The conquest of Plassans

Front matter

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A TALE OF PROVINCIAL LIFE.

Contents

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CHAPTER ' PAGE

I. COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE.. 21

Chapter I. Coming Events Cast Their Shadows Before

D ESIREE clapped her hands. She was a tall, wellgrown girl of fourteen, but her laugh was like that of a child of five.

“ Mamma ! mamma ! ” she cried ; u see my doll ! ”

She had taken from her mother a piece of cloth, over which she had worked for an hour to make it into a doll, rolling it up and tying it at the ends with a string.

Marthe lifted her eyes from the stocking she was mending with all the delicacy of embroidery, and smiled at Desiree as she said : (21)

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“ Your doll must have a skirt like a lady.”

She handed to the girl a bit of calico that lay on her work-table, and then returned to her careful stitches on her stocking. They were sitting at the end of the narrow terrace — the girl on a low bench at her mother’s feet. The setting sun — a September sun which was still warm — bathed them in its tranquil yellow light; while before them the garden slept in gray shadow. Not a sound from the outside world penetrated this deserted corner of the town.

They worked on for another ten minutes in silence, Desiree taking great pains with her doll’s skirt. Marthe occasionally lifted her eyes and looked at the child with sad but infinite tenderness.

She saw that the child had difficulty in doing what she desired.

“Wait a moment,” said the mother; “I will arrange

the arms for vou.”

*

She took the doll. At that moment two tall lads of seventeen and eighteen came down the steps and toward their mother.

“Do not scold us,” said Octave, as he kissed her. “It was I who induced Serge to go and hear the music; there was a great crowd to-day on the Cours Sauvaire.”

“I supposed you were kept at school,” answered the mother, softly; “but for that I should have been anxious.”

But Desiree, without another thought for her doll, threw herself on the neck of her brother Serge, crying out:

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“My bird has flown away — -the Bluebird you gave me ! ”

She was quite ready to weep. Her mother, who supposed she had forgotten her woe, showed her the doll in vain. She would not release her hold on her brother’s arm, but repeated as she drew him toward the garden :

“ Come and see ! Just come and see ! ”

Serge, with his usual gentle sweetness, followed her with the strong desire to console her. She led him to a tiny hot-house, before which an empty bird-case stood on the ground. She explained that the bird had flown just as she opened the door to prevent him from quarrelling with another.

“ I don’t think that is very amazing,” cried Octave, who was seated astride of the railing of the terrace; “she is always handling them — always looking to see how they are made, and what they have in their throats to sing with. The other day she carried them about all the afternoon in her pocket to keep them warm, she said.”

“Octave!” murmured his mother, in a tone of reproach, “ do hot torment the poor child.”

Desiree had not heard, however. She was telling Serge a long story of how the bird had flown away.

“You see, he went like a flash, and perched on Monsieur Rastoil’s great pear tree, and from there he flew to the grape-vine way back. Then he went right over my head, and disappeared in the great trees in the Prefect’s garden, and I saw him no more — ”

Tears filled her eyes.

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“ He will come back, perhaps,” Serge ventured to say.

“Do you really think so? I might put the others in a box, and leave the cage door open all night.”

Octave shouted with laughter, but Marthe called Desiree.

“ Come and see this ! ” she said, cheerfully, and handed the doll to the young girl.

The doll was really superb. It had a stiff, rustling skirt, a head ingeniously stuffed, and arms sewn on at the shoulders. Desiree’s face lighted up with sudden joy. She took her seat once more on the low bench, thinking no more of the bird, but kissing the doll, rocking it in her arms as if she were not more than five or six years old. Serge was sitting on the railing by the side of his brother. Marthe had taken up her stocking once more.

“Then there was music this afternoon?” she asked.

“Yes, there is always music on Thursdays,” answered Octave. “ You made a great mistake, mamma, not to come. Everybody in town was there — the Rastoil young ladies, Madame de Condamin, Monsieur Paloque, the Mayor’s wife and daughter. Why do you never come?”

Marthe did not lift her eyes. As she took up her stitches on her long slender needle she said, quietly:

“You know, my children, that I do not like to go out; I am so peaceful here. Besides, some one must always stay with Desiree.”

Octave opened his lips, but he looked at his sister, and did not speak. He swung his heels, stared up at the big trees overhead, noisy with the chattering of sparrows

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going to roost, and inquisitively contemplated the pears in their neighbor’s garden. The sun was slowly setting. Serge took a book from his pocket, and began to read with earnest attention.

