Complete Works of Emile Zola (983 page)

“Eh? what? What do you say? Papers! what papers?”

“My money!” roared the old man, bracing himself to his full height, and assuming a threatening expression.

“Your money! What, have you still got some money left? Why, you swore that we had cost you so much that you hadn’t a copper to call your own. Oh, you cunning old chap, so you really have some money.”

He was still swinging about on his chair, sniggering and highly amused, triumphant at having had such a good scent, for he had been the first to suspect the existence of the treasure.

Fouan trembled in every limb.

“Give it back to me!”

“Give it back to you? I haven’t got your money! Why, I don’t even know where it is!”

“You have robbed me of it. Give it back to me, or I swear that I will make you give it up by force.”

And, in spite of his great age, he seized Buteau by the shoulders and shook him. The son now sprang up from his chair and seized hold of his father in turn. But it was not to shake him, but simply to roar out in his face:

“Yes, I’ve got it, and I mean to keep it. I’m going to take care of it for you, you crazy old stupid, with your ram­bling wits. It was high time, too, that I did take the papers, for you were going to tear them up. He wanted to tear them, didn’t he, Lise? “

“Oh, yes, as sure as I’m here! He didn’t know a bit what he was doing.”

Fouan was overwhelmed with consternation upon hearing this. Could it really be true that he was going mad, since he could recollect nothing of what had taken place? Supposing he had really wanted to destroy the papers, just like a child playing with pictures, in that case he could no longer be good for anything, and was only fit to be killed! He was now quite broken down, and all his courage and strength left him; he could merely stammer out tearfully:

“Give them back to me!”

“No!”

“Give them me, since I’m all right again now.”

“No, no, indeed! you’d only wipe yourself with them, or use them to light your pipe!”

After that the Buteaus obstinately persisted in their refusal to surrender the papers. They spoke about them quite openly to their neighbours, and they gave an exciting account of how they had arrived just in time to snatch them from the old man’s hands when he was about to tear them up. One evening they even showed La Frimat a rent in one of the documents. Surely no one, they protested, could blame them for preventing such a misfortune, for the money would have been destroyed and lost to everybody. The neighbours publicly expressed their approval of the Buteaus’ conduct, though they privately suspected them of lying. Hyacinthe was in a terrible rage. To think that the treasure which it had been impossible for him to find in his own house should have been so speedily discovered by the others! One day, indeed, he had actually held it in his hands, and had been fool enough not to stick to it! He swore to himself that he would call his brother to account when the old man died. Fanny, too, said that the money would have to be divided. The Buteaus did not say the contrary, but, of course, the old man might recover posses­sion, or give the bonds away by deed.

As for Fouan, he poured the story of his wrongs into the ears of everybody he came across, waylaying every one he could, and bemoaning his piteous lot to them. In this way, one morning, he went into his niece’s yard to pour out his troubles to Françoise and Jean.

Françoise was helping her husband to load a cart with manure. While the latter stood in the dung-hole and threw the manure into the vehicle with his pitchfork, Françoise, stand­ing aloft, trampled it down with her feet to compress it.

The old man stood leaning on his stick in front of them, and began bewailing his sad fate.

“I’m dreadfully harassed about this money of mine, you know, which they have taken from me and won’t give me back. What should you do if you were in my place?”

Françoise let him repeat the question three times before she said anything in reply. She was annoyed at his coming to talk to her in this way, and received him coldly, being anxious to avoid all cause of quarrel with the Buteaus.

“Well, uncle,” she answered at last, “it’s really no business of ours, you know. We are only too glad to have finished with our own troubles.”

Then turning her back upon him, she continued treading down the dung which rose around her up to her thighs. As her husband went on tossing up forkful after forkful, she all but vanished amid the steamy smoke from the disturbed manure, and yet she felt at ease, with her heart in the right place, amid the asphyxiating fumes.

“I’m not mad; that can be seen, can’t it?” Fouan continued, not seeming to have heard Françoise. “They ought to give me back my money. Do you and Jean, now, think me capable of destroying it?”

Neither Françoise nor Jean said a word.

