Complete Works of Emile Zola (949 page)

“Three hundred francs,” he repeated.

Then, as he was retreating, she glanced at her husband and called out:

“Here! So that I may get back, say three hundred and fifty, and have done with it.”

He had stopped short, and now he began to run the cow down. She wasn’t firmly set; her loins were weak; in short, she had been an ailing animal, and would have to be kept for a couple of years at a loss. Then he asserted that she was lame, which was not true. He lied for lying’s sake, with obvious bad faith, hoping to irritate the woman and make her lose her head. But she only shrugged her shoulders.

“Three hundred francs.”

“No; three hundred and fifty.”

This time she let him go off. He rejoined the women; told them that the bait was taking, and that they must bargain for some other animal. So the party took their stand in front of the large black cow, held by the pretty girl. For this beast, as it happened, just three hundred francs were asked, and Buteau affected not to think that dear. He began to praise the cow, and then abruptly turned back to the other one.

“It’s settled, then, that I take my money elsewhere?” he asked.

“Why, if it were only possible, but it isn’t! You must nerve yourself a bit.”

Then, leaning down and taking a full handful of udder, the woman added:

“See how plump and pretty!”

He did not assent, however; but said again:

“Three hundred francs.”

“No, three hundred and fifty.”

Negotiations seemed broken off. Buteau had taken Jean’s arm, in definite token that he had let the matter drop. The women rejoined them, in a state of excitement, they being of opinion that the cow was worth the three hundred and fifty francs. Françoise, in particular, who was pleased with the animal, talked of giving that price. But Buteau grew vexed; why should one be swindled like that? And for nearly an hour he held out, amid the anxiety of his cousins, who trembled whenever a purchaser stopped in front of the animal. Neither did he cease to watch it out of the corner of his eye; but it was the right game to play; it was necessary one should hold out. Nobody would certainly be so ready as that to part with his money; they would soon see if any one were fool enough to pay more than three hundred francs. And, in point of fact, the money was not forthcoming, albeit the market was drawing to its close.

Some horses were now being tried along the road. One, all white, was showing his paces, urged on by the guttural shouts of a man holding the halter and running by his side; while Patoir, the chubby and florid veterinary, stood looking on beside the purchaser in a corner of the square, with both hands in his pockets, and giving advice aloud. The inns hummed busily with a constant stream of drinkers, going in and out, away and back again, amid endless discussions and bargainings. The bustle and tumult were now at their full height, and one could not hear one’s-self speak. A calf, that had lost its mother, lowed incessantly. Some black griffons and large yellow water-spaniels ran howling away from among the crowd, with crushed paws. Occasional lulls would occur, in which nothing was audible save the croaking of a flock of ravens who were wheeling round the church steeple. Penetrating through the warm smell of the cattle there came a strong stench of burnt horn, a nuisance due to a neighbouring farriery, where some peasants were availing themselves of the opportunity to have their animals shod.

“Hi! Three hundred?” repeated the unwearied Buteau, as he drew near the peasant woman again.

“No. Three hundred and fifty.”

As there was another purchaser standing by, also bargaining, Buteau seized the cow by her jaws and forced them open to look at her teeth. Then he let go of them with a grimace. At that moment the cow began to relieve herself, and the dung fell soft. He followed it with his eyes, and made a worse grimace than before. The purchaser, a tall thin fellow, was influenced, and went away.

“I’ll have nothing more to do with her,” said Buteau. “She’s got curdled blood.”

This time the woman committed the mistake of losing her temper, which was what he wanted. She abused him, and he retorted with a flood of filth. People gathered round and laughed. The husband still stood motionless behind the woman. At last he slightly nudged her, and she abruptly cried:

“Will you take her at three hundred and twenty francs?”

“No, three hundred.”

He was going off once more, when she called him back in a choking voice.

“Well, then, you brute, take her! But, by God! if I had to go through it all again, I’d slap your face first!”

She was beside herself, and quivering with rage. He laughed noisily, added some gallant speeches, and offered to sleep with her for the balance.