There was a long silence. Tender and sweet was the yellow light, gradually fading from the sky. Marthe, watching her three children, sat drawing long needlesful of thread through her work with a regular motion.

“ Every one is late to-night, I think,” she said, at last. “ It is nearly eight o’clock, and your father has not come in ; I think he went to Tulettes.”

“ In that case,” answered Octave, “ you need not look for him yet, for the peasants at Tulettes never let him go when once they get hold of him. Did he go to buy wine?”

“ I don’t know,” answered Marthe ; “ I did not ask, for he never cares to talk much about his business.”

Another long silence. In the dining-room, whose long windows opened on the terrace, old Rose was laying the table with considerable rattling of glass and silver. She appeared to be in a very bad humor, for she pushed the furniture about, and kept up a constant muttering. At last she went to the street-door, and looked across the Square. After a few moments of silent watching she came toward the group on the terrace.

’ “Then Monsieur Mouret is not coming home to-night?”

“Oh, yes, Rose,” answered Marthe, gently; “wait a little.”

“ But everything is burning ! There is no sense in it.

When my master means to stay away like this, he ought to tell a body. But after all I don’t know why I should care. The dinner won’t be fit to eat.”

“ Do you really think so, Rose?” said a quiet voice behind her. “ We will eat your dinner all the same though ! ”

It was Mouret who spoke. Rose turned around hastily, quite ready to burst out with a torrent of reproaches, but before the absolute calmness of her master’s face she had not one word to say, and went away. Mouret walked up and down the terrace, but did not take a seat. He gave a little tap on her cheek to Desiree, who smiled at him. Marthe looked up, and after a moment’s earnest observation, folded her work, and laid it in her basket.

“ You are tired, are you not?” asked Octave, looking at his father’s shoes which were white with dust.

“ Yes — a little,” answered Mouret, quietly, and said no more of the very long walk he had taken.

Presently he caught sight, in the middle of the garden, of a rake and spade the children had carelessly left there.

“ Why does not some one bring in those tools?” he asked. “I have told you hundreds of times that they must not be left there. If it should come on to rain they would be rusted and ruined ! ”

He was not angry, but went down to the garden himself, took the rake and the spade, and hung them up carefully in the little conservatory. As he went back to the terrace he looked about to see if all else was in order.

“Are you learning your lessons?” he asked, as he passed Serge, who was still poring over his book.

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“ No, father,” answered the boy ; “ it is a book that the Abbe Bourette lent me — ‘ Missions in China/ ”

Mouret stood in front of his wife.

“Has no one been here?” he asked.

“ No one, my dear,” answered Marthe, with an air of surprise.

He walked up and down two or three times in silence; then going toward the steps, he cried out :

“ How about that dinner, Bose — the dinner that was burning?”

From the end of a corridor came the cook’s angry voice: “You will have to wait, sir; there is nothing ready now. Everything is cold ! ”

Mouret smiled quietly and winked at his wife and the children. The cook’s anger seemed to afford him infinite amusement. Presently he became quite absorbed in the contemplation of his neighbor’s fruit trees.

“It is very surprising,” he muttered, “ that Monsieur Rastoil should have such fine pears again this year.” Marthe had been anxiously waiting for an opportunity to put the question which had hovered on her lips for the last few moments, and she now said, timidly :

“Did you expect any one here to-day?”

“ I did, and I did not,” he replied, as he resumed his walk.

“You have let the second floor, I fancy?”

“ Yes, I have let it.”

And, as an embarrassed silence followed, he continued in his calm voice :

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“This morning, before I went to Tulettes, I called on the Abbe Bourette ; he was very urgent, and I finally said ‘Yes.’ I know you do not like it, but just think a moment, and I am sure you will be reasonable about it. This second story has never been of any use to us. We pile our fruit up in the rooms, to be sure, but the dampness they generate spoils the papers. By the way, now that I think of it, pray do not forget to move those fruits early in the morning ; the new tenants may come at any moment,”

“ We were so comfortable with the whole house to ourselves,” murmured Marthe.

“ Pshaw!” replied Mouret. “A Priest is nobody; that is to say, he is in no one’s way. He will live by himself, and we shall see no difference. These black robes hide themselves, if they wish to swallow a glass of water. You know that I am not over-fond of them myself. They are lazy creatures. The fact that a Priest wanted these rooms was what decided me to rent them. You are sure of your money with them, and then they are so quiet one never even hears them put their key in the lock.”

Marthe was not to be consoled, however. She looked about her, at the happy, quiet home, at the soft quiet brooding over the garden, where the shadows were growing every moment heavier. She looked at her children, and thought how happy and peaceful her life had hitherto been.