“I should, indeed, have to be mad to do that, and I’m not mad — you and your husband could bear witness to that, couldn’t you?”

Françoise now suddenly braced herself up, standing on the top of the loaded cart. She looked very tall and sturdy and vigorous, almost as if she had sprung into life and grown up there where she was standing, and as if that scent of rich fecundity had emanated from herself. As she stood there with her hands resting on her hips, and her bosom swelling roundly, she looked a real woman.

“There, there, uncle, that’s enough!” she said. “I’ve told you already that we don’t want to have anything to do with all that squabbling. And, while we are on the subject, perhaps you would do as well not to come here again.”

“Do you mean to cast me off, then?” asked the old man, trembling as he spoke.

Jean now thought it time to interpose.

“No; but we don’t want to be mixed up in any quarrels. There would be a three days’ row if they were to see you here. Every one has his own peace and quietness to look after, you know.”

Fouan stood motionless, gazing at them one after the other out of his poor dim eyes. Then he went away.

“If ever I want any help,” he said, “it is clear I shall have to look somewhere else for it.”

They allowed him to go away, though they felt uneasy and troubled. They were not yet evil-hearted. But what could they do? They could not have helped him by interfering in the matter, and their own peace and quietness would have been ruined to no purpose. While Jean went off to get his whip, Françoise carefully collected the fallen straws with a shovel and threw them on to the cart.

The next day there was a violent scene between Fouan and Buteau. Every day, indeed, there were bitter passages between them about the papers, the old man doggedly repeating his “Give me them back again!” and the son refusing to do so, with his “Hold your row, and let me alone!” But matters had gradually grown more serious, especially since the old man had set about trying to discover where his son had hidden the bonds. He now, in his turn, prowled inquisitively about the whole house, examining drawers and closets, and tapping against the walls to see if he could discover any hollow place. His eyes were continually straying from one spot to another, in the one fixed idea that had seized hold of him; and as soon as ever he found himself free from observation, he got rid of the children and recommenced his search, with all the eagerness of some young scapegrace who flies off to make love to the servant-maid as soon as his parents are out of the way. That day, however, Buteau returned home unexpectedly, and found Fouan stretched on the floor on his stomach, with his nose under the chest of drawers, trying to ascertain if there were any possible hiding-place there. The sight almost put Buteau beside himself, for his father was unpleasantly warm in his scent now. What he was seeking below was hidden away above, sealed down, as it were, by the heavy weight of the marble slab.

“You confounded old addle-pate; so you are playing the snake now? Get up at once!”

He dragged his father by the legs, and then set him on his feet again with a vigorous pull.

“Haven’t you got tired of thrusting your eye into every little hole and cranny? I’m getting quite weary of seeing you poking about in every chink and crevice in the house.”

Fouan, annoyed at having been discovered, looked his son in the eyes, and cried in a sudden burst of anger:

“Give them back to me!”

“Hold your jaw!” roared Buteau in his face.

“Well, I’m made too wretched here. I shall go away.”

“All right! Off you go, then, and a pleasant journey to you! And if ever you come back here you’ll show that you’ve got no spirit!”

As he spoke, he seized his father by the arm, and thrust him out of the house.

CHAPTER II

Fouan made his way down the hill. His anger speedily evaporated, and when he reached the bottom and gained the high-road he stopped short, feeling dazed and confused at finding himself in the open with nowhere to go to. The church clock struck three, and the damp wind of the grey November afternoon blew piercingly cold. The old man shivered; it had all taken place so quickly that he had not even been able to pick up his hat. Fortunately, however, he had his stick with him. For a moment or two he began to walk on towards Cloyes. Then he asked himself where he was going to in that direction, and he turned round and made his way back towards Rognes, with his usual dragging gait. As he reached the Macquerons’, he felt inclined to go in and have a glass. He searched his pockets, but he could not find a copper, and he felt ashamed to show himself, fearing that they might have already heard of what had happened. He fancied that Lengaigne, who was standing at his door, was watching him with that suspicious glance which is given to some disreputable tramp; and Lequeu, who was looking out of one of the school windows, did not even nod to him. It was easily understood; he was once more an object of con­tempt to every one, now that he was again without any means, now that he had been stripped anew, and this time to the very skin.