Lise had immediately come up. She took the woman aside and paid her the three hundred francs behind a tree. Françoise had already got hold of the cow, but Jean had to push the creature behind, for she refused to budge. They had been trotting backwards and forwards for a couple of hours, Rose and Fanny having silently and untiringly awaited the end. Finally, on taking their departure, and searching for Buteau, who had vanished, they found him hail-fellow-well-met with the pig-dealer. He had just got his porker for twenty francs; and, in paying, he counted his money out first in his pocket, then produced the exact sum, and counted it again in his half-closed hand. It was quite a job to get the pig into the sack which he had brought under his blouse. The rotten canvas burst, and the paws of the animal came through, as well as its snout. In this condition Buteau shouldered his burden, and carried the beast off, kicking, grunting, and squealing with alarm.

“I say, Lise, how about those five francs I won?”

She gave them to him, for fun, not expecting that he would take them. But he did take them, and put them out of sight in no time. Then they all made their way slowly towards “The Jolly Ploughman.”

The market was at an end. Money was gleaming in the sunlight and chinking on the tables of the wine-shops. At the last moment everything was hurried to a conclusion. In the corner of the Place Saint-Georges there only remained a few animals unsold. Little by little, the crowd had ebbed away towards the Rue Grande, where the vegetable and fruit-sellers were clearing the roadway and carrying off their empty baskets. In a similar way there was nothing left at the poultry market save straw and feathers. The carts were already starting off again. Vehicles were being harnessed in the inn-yards; horses’ reins, knotted to the pavement-rings, were being untied. Along all the roads, on every side, wheels were rolling, and blue blouses were blown about by the wind as the vehicles jolted over the pavement.

Lengaigne went by in this fashion, trotting on his little black pony, having turned his journey to account by buying a scythe. Macqueron and his daughter Berthe were still linger­ing in the shops. As for La Frimat, she went back on foot, laden as when she started, for she was carrying back her basket full of horse-dung, which she had picked up on the road. Among the gilding at the chemist’s in the Rue Grande, Palmyre had been waiting half-an-hour to have a draught made up for her brother, who had been ill for a week past — some vile drug it was, that took one franc out of the couple she had so laboriously earned. But what made the Mouche girls and their party hasten their sauntering steps was the sight of Hyacinthe, staggering along very drunk, and taking up all the street. They presumed that he had got another loan that day by mort­gaging his last bit of land. He was chuckling to himself, and some five-franc pieces were jingling in his capacious pockets.

On arriving at “The Jolly Ploughman,” Buteau said, simply and bluffly:

“So you’re off? Look here, Lise, why not stop with your sister and have something to eat?”

She was surprised, and as she turned towards Jean, he added:

“Jean can stop too. I shall be very pleased if he will.” Rose and Fanny exchanged glances. The lad had certainly some idea in his head. Had he decided on marriage after going to the notary’s to accept? The expression of his face still gave no clue. No matter! They ought not to hamper the course of things.

“Very good, then. You stay here and I’ll go on with mother,” said Fanny. “We are expected.”

Françoise, who had never let go of the cow, now drily re­marked: “I am going too.”

She persisted in doing so. She always felt on thorns at the inn, she said, and she wanted to take her animal away at once. They had to give way, she made herself so disagreeable; and accordingly, as soon as the horse had been put to, the cow was tied behind the cart, and the three women got up.

Not till that moment did Rose, who expected a confession from her son, venture to ask him:

“You have no message for your father?”

“No, none,” replied Buteau.

She looked him full in the face and pressed him: “There’s no news, then?”

“If there is, you’ll know it all in good time.” Fanny flicked the horse, which set off leisurely, while the cow behind, stretching out her neck, allowed herself to be dragged along. Lise was left between Buteau and Jean.