“ Do you know who this Priest is ? ” she asked.

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“No, but the Abb6 Bourette gave me his name, and that is enough. I know that our new lodger is called Faujas — the Abl>6 Faujas — and that he comes from the diocese of Besangon. He comes to Saint-Saturnin, and probably knows our Bishop, Monsieur Rousselot. But we have nothing to do with all this, and so far as I am concerned, I leave it all with the Abbe Bourette.”

Even yet Marthe was not reassured. She argued with her husband, which was a very rare occurrence.

“You are right,” she said, after a short silence; “the Abbe is an excellent man. Only I remember that when he came to visit the rooms, he said he did not know the person in whose behalf he was commissioned to engage them. He said that it was a matter of business often executed by Priests for other Priests in different towns. It seems to me that it would be as well to write to Besan£on, and find out what you can, about the person you intend to receive here.”

Mouret was in no degree displeased. He laughed good-naturedly.

“ One would think you supposed him to be the Evil One. I had no idea you were so superstitious as all that ! You do not really believe that Priests bring misfortunes, as people say, do you? Nor do they bring happiness either. They are much as other men. Well, well; we will see when he gets here if I am afraid of his soutane.”

“No, I am not superstitious,” murmured Marthe. “ You know I am not. I am only troubled and disturbed, that is all.”

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He stood in front of her still, and interrupted her with an imperative gesture.

“ It is enough,” he said. “ I have let the rooms. It is done. Let us say no more about it.”

Then he added, in the self-satisfied tone of a man who thinks he has made a good bargain :

“ The best thing about it is, that I have let them for one hundred and fifty francs. Please think of that! We shall have one hundred and fifty francs more in the house each year.”

Marthe turned away her head in silence, closing her eyes to prevent tears from falling. She glanced at her children, who, during the explanation that she had just had with their father, had not seemed to hear — they being probably accustomed to these little scenes.

“ If you want anything to eat, you can come now,” said Pose, sulkily, emerging upon the terrace.

“ All right!” cried Mouret, gayly; his brief ill-humor had vanished. “ Come, children, make haste ! ”

The family rose. Then Desiree, who had heard all that had been said with the stolidity of an underwitted child, seemed to feel a new pang. She ran to her father, threw her arms around his neck, and sobbed,

“ Papa, my bird has flown away ! ”

“Your bird, my darling ? We will catch it again.” And he caressed her and soothed her. But she insisted that he, too, should go and look at the cage. When he came back with the child, his wife and sons were in the dining-room. The last gleams of the setting sun coming

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through the windows lighted up the white cloth, the china and the glass. The room was warm and filled with the sweet fresh air from the garden.

As Marthe, calmed by the serenity of the atmosphere, smiled as she lifted the cover from the soup tureen, a step was heard in the corridor, and Rose came hurriedly in.

“Madame,” she said, “the Abbe Faujas is here.”

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Chapter II. The Priest And His Mother

M OURET looked excessively annoyed, for he had not really looked for his tenant until the next day. He rose hastily, just as the Abbe Faujas appeared at the door of the corridor. He was a tall, well-built man, with a square face, large features and dull complexion. Behind him, and quite in the shadow, was an aged woman, astonishingly like him, though smaller and rougher in appearance.

When they saw the family seated at table, they hesitated, as if about to retreat, but did not absolutely retire. The tall black figure of the Priest cast a dark shadow on the white wall.

“ We ask your pardon for disturbing you in this way,” he said to Mouret. “ We have just come-from the Abbe Bourette — we supposed he had sent you word.”

“ No, indeed ! ” answered Mouret, gayly. “ The Abbe never does what is expected of him ; he always behaves as if he had just stepped down from Paradise. This very morning, sir, he told me you would not be here for several days. But you must be shown to your rooms all the same.”

The Abb6 Faujas continued to make his excuses. His voice was very full and rich, with a sweet and falling

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inflection at the end of his sentences. He was really unhappy at having come at such a moment. When he had expressed his regret, without unnecessary words, in a well-rounded sentence, he turned to the door to pay the man who had brought in his trunk. His large but well-shaped hands drew a purse from the folds of his soutane — the glitter of the steel rings caught the light; he slipped the tips of his fingers within, drew out a piece of money which he placed in the hands of the man, who withdrew. No one saw the money, no one heard a sound.

Then the Abbe, with exquisite politeness, said to Mouret :

“ Pray, sir, return to the table. Your servant will show us the apartment, and will help me carry up these things.”

