spot, an awful dread of finding out, a horror of the truth; and he remained still, crouched like a hare, quivering at the slightest sound.

He waited for an hour, perhaps two. The cart did not come out again. He told himself how his wife was dying; and the thought of seeing her, of encountering her gaze, filled him with such horror that he was suddenly afraid of being discovered: in his hiding place and having to return home to witness this final agony; and so he raced off once more into the middle of the wood. Then all at once he reflected that perhaps she needed his help, that there  was probably no one there to look after her; and he came running back, thoroughly distraught.

As he reached home, he met the gardener and shouted to him:

'Well?'

The man did not dare reply. So Monsieur de Fourville almost screamed:

'Is she dead?'

And the servant muttered:

'Yes, your lordship.'

He felt immense relief. A sudden calm flowed into his veins and through his aching muscles; and he walked resolutely up the grand flight of steps and into his house.

The other cart had reached Les Peuples. Jeanne caught sight of it in the distance, saw the mattress, guessed that a body was lying on it, and understood at once what had happened. The shock was so great that she collapsed unconscious.

When she came round, her father was holding her head and rubbing her temples with vinegar:

'Do you know . . . ?' he asked hesitantly.

'Yes, father,' she murmured.

But when she tried to get up, she was unable to; she was in too much pain.