THE READER IS perhaps less impatient than Tafardel to become acquainted with the site on which Barthélemy Piéchut is proposing to set up a small unassuming piece of architecture. Let us, therefore, leave the two men to proceed in their calm, unhurried manner towards the spot on which is to be erected that public convenience destined far more, perhaps, to be the means of putting out of countenance the Baroness Alphonsine de Courtebiche, the Curé Ponosse, the notary Girodot, and the agents of the party of reaction, than of procuring notable relief for the male population of Clochemerle. Moreover, we shall soon overtake the mayor and the schoolmaster, whose pace is slow. But in the first place we have to consider this district of the Beaujolais.
To the west of the Route Nationale No. 6, which goes from Lyons to Paris, there lies, between Anse and the outskirts of Mâcon over a distance of about forty-five kilometers, a region which shares with Burgundy, Anjou, Bordelais, and the Côtes du Rhône, the honor of producing the most celebrated wines in France. The names of Broutily, Morgon, Juliénas, Moulin-à-vent have made Beaujolais famous. But side by side with these names there are others, with less splendor attaching to them, which are yet indicative of substantial merits. In the forefront of those names from which an unjust fate has withheld a widespread renown comes that of Clochemerle-en-Beaujolais.
Let us explain this name of Clochemerle. In the twelfth century, before the vine was in cultivation there, this district, which was under the sway of the lords of Beaujeu, was a thickly wooded region. The site of the present town was occupied by an abbey—which, by the way, is in itself an assurance that it was well chosen. The abbey church—of which there still remain, blended with the structures of later periods, a doorway, a charming bell turret, some Romanesque arches and solid walls—was surrounded by very large trees, and in these trees blackbirds built their nests. When the bell was rung the blackbirds would fly away. The peasants of that period spoke of “the blackbirds’ bell” la cloche à merles. The name has remained.
Our present task is that of a historian who has to deal with events which made some stir in 1923 and were sometimes referred to in the Press of the period, with the heading: The Scandals of Clochemerle. This task must be approached with all the seriousness and vigilant care which alone will enable us to extract the truth from a series of events which have remained obscure and have already fallen into partial oblivion. If there had not been at Clochemerle-en-Beaujolais an ambitious mayor and an arid old maid of the name of Justine Putet, solitary and embittered, who brought a spiteful and alarming vigilance to bear on the acts of her contemporaries, this pleasant locality would doubtless never have witnessed either sacrilege or shedding of blood—to say nothing of secondary repercussions which, though they did not all come to light, brought turmoil into the lives of many people who had appeared to be reasonably protected from the arrows of fate.
From this the reader will readily understand how the events which we are about to describe, while they originated in a few small facts of apparently trifling importance, rapidly grew into affairs of widespread significance. Passions were let loose with all the violence that is seen sometimes in the country, where, after a long period of quiescence, they suddenly burst forth and reveal their age-old, primitive strength, inciting men to extremities out of all proportion to the causes which aroused them. And since these causes, here in Clochemerle, might appear absurdly trivial in comparison with their effects, it is important that the reader should start with a clear idea of this Beaujolais country, which became the seat of troubles whose origin was almost farcical, but which nevertheless were to have some influence on the destinies of the whole nation.
One thing is certain, that Beaujolais is insufficiently known by epicures for the quality of its wine, and by tourists as a district. As a vintage, it is sometimes regarded as a mere appendage to Burgundy, like the tail of a comet, so to speak. There is a tendency among all those who live far from the Department of the Rhône to believe that Morgon is but a pale imitation of Corton. This is a gross and unpardonable error, committed by people who drink with no power of discrimination, trusting to a mere label or to some headwaiter’s questionable assertions. Few drinkers of wine are qualified, with the filched trademarks on the bottle caps, to distinguish between what is genuine and what is not. In reality, the Beaujolais wine has its own peculiar merits and a flavor which cannot be confused with that of any other wine.
