Complete Works of Emile Zola (947 page)

They ended by dubbing him an adventurer and a rogue, who went on the stump through the villages for the sake of robbing them of their votes, just as he would have robbed them of their coppers. Hourdequin — who might have explained to them that Monsieur Rochefontaine, a free-trader, really shared the Emperor’s ideas — wilfully let Macqueron display his Bona­partist zeal, and Delhomme propound his opinion in his strong limited, common-sense way; while Lengaigne, whose official position kept his mouth shut, sat growling in a corner, inaudibly repeating his vague Republican views. Although Monsieur de Chédeville had not once been mentioned, he was alluded to in every sentence that was uttered; they all grovelled, as it were, before his title of official candidate.

“Come, gentlemen,” resumed the mayor; “suppose we commence.”

He had seated himself at the table in his presidential broad-backed arm-chair.

The assessor was the only one who sat down by his side. Two of the councillors remained standing upright, and two leaned upon a window-sill. Lequeu had handed the mayor a sheet of paper, and whispered in his ear. Then he left the room in a dignified way. “Gentlemen,” said Hourdequin, “here is a letter addressed to us by the schoolmaster.”

It was read aloud, and proved to be a request for an increase of thirty francs in the master’s yearly salary, the application being based upon the energy he displayed. Every face had grown dark. They were always very close with the public money, as if it came out of their own pockets, especially in the matter of the school. There was not even a discussion; they refused the application point-blank.

“Good! we’ll tell him to wait. The young man is in too much of a hurry. And now let’s deal with this matter of the road.”

“Beg pardon!” interrupted Macqueron, “I want to say a word or two about church matters.”

Hourdequin, surprised, now understood why the Abbé Godard had breakfasted with the innkeeper. What ambition was urging the latter to push himself to the front like this? However, his propositions met with the same fate as the school­master’s request. It was in vain he argued that they were rich enough to pay for a priest of their own, and that it was scarcely respectable to have to put up with the leavings of Bazoches-le-Doyen. They all shrugged their shoulders, and asked if the Mass would be any better for it. No, no! They would have to repair the parsonage; it would cost too much to have a priest to themselves, and half an hour of the other’s time each Sunday was sufficient.

The mayor, hurt by his assessor taking matters into his own hands, concluded: “There is no need for any change. The council has already decided. Now about our road. We must make an end of it. Delhomme, pray have the goodness to call in Monsieur Lequeu. Does the fellow imagine that we are going to discuss his letter all day long?”

Lequeu, who had been waiting on the stairs, came in gravely, and as they did not apprise him of the fate of his request, he remained snappish and restless, swelling with covert insult. What a contemptible set of men these peasants were! How­ever, he had to take the map of the road out of the cupboard and spread it out on the table.

The council knew the map well. It had been hanging about for years. But none the less they all approached, elbowing one another, and deliberating once more. The mayor enumerated the advantages which Rognes would derive. The gentleness of the slope would allow vehicles to drive up to the church. Then two leagues would be gained on the road to Châteaudun, which now passed through Cloyes. And the village would only have to pay the cost of some two miles of the road, their Blangy neighbours having already voted the remaining bit, as far as the junction with the highway from Châteaudun to Orléans. They listened to him with their eyes fixed steadfastly on the paper, and never opening their mouths. What had especially prevented the plan from coming to a head was the indemnity question. Every one saw a fortune to be made out of this road, and was anxious to know if one of his fields would be required, and if he would be able to sell it to the village at the rate of a hundred francs a perch. But supposing their own fields were not encroached upon, why on earth should they vote for the enrichment of others? A deal they cared about the gentle slope or the shorter route! Their horses would have to pull a bit harder, that was all!

So Hourdequin had no need to make them talk to learn their opinions. He only desired the road so eagerly because it would run past the farm and several of his fields. In the same way Macqueron and Delhomme, whose land would border the road, were in favour of the vote. That made three; but neither Clou nor the other councillor had any interest in the question; and as for Lengaigne, he was violently opposed to the project, having in the first place nothing to gain by it, and being also aggrieved that his rival, the assessor, should reap any advantage by it. If Clou and the doubtful one voted on the wrong side there would be three against three, so Hourdequin became anxious. At last the discussion began.