When he reached the Aigre, he leant his back for a mo­ment or two against the parapet of the bridge. The thought of the night that was now closing in filled him with uneasiness. Where could he sleep? He had not the least shelter to turn to. The Bécus’ dog passed by, and the old man looked at it with envy; that dog, at any rate, knew that its kennel and bed of straw were awaiting it. He tried to think of some refuge, but his brain was confused, and his outburst of anger had exhausted him and made him drowsy. His eyelids closed heavily, as he tried to recall some sheltered corner where he would be pro­tected from the cold. Then his mind seemed to become the prey of a night-mare, and he saw all the country-side revolving before him, bare, and swept by the gusts of wind.

However, with sudden energy, he shook himself, and tried to throw off his drowsiness. He must not lose heart in this way. Folks would never let a man of his age die with cold out-of-doors.

He now mechanically crossed the bridge, and found himself opposite the Delhommes’ little farm. Immediately he caught sight of the house he turned aside and went round to the back, so that no one should see him. There he halted again, leaning against the wall of the cow-house, in which he heard his daughter Fanny’s voice. Had he had any thought of return­ing to her? The old man himself could not have answered this question; his feet had mechanically carried him there. In his mind’s eye he could see the inside of the house as plainly as if he had entered it: the kitchen on the left, and his old bed­room on the first floor, at the end of the hay-loft. His former spite was fading away; and his legs shook so with emotion that he would have fallen to the ground had he not had the support of the wall. For a long time he remained there like this, with his back resting against the house-side. Fanny was still talking inside the cow-house, but he could not dis­tinguish what she was saying. Perhaps it was this muffled sound of his daughter’s words that stirred up the old man’s heart. She seemed to be scolding a servant, for her voice grew louder, and Fouan finally heard her addressing such cutting remarks, in a harsh, stern voice, to the unfortunate servant girl, that the latter burst out into tears. These words affected the old man painfully; all his feelings of emotion vanished, and he sternly braced himself up, feeling convinced that if he had pushed open the door, his daughter would have received him with the same harsh tones. He could again hear her saying: “Oh, my father will return and ask us, on his knees, to take him back again.” That never-forgotten speech of hers had, like a knife, irretrievably severed every bond between them. No, no! Sooner die of hunger and sleep at the bottom of a ditch than see her triumphing over him with her haughty assumption of perfect irreproachableness! At this thought he removed his back from the wall, and painfully went on his way.

To avoid following the road, Fouan, who believed that every one was watching for him, went up the right bank of the Aigre, beyond the bridge, and soon found himself in the midst of the vineyards. His intention was to reach the plateau without having to go through the village. He was obliged, however, to pass near the Château, where his legs now seemed to carry him instinctively like those of some old horse going to the stable where he has been accustomed to eat his oats. The ascent up the hill made him pant, and he sat down to get his breath back, and began to think. Certainly if he were to go inside and say to Hyacinthe: “I am going to appeal to the law; help me against Buteau,” the scamp would receive him with an explosion of welcome, and they would spend an eve­ning of jovial riot together.

From where he was sitting he could hear the sound of merriment; proceeding, no doubt, from some tipsy debauch which would be prolonged till morning. Attracted by the sound, and already feeling a void in his stomach, he approached nearer, and recognised Canon’s voice, together with the smell of some stewed beans, those beans which La Trouille knew so well how to cook whenever her father wanted to celebrate the arrival of his friend. Why shouldn’t he, Fouan, go in and join the two scamps in their merry-making? He could hear them warmly disputing amid the clouds of smoke from their pipes, and apparently so gorged with wine that he positively envied them. A sharp explosion from Hyacinthe stirred the old man with emotion, and he had already reached out his hand towards the door when La Trouille’s shrill laughter paralysed him. She was now the object of his fear, and in his mind’s eye he could still see her, scrany and clad in her chemise, stealthily approach­ing him like a snake, and warily feeling him and making him her prey. What good would it do even if the father did assist him to recover his money? The daughter would be there to strip him of it again.