He stooped to pick up the trunk, which was a small one, of wood, protected at the corners by bands of sheet iron; it seemed to have been repaired at one end by a cross piece of pine.

Mouret looked around in surprise, to find the rest of the Priest’s luggage; but he saw nothing but a large basket, which the old lady held in both hands before her, pressed against her skirts, as if unwilling to place it on the floor, even for a minute. From within the half-open lid protruded the head of a comb, wrapped in paper, and the neck of a badly-corked bottle.

“No! no! Leave the trunk,” said Mouret, touching it lightly with his foot, as he spoke. “ It can’t be heavy, and Rose can take it up alone, perfectly well.”

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He was by no means aware of the secret disdain which pierced through his words. The old lady looked at him fixedly, then turned her black eyes on the table, whose every article she examined in lingering succession and with tight-shut lips. She had not spoken a word.

Finally the Abbe Faujas consented to consign the trunk to the tender mercies of Rose. In the yellow light of the sun, which came through the open garden door, his shabby soutane looked very rusty; it had been carefully darned and repaired, and was perfectly clean, but so thin and forlorn-looking, that Marthe, who had been sitting at the table in a reserved sort of way, now rose and came forward.

The Abb6, who had cast one quick, comprehensive glance upon her and then turned his eyes away, now saw her come toward them, although he did not seem to be looking at her.

" I beg of you/ 7 he said again, " not to allow us to disturb you in this way. It really troubles me/’

"Well, then,” answered Mouret, who was really hungry, "Rose shall go up with you. Ask her for whatever you require. Make yourselves comfortable — make yourselves comfortable ! ”

The Abbe Faujas, after another bow, had turned toward the staircase, when Marthe said a few rapid words to her husband :

" Do you not think we ought — ”

"Ought what?” he asked, seeing that she hesitated.

" Ought to move the fruit first ? ”

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“ To be sure, the fruit is there ! Confound it all ! ”

And as the Abbe turned toward him with a questioning air, he continued :

“I am excessively annoyed, sir. Father Bourette is a most excellent man — only it is a great pity that he ever undertakes to attend to business, for which he has no head whatever. Had we known, everything would have been ready for you. As it is, there is really much to do. You understand that we utilize those rooms whenever we can, and just now, spread out on the floor, are figs, apples and grapes.”

The Priest listened in a surprise that his politeness endeavored to conceal.

“But it will not take so long, after all,” continued Mouret. “In less than an hour Pose will have the rooms ready.”

The Abbe looked extremely disturbed.

“The rooms are furnished, of course?” he asked, hastily.

“Not at all! There is not a stick in them; no one has ever occupied them.”

Then the Priest lost his calm; his gray eyes flashed. He exclaimed, with a good deal of restrained anger in his voice :

“ But I especially wrote for furnished lodgings. I could not bring my furniture in a trunk, of course.”

“There, now!” answered Mouret. “Is not that precisely what I said? This Bourette is half-cracked! He came here, sir; he saw the fruit, for he took up one of the

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apples and said he had never in his life seen anything so beautiful. He said he liked the rooms and was sure you would, and then he engaged them.”

The Abbe Faujas was not listening. An angry color flushed his face. He turned and said, in an anxious tone:

“Mother, do you hear? There is no furniture.”

The old lady, with her thin black shawl closely pinned around her, had explored the next room, without dropping her basket, however. She had even gone as far as the kitchen door, and inspected the four walls; then she had gone out on the terrace, and, with one long gaze, had — so to speak — taken possession of the garden. But the dining-room was more interesting than any other place, and she quickly returned to it — still standing against the wall, opposite the table where the soup was smoking. “Do you hear, mother? We must go to the Hotel.” She looked up without a word. Every feature of her face expressed a determination not to leave the house which she already knew so well. She shrugged her shoulders, and her eyes wandered from the kitchen to the garden, and from the garden to the dining-room.

Mouret in the meantime became impatient. He saw that neither mother nor son seemed to have the slightest idea of leaving the place, and he therefore said :

“ We have no beds, unfortunately. There is, to be sure, in the attic a folding bedstead, which might accommodate Madame for one night perhaps, but I see no place where you, sir, could possibly sleep.”

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At last Madame Faujas opened her lips.

“ My son can have the folding-bed. Give me a mattress on the floor; it will do perfectly well.”

The Abbe nodded approval. Mouret was about to expostulate, but these people seemed to be so perfectly well pleased with this arrangement, which they apparently regarded as a perfectly natural one, that he remained silent, contenting himself with exchanging a look of astonishment with his wife.