The great tourist crowd does not visit this wine-growing country. This is due to its situation. While Burgundy, between Beaune and Dijon, displays its hills on either side of the same Route Nationale No. 6 which extends along the edge of the Beaujolais country, this latter region comprises a series of hills situated at a distance from the main roads, completely covered with vineyards to a height varying from seven hundred to sixteen hundred feet, their highest summits, which shelter the district from the west winds, attaining a height of over three thousand feet. Set apart in these hills, which act as a succession of screens, the towns and villages of Beaujolais, with their healthy, bracing air, enjoy an isolated position and retain a flavor of feudal times.
But the tourist blindly follows the Saone valley—and a pleasant one it is—ignorant of the fact that he is leaving behind him, only a few kilometers away, one of the sunniest and most picturesque corners of France. Thus it is that Beaujolais is still a district reserved for a tiny number of enthusiasts who come there for the sake of its restful peace and its far-flung, distant views; while the Sunday motorists wear out their tires in driving at breakneck speed, which invariably takes them along the same crowded roads.
If among my readers there are any tourists who have still a taste for discovery, I will give them a piece of advice. At a distance of about three kilometers to the north of Villefranche-sur-Saone, they will find on their left a small branch road usually despised by motorists, which cuts into Arterial Road No. 15. They must take this and continue along it until they reach Arterial Road No. 20, which they will then follow. This second road will lead them into a deep, cool valley, beautiful with massed shadows, and fine old manor houses, with windows looking on to wide alleys bordered with thick yews, and terraces that invite daily meditation. The road ascends imperceptibly and then rises in a series of wide bends and curves. And now, with each curve in the road, a succession of different valleys is seen. There are silent villages clinging to the slopes; and one sees, surging upwards, the dark screen of forests, with the roads of the mountain passes winding in and out, in the far distance. As each fresh height is gained there is a clearer view of a horizon on which the distant Alps and Jura are outlined. Thus several kilometers are covered. Then, at last, a final turning unmasks the valley we are seeking. From the bend by which we emerge, we see facing us a group of houses situated halfway up the opposite slope, at a height of about four hundred feet. It is Clochemerle-en-Beaujolais, with its Romanesque belfry towering above it, reminder of an era long since departed, and bearing, as its burden of old age, the weight of nine hundred years.
Built from east to west on the line of an ascending road constructed along the hillside, the town of Clochemerle has undergone many modifications in the course of the centuries. It had its origin on the lower portion of the slope, that which is best protected from inclemency of weather, at a period when the means of defense against the rigors of winter were rudimentary. At that time its highest point was the abbey, the site of which is still indicated by the church and certain old walls which serve as foundations for the houses near by. The old town gradually spread, as the vine culture brought it prosperity, in an eastward direction. But the process was tentative and hesitating; the houses were packed closely together, the men of that time being loath to move far from a community of whose services they were constantly in need. This accounts for the confused, patchy arrangement of the dwellings, and also for the fact that what was the extreme end of the town in early times has now become the center. The result of these modifications was to transfer all the unoccupied space to a point much farther east, at the big turn in the road where the hill forms a spur. At the salient of this spur the main square of Clochemerle was laid out in 1878; and at one side of this square the new town hall, which is also used as a school, was erected in 1892.
These explanations will show why the edifice planned by Barthélemy Piéchut would not have served a very useful purpose in the main square, at the extreme end of a town which lies along a single road for a distance of more than four hundred yards. To make the urinal of general utility, it had to be situated in an easily accessible spot which would not be more advantageous to one portion of the town than the other. The best solution would undoubtedly have been to provide three equidistant urinals, allotted respectively to the upper, lower, and center parts of the town. The mayor had not lost sight of this possibility. But, for a newly conceived plan, this would have meant playing for stakes altogether too high. By exercising prudence he might well make a success; but if his ideas were on too ambitious a scale, he would only be inviting his enemies to charge him with extravagance, and exposing himself to great unpopularity.
A place like Clochemerle, which had done without a urinal for a thousand years and more, hardly felt a need suddenly to possess three, particularly if it had to pay for them. And still less so, if it be remembered that the use of the urinal would involve some preliminary education for the inhabitants, possibly even a municipal decree.