“What’s the good? what’s the good of it?” repeated Lengaigne. “We’ve a road already, haven’t we? It’s just the pleasure of spending money, taking it out of Jean’s pocket to put it in Pierre’s. Now, there’s you! You promised to give your ground up for nothing!”

This was a slap at Macqueron, who, bitterly regretting his fit of generosity, gave the lie direct.

“I never promised anything! Who told you that?”

“Who? Why, confound it! you did! Before people, too! Why, Monsieur Lequeu was there, he can tell us. Wasn’t it so, Monsieur Lequeu?”

The schoolmaster, angered at not being told his fate, made a coarse gesture of contempt. What were their beastly dis­putes to him?

“Oh, all right!” resumed Lengaigne. “If people can’t be open and honest, we’d better live in the woods! No, no, I’ll have nothing to do with your road! A piece of jobbery!”

Seeing that matters were taking a nasty turn, the mayor hastened to interpose.

“That’s all rubbish. We haven’t to enter into private questions. It’s the public interest, the interest of all, that ought to be our leading guide.”

“Quite so,” said Delhomme, “The new road will be of great service to the whole place. Only we must be certain of our ground. The prefect keeps on saying to us: ‘Vote a sum of money, and then we will see what the Government will do for you.’ Now, if it didn’t do anything at all, what’s the good of our wasting our time voting?”

Hourdequin thought this the moment to publish the great piece of news he was holding in reserve.

“Talking of that, gentlemen, I have to tell you that Monsieur de Chédeville engages to get a subsidy representing half the expenses from the Government. You know he is the Emperor’s friend. He will only have to speak to him about us at dessert.”

Lengaigne himself was moved at this. All the faces had assumed a beatifical expression, as if the Host were passing. In any case the re-election of the deputy was secured. The Emperor’s friend was the man for them, the man who had access to the fountain-head of office and wealth — the known, honourable, powerful master! Nothing passed, however, but some noddings of the head. These things were self-evident. Why mention them?

Still Hourdequin was disquieted by the non-committal policy of Clou. He got up and glanced outside; and perceiving the rural constable, he bade him go for old Loiseau and bring him in alive or dead. This Loiseau was an old deaf peasant, appointed a member of the council by way of a joke; he never attended its meetings, because they set his head in a whirl, so he declared. His son worked at La Borderie, and he was entirely devoted to the mayor. Accordingly, on his appear­ance, the latter merely shouted into one of his ears that it was about the road. Each of them was already awkwardly filling up his voting paper, poring over the writing with outstretched elbows, to prevent the others from reading it. Then they proceeded to vote the half of the outlay, placing their papers in a little tin receptacle like a poor-box. The majority was superb. There were six votes for, and only one against — that of Lengaigne. That beast Clou had voted right. The meeting was dissolved, after every one had signed the minute-book, which the schoolmaster had previously prepared, leaving the result of the vote blank. Then they all went away moodily, without a farewell word or the pressure of a hand, dropping off one by one on the stairs.

“Oh, I forgot!” said Hourdequin, coming back to Lequeu, who was still waiting. “Your request for an increase of salary is rejected. The council is of opinion that too much money is already spent on the school.”

“A set of beasts!” cried the young man, green with fury, when he was alone. “Go and live in your pigsties!”

The meeting had lasted two hours. In front of the municipal offices Hourdequin picked up Monsieur de Chédeville, who was just come back from his visits round the village. To begin with, the priest had not spared him a single one of the church dilapidations — the cracked roof, the broken win­dows, the bare walls. Then, as he was at length making his escape from the vestry, which wanted repainting, the in­habitants, quite emboldened, fought for him, each one trying, to bear him away, to hear some complaint, or to grant some favour. One had dragged him off to the village pond, which was not cleaned out for want of money; another pointed out a spot on the bank of the Aigre where he wanted a wash-house built; a third pressed for the widening of the road in front of his door, so that his cart could turn round; there was even an old woman who, having pushed the deputy into her cottage, showed him her swollen legs, and asked him whether he didn’t know of a remedy in Paris. Flustered and breathless, he smiled, made himself pleasant, and kept on promising. Oh, he was a good sort, and affable to the poor!