“ To-morrow we shall see daylight,” he said at last : “and you can then furnish precisely as you please. Rose will come up in a moment, carry off the fruit and bring in the beds. Will you kindly wait on the terrace until this is done? Come, children, bring out two chairs.”

The children had, since the arrival of the Priest and his mother, been sitting quietly before the table. They looked at the new-comers curiously. The Abbe did not seem to notice them, but Madame Faujas examined them each in turn with the closest scrutiny. They sprang at their father’s bidding and carried out the chairs.

The old lady did not sit down. As Mouret turned round to see where she had gone, he discovered her planted before the windows of the salon. She stretched her neck out and finished her inspection with the tranquil ease of a person who visits a piece of property offered for sale. As Rose lifted the trunk, she returned to the vestibule, saying, simply :

“I will help her.”

And she went up-stairs with the servant.

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The Priest did not even turn his head. . He smiled at the three children who stood before him. His face was very sweet at times, in spite of his heavy brow and the rigid compression of his lips.

“Are these all your children, Madame?” he said to Marthe, who was near him.

“ Yes, sir,” she answered, annoyed by the fixedness of his gaze.

But he looked again at the lads and continued, contemplatively :

“They are tall boys. They will soon be men. Have you finished your studies, my young friend ? ”

He spoke to Serge. Mouret answered for the child : “This one has finished, although he is the youngest. When I say he has finished I mean that he is a Bachelor, for he has entered a college for a year of Philosophy. He is the learned one of the family. The other is the eldest, but he is the lazy one, and will never amount to much. He plays too hard, and likes to be in the street.”

Octave listened with a smile to these reproaches, while Serge drooped his head on hearing his praises. Faujas appeared to study them in silence. Then turning to Desiree he said, in a gentle voice :

“ My child, permit me to be your friend.”

She did not answer, but hid her face, as if in terror, on her mother’s shoulder. She, instead of compelling the child to look up and reply to the Priest, passed her arm around the child’s waist and held her closely.

“ Excuse her,” she said, sadly ; “ she is not over wise.

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She will always remain a little girl. She is an Innocent. We have never annoyed her by trying to make her learn. She is fourteen, and she cares for nothing except her birds.”

Desirde with her mother’s hand in hers seemed to be more at ease. She lifted her head, and turned around with a smile. Then, with growing courage, she said :

“ I should like you for a friend, only you must never hurt the flies. Do you ever?”

And as every one laughed she continued, gravely :

“ Octave crushes them always when he can. It is very wicked.”

The Abbe had taken a chair. He seemed very tired. He abandoned himself for a moment or two to the sweet peace of the terrace, and looked slowly about the garden and at the trees in the neighboring property. This great calm, this secluded corner of the little town, astonished him greatly.

“ It is very pleasant here,” he said, slowly.

Then he relapsed into silence, from which lie awoke with a slight start when Mouret said, with a laugh :

“ Now, sir, if you will permit us, we will go to the table.” His wife gave him a look, and he continued :

“Will you not take a plate of soup with us? Then you will not need to go to the Hotel.”

“ Thank you a thousand times, but we do not care for any,” answered the Abbe, in a tone of such extreme politeness that there was nothing more to be said.

Then the Mourets returned to the dining-room, where

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they established themselves. Marthe served the soup, and there was soon a great rattling of spoons. The children chattered, and Desiree laughed joyously as she listened to something her father was saying, for she was delighted at finally getting her dinner.

In the meantime, the Abbe Faujas, whom they had all forgotten, remained on the terrace facing the setting sun. He did not turn his head, and did not appear to notice anything that was going on. As the sun dropped lower and lower he took off his hat. Marthe, sitting near the window, saw his large head, with the hair already growing gray about the temples. A faint red reflection lighted up this massive head where the tonsure looked like a huge scar. By degrees the light faded, and the figure of the Priest was a mere black profile against the gray of the twilight sky.

Not wishing to call Rose, Marthe herself went for a lamp and for a dish she wanted. As she returned from the kitchen, she met at the foot of the stairs a woman, whom, at first, she did not recognize. It was Madame Faujas. She had put on a linen cap, and looked exactly like a servant, with her cotton dress and her yellow fichu crossed over her shoulders and tied behind. Her sleeves were rolled up, and she was quite out of breath with the work she had been doing. Her stout shoes made a great noise as she moved briskly about.

“Have you got through, Madame?” asked Marthe, with a smile.

“ Oh, yes,” she answered ; “ it only wanted a little energy.”

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She went out on the terrace.