Men who from generation to generation had relieved themselves against the foot of walls or in hollows in the ground, with that fine freedom of action which the Clochemerle wine confers (it is reputed to be good for the kidneys), would be but little inclined to overflow at a spot predetermined and lacking in all those small pleasures that are to be found in the indulgence of such little whims and fancies, as that of a jet well aimed that drives away a green fly, bends a blade of grass, drowns an ant, or tracks down a spider in his web.
In the country, where diversions are few and far between, even the most trivial pleasures must be taken into account. And taken into account, also, must be the male privilege of doing this in an upright position, openly and merrily; which gives the men some prestige in the eyes of the women, whom it is well to remind of their inferior qualities, teaching them to stop that devastating chatter of theirs and moderate those piercing voices which are enough to make a wretched man deaf.
Barthélemy Piéchut was under no illusions in all these matters, and consequently attached great importance to this choice of site, which he had fixed only after mature consideration. It should be noted that the absence of side streets made his choice a very difficult matter, for the big main street of Clochemerle had on either side a continuous line of shops and various house fronts, and of gateways and iron railings enclosing private property, over which the town possessed no rights.
Let us now rejoin our two men. They have left the square and gone along the main street to the church, which marks the center of the town. This is a building which Tafardel never enters, and Piéchut rarely. The former holds aloof from a conviction amounting to fanaticism; the mayor makes a concession in this matter on political grounds, not wishing that his attitude should expose him to hostile criticism from one section of the townspeople. Moreover, the mayor’s wife attends the church regularly, and their daughter Francine, whom they wish to bring up as a lady, is completing her education at the convent of Mâcon. These compromises are readily admitted at Clochemerle, where sectarianism, under the softening influence of the Beaujolais wine, is inclined to adopt a tolerant attitude. The inhabitants of Clochemerle realize that an influential man like Barthélemy Piéchut is bound to retain the support of the best brains in both parties, while maintaining a hostile attitude towards the Church—an important point in his program.
Opposite the church Barthélemy Piéchut halted quietly, in such a way as to give any curious onlookers the impression that he had stopped with no express intention of doing so. With a mere nod of the head and without pointing his finger, he indicated the site.
“That is where we shall put it,” he said.
“There?” Tafardel asked in an astonished whisper. “The urinal?”
“Why, to be sure!” the mayor replied. “What better place could you find?”
“Nowhere, of course, Monsieur Piéchut. But, so near the church! Don’t you think the curé?—”
“Now, Tafardel, are you afraid of the curé?”
“Afraid, Monsieur Piéchut! Why, we have done away with the gallows, and put spokes in the wheels of all those ecclesiastical gentlemen! I was merely making an observation. You have to keep an eye on all those people. They’re only too ready to stand in the way of progress!”
The mayor hesitated, but he did not betray all that was in his mind.
“Look here, Tafardel, do you see any better place? Point it out, if you do.”
“Any better place? No, there isn’t one, I’m certain.”
“Very well, then. Are you going to let all that nonsense about the church stand in the way of public welfare? It’s for you to say, Tafardel. You’re a fair-minded, well-educated man.”
Little flatteries like these were all that was required to obtain from the schoolmaster a devotion that knew no bounds. Piéchut was well aware of this, past master as he was in the art of extracting the last ounce of service from everyone.
“Monsieur le Maire,” Tafardel said gravely, “I undertake to support your plan at the next Committee meeting, if you will allow me to do so. I should like to make this a special request.”
Cunning fellow that he was, the mayor would not immediately give his consent. He had all the peasant’s faculty of making difficulties over every sort of concession, and of securing the most advantageous bargain with an air of profound gloom. In the present case, fully understanding that Tafardel would undertake what was a difficult task, he wished to give the impression that a favor was being dragged from him. The more he stood to gain, the more pained and regretful did he appear. His secret joy was outwardly expressed in the form of despair. Whenever he had done an obviously good piece of business, Piéchut, foregoing the satisfaction of appearing to be a clever man, would say modestly: “Things have turned out all right for me, though I didn’t press them.”