“Well, shall we go?” asked Hourdequin. “They are waiting for me at the farm.”

Just then Cœlina and her daughter Berthe ran out again to beg Monsieur de Chédeville to come in for a moment; and that gentleman would have gladly done so, for he had at length found breathing-space, and was gratified to renew his acquaintance with the pretty, bright, dissipated eyes of the young lady.

“No, no!” resumed the farmer, “we haven’t time. Some other occasion.”

He then bundled him back into the gig; while to a question from the waiting priest he answered that the council had taken no steps in the matter of the parish service. The driver whipped forward his horse, and the vehicle spun off through the midst of the friendly and delighted village. The priest alone was furious, as he set off to walk his two miles from Rognes to Bazoches-le-Doyen.

A fortnight later Monsieur de Chédeville was elected by a large majority, and towards the end of August he had redeemed his promise — the subsidy was granted for the opening of the new road, and the work was immediately put in hand.

On the evening when the first stroke of the pickaxe was given the thin and dark Cœlina stood at the fountain listening to La Bécu, who, with her lanky arms intertwined under her apron, was talking at endless length. For the last week the meetings at the fountain had been revolutionised by this mighty question of the road. The constant topic was the money paid as an indemnity to So-and-so, and the slanderous rage of the rest. Every day La Bécu kept Cœlina posted as to what Flore Lengaigne said; not, of course, to provoke dissension, but, contrariwise, to induce them to explain themselves, that being the surest way of bringing them to an harmonious under­standing. Women were standing round, forgetful and listless, with their pitchers full beside them.

“Well, so she said, just like that, that it was all arranged between the assessor and the mayor how they could best swindle in the matter of the ground. And she also said that your husband was double-tongued.”

At this moment Flore came out of her house with her pitcher in her hand. When she had got there, fat and flabby, Cœlina, with her arms a-kimbo, shrewish and virtuous, broke out into vile abuse, falling upon her in fine style, flinging in her teeth her hussy of a daughter, and taxing her with be­having improperly with her customers. The other, dragging along her slippers trodden down at heel, confined herself to repeating, in a whimpering tone:

“There’s a baggage for you! There’s a baggage for you!”

La Bécu then threw herself between them, and tried to make them kiss each other; which all but resulted in their tearing one another’s hair out. Then she let fly a piece of news.

“I say! Talking of that, you know that the Mouche girls are going to get five hundred francs?”

“You don’t say so!”

The quarrel was at once forgotten. They all crowded up amid the pitchers.

Certainly! The road up there on the plateau skirted the field belonging to the Mouche girls, and cut five hundred yards off it. At a franc the yard, that made five hundred francs; and the ground that bordered the road would be enhanced in value. It was, indeed, a piece of luck.

“In that case,” said Flore, “Lise has become a capital match, child and all. That big simpleton Corporal has been wide awake, all the same, in sticking out.”

“Unless,” added Cœlina, spitefully, “unless Buteau comes back again. His share, too, is finely improved by the road.”

At this moment La Bécu turned round and nudged them.

“Sh! Be quiet!”

Lise was coming up, gaily swinging her pitcher. Then the procession past the fountain resumed its course.

CHAPTER VI

Having got rid of La Rousse, who was too fat and no longer calved, Lise and Françoise had resolved to go that Saturday to Cloyes market to buy another cow, Jean offering to drive them there in one of the farm carts. He had kept his after­noon free, and the master had given him permission to take the vehicle, on account of the rumours which were current concerning the young fellow’s betrothal to the elder girl. The marriage was, in fact, decided on; or, at least, Jean had promised to lay the question in person before Buteau during the following week. The matter needed settlement; one or the other of them must marry the girl.

So they started off at about one o’clock, he in front with Lise, and Françoise by herself on the other seat. From time to time he turned round and smiled at the younger girl, whose knees were in warm contact with his loins. ‘Twas a great pity that she was fifteen years younger than he; and although, after much reflection and many deferments, he had resigned himself to his marriage with the elder girl, it was, no doubt, the idea of living as a relative near Françoise that really in­fluenced him. And then, how many things we do out of passivity, without knowing why, except that we did once determine to do them.