At six o’clock the three of them sat down at a table in a dining-room of the inn, communicating with the café. Buteau, without any one knowing whether he was standing treat or not, had gone into the kitchen and ordered an omelette and a rabbit. Meantime, Lise had urged Jean to have an explanation with him, so as to bring matters to an end, and save a journey. However, they had got through the omelette, and were eating the rabbit, without the young fellow, who was ill at ease, having as yet taken any steps. Neither did the other seem to have the thing at all on his mind. He ate heartily, laughed from ear to ear, and in a friendly way nudged his cousin and his companion with his knee under the table. Then they talked on more serious topics: of the new Rognes road; and although not a word was spoken about the five hundred francs’ compensation, or the increased value of the land, these weighty considera­tions underlay all that was said. At last Buteau returned to his jests, and began clinking glasses; while into his grey eyes there visibly passed the idea of this piece of good business — this old flame he might marry, whose field, adjacent to his own, had almost doubled in value.

“Good Lord!” cried he, “aren’t we to have any coffee?”

“Three coffees!” ordered Jean.

Another hour passed in sipping, and the decanter of brandy was exhausted without Buteau declaring himself. He ad­vanced and retired, and spun matters out, just in the same way as he had haggled for the cow. The thing was as good as settled; but, all the same, a certain amount of consideration was necessary. At last he turned abruptly to Lise and said to her:

“Why haven’t you brought the child?”

She began to laugh, understanding this time that the affair was clenched. Then she gave him a slap, feeling pleased and indulgent, and confined herself to replying:

“Isn’t this Buteau a horrid fellow?”

That was all. He laughed too. The marriage was decided.

Jean, hitherto embarrassed, now seemed relieved, and became gay. At last he even spoke right out.

“You have done well, you know, to return; I was about to step into your shoes.”

“Yes, so I was told. Oh, I wasn’t uneasy; you would, no doubt, have given me warning!”

“Why, certainly! The more so as it’s better it should be you, on account of the child. That’s what we always said, didn’t we, Lise?”

“Always. That’s the simple truth!”

The faces of all three melted into tenderness. They fraternised; especially Jean, who was free from jealousy, and felt astonished at finding himself helping on this marriage. He called for some beer, Buteau having shouted that, good Lord! they’d have something more to drink. With their elbows on the table, seated on each side of Lise, they now chatted about the recent rains which had beaten down the corn.

In the adjacent room, used as a café, Hyacinthe, seated at the same table as an old peasant, who was drunk like himself, was kicking up an intolerable row. For that matter, nobody there could speak without shouting. There they sat, in blouses, drinking, smoking, and spitting amid the ruddy smoke of the lamps; and Hyacinthe’s brazen, deafening voice was ever the loudest of all. He was playing “chouine,” and a quarrel had just arisen anent the last trick between him and his companion, who stuck to his winnings with an air of calm obstinacy. He appeared, however, to be in the wrong. There was no settling it, and Hyacinthe, infuriated at last, yelled so loudly that the landlord interfered. Then he got up and went from table to table, with maudlin persistence, taking his hand with him to lay the point before the other customers. He bored every­body; and finally, beginning to shout again, he returned to the old man, who, with the imperturbability of injustice, bore the abuse like a stoic.

“Poltroon! Ne’er-do-weel! Just come outside, and see how I’ll pitch into you!” shouted Hyacinthe.

Then he abruptly resumed his chair facing the other, and coolly said:

“I know a game. But you must bet. Will you?”

He had taken out a handful of fifteen or twenty five-franc pieces, and piled them up in front of him.

“That’s the thing. You do the same.”

The old man, feeling interested, took out his purse without a word, and set up an equal pile.

“Then I take one from your heap. Now look!”

He seized the coin, put it gravely on his tongue as if it had been a wafer, and swallowed it at a gulp.

“Now, it’s your turn. Take one of mine. And the one who eats the most of the other’s money, keeps it. That’s the game!”

The old man, whose eyes were wide open with surprise, agreed to the suggestion, and with some difficulty he caused one coin to disappear. However, Hyacinthe, while crying out that there was no hurry, gulped down the crowns like so many plums. At the fifth one he swallowed, a rumour ran round the café, and a circle of people collected, petrified with admira­tion. What a throat the beggar must have, to stick money down his gizzard like that! The old man was swallowing his fourth coin, when he tumbled backwards, black in the face, choking and gurgling. For a moment they thought him dead. Hyacinthe had risen up, quite comfortable and wearing a bantering air. He, for his part, had ten of the coins in his stomach, so that there was a balance of thirty francs to his credit.