The only advantage, apparently, that he gained was a moral one. “You seldom fail to get some satisfaction out of a deal that has been honestly conducted, and without wanting to get too much out of it.” This system had secured him a reputation for honesty and good faith. People in difficulties were glad to come and consult him, and confide their family troubles or their investments. With all this information at his disposal, Piéchut was able nearly always to maneuver the community in any way he wished, and the handling of Tafardel was, as the reader knows, mere child’s play to him.
For several years past, Tafardel had been vainly hoping to receive a decoration, which would have given him great prestige at Clochemerle. As this recognition steadily refused to materialize, the schoolmaster concluded that he had enemies in higher quarters. The truth was that no one paid any attention to Tafardel; he was simply forgotten. Inspectors rarely visited the district, and the honest fellow’s laughable peculiarities were hardly such as to mark him out for honorable distinction. The impression he made certainly did not do him justice, for Tafardel showed complete devotion to his profession. He was not a good teacher, being pedantic and dull, but he taught with perseverance and conviction, and spared no pains. Unfortunately, solid political harangues crept into his lessons, encumbering the children’s brains, and becoming sadly mixed up with the subjects of the curriculum.
The mayor could have secured for the schoolmaster the decoration he so earnestly desired. Apart from his professional qualifications for this honor, Tafardel had political ones also, through his devotion to the party, which Piéchut was in a better position than anyone else to appreciate. But the latter was in no hurry, saying to himself that a Tafardel with a conviction of being persecuted would give better service. He was quite right; the schoolmaster was one of those men for whom virtuous indignation was a necessity. However, for some little time the mayor had felt that the right moment for Tafardel to get his reward had now arrived. But, still reasoning in peasant fashion, the mayor wanted his secretary to do him one more important service, in the matter of the urinal. It may have been customary in Clochemerle to make fun of the schoolmaster, but he never failed to receive the credit due to his learning; and there were circumstances in which his support might have great value.
Seeing that the recipient of his confidences had now reached the required pitch of enthusiasm, Piéchut finally asked:
“Do you really want to bring this up at the Committee meeting?”
“It would be a mark of confidence on your part, Monsieur le Maire, if you would be so kind as to entrust me with this task. The reputation of the party is at stake, and I shall not flinch from telling them so.”
“You really feel you can carry it through? It’ll be a hard job. You’ll have to look out for Laroudelle.”
“He is an ignoramus,” Tafardel said with contempt. “I am not afraid of him.”
“All right, then, Tafardel: if you’re so enthusiastic—”
He seized the schoolmaster by the lapel of his coat, over the buttonhole.
“Look here, Tafardel, this will be a double victory. This time, you’ll get it.”
“Oh! Monsieur le Maire,” the schoolmaster replied, blushing with pleasure, “it isn’t for that, believe me.”
“You shall get it all right. I want you to. This is a definite promise.”
“Monsieur le Maire, I promise that nothing shall stand in the way of success.”
“Shake hands on it, Tafardel! Piéchut’s word is his bond.”
The schoolmaster placed his hand in the mayor’s. But he had to withdraw it quickly to wipe his glasses, which were dimmed with emotion.
“And now,” said Barthélemy Piéchut, “let us try some of the new wine at Torbayon’s.”
Torbayon was the innkeeper—also jobmaster, and husband of Adèle, a woman well worth looking at.
We shall now add some further and very necessary explanation which will enable the reader to understand why Tafardel showed such surprise at the site which the mayor had chosen. We must here refer to the map, which shows that the church of Clochemerle is wedged in between two blind alleys, which face the entrance, the one on the right being known as Heaven’s Alley and that on the left as Monks’ Alley. This latter name undoubtedly dates back to the time of the abbey, and the monks presumably made use of this little thoroughfare when they went to their services.
Heaven’s Alley, in which Ponosse’s presbytery is situated, end at the cemetery, which lies behind the church on the slope of the hill, a beautiful sunny site where the dead rest peacefully. Enclosed by the church on one side, and on the other by a long wall in which there is a solitary small door opening into the back premises of the Beaujolais Stores, one of the principal shops in Clochemerle, Monks’ Alley is a cul-de-sac at the end of which are the remains of a very old house, three parts demolished, one of the last remaining structures dating from the Middle Ages. On the ground floor of this little house which adjoins the church, there was a room where Ponosse taught the catechism and held his confirmation classes. The first floor contained two tiny rooms occupied by a certain Justine Putet, an old maid of some forty summers, who was held to be the most zealous churchgoer in Clochemerle. The proximity of the church facilitated her long periods of prayer before the altar, which she kept provided with fresh flowers, allowing no one else to do so; and it further secured her the right to supervise the comings and goings of the faithful who passed through Monks’ Alley on their way to confession, and also the movements of the Curé Ponosse as he made his way several times daily to the vestry. This survey of the church’s movements was an engrossing occupation for this pious person, whose censorship of the town’s morals was relentless.
It was at the opening of Monks’ Alley that Barthélemy Piéchut wished to put up his urinal. Hence Tafardel’s astonishment at the choice of a site so close to the church. The mayor might have avoided this proximity if there had been any other available spot in the center of the town. But there was none; and, if the truth were told, he was far from displeased that no such place was to be found. He was by no means vexed at the idea of his scheme appearing somewhat in the light of a challenge. And for the following reasons.
For some months past, a jealous individual of the name of Laroudelle, working under cover of a system of hypocritical insinuations, had been conducting an active campaign against him among the members of the Committee, to whom he made accusations of dangerous complacency in the mayor’s attitude towards Church interests. As an apparent justification of these statements, the Curé Ponosse, inspired by the Baroness Courtebiche, the real director of the parish, had been imprudent enough to describe the mayor, in public, as “a thoroughly worthy man,” who in spite of his political views was by no means opposed to the interests of the Church and could be relied upon to make any concession that might be asked for. That this should be the prevailing impression of himself at the château, the presbytery, and the Archbishop’s palace, suited the mayor admirably. Piéchut was not the man to despise any source of influence; all these things would be useful some day and contribute in varying degrees to his own advancement, for which he was patiently paving the way. But this out-and-out testimonial so unintelligently promulgated by the Church element gave a handle to his enemies, and the rancorous Laroudelle, in particular, made use of it with the Committee and the municipal councilors of the opposition. Secretly regarding the Curé Ponosse as an ass who added to his electoral difficulties, the mayor resolved to adopt a hostile attitude towards him in public. Piéchut’s idea of the urinal was opportunely conceived. He considered it from every point of view, and decided that it was flawless—just the kind of idea he liked, one which could be used for a double purpose, without unduly committing oneself. After pondering over his scheme for six weeks, the mayor came to the conclusion that the installation of this hygienic structure in the center of Clochemerle would be a solid landmark on the road to the achievement of his ambitions. It was then that he revealed his plan to Tafardel, another imbecile whom he would play off against Ponosse. His own part would consist in directing the contest from the seclusion of the town hall, while the Baroness would do likewise, in the opposite camp, from her lordly château. The conversation which has just taken place was the first manifestation of a rural Machiavellianism which had left nothing to chance and was already proceeding by devious ways.
Many of Clochemerle’s inhabitants will appear soon in these pages. Other passions will be brought to light, fresh rivalries be revealed. But for the present, with Monks’ Alley under the close supervision of Justine Putet, ceaselessly on the lookout from behind a raised corner of her window curtain, with the urinal whose construction will soon be put in hand, the redoubled activity of a Tafardel eager for the little adornment in his buttonhole so long delayed, the ambitions of Barthélemy Piéchut with their distant prospect of realization, the clumsy ministrations of Ponosse, and the haughty influence of the Baroness Alphonsine de Courtebiche (the sphere of action of all these characters will gradually extend wider and wider), the stage is set for an upheaval which, beginning in the oddest manner, will suddenly develop into “the scandals of Clochemerle,” and these in turn will end in catastrophe.
Before we reach these stirring episodes, it may be useful, by way of preliminary, to take a walk in the Clochemerle of 1922, which will give the reader an opportunity of making the acquaintance of some notable inhabitants of the town, who will play parts either prominent or unseen in our history. Those whom we have to introduce are all remarkable by reason of their characters and their habits, though less so in their occupations.