AT ABOUT FOUR o’clock in the afternoon, in the torrid heat of the month of August, a train came to a stop in Clochemerle station. A solitary traveler emerged from it, a soldier in the uniform of the light infantry, wearing a lance corporal’s stripe on his sleeve.
“Hullo, Claudius, so you’ve turned up?” the ticket collector says to him.
“Yes, it’s me, Jean-Marie!” the soldier replies.
“Just in time for the fête, you scoundrel!”
“Just, Jean-Marie!”
“And a damn fine fête it’ll be at Clochemerle, with weather like this!”
“A damn fine fête—just what I’m thinking, too.”
Between Clochemerle station and the town, the road goes uphill, with a number of sharp bends, for a distance of five kilometers. Nearly an hour’s walk for a soldier who steps out well, like a light-infantryman, with the best military step in the world and the most lively. So Claudius Brodequin takes to the road, and there is a friendly grating sound as he crunches it beneath his solid well-nailed boots, which are easy to his feet.
It is always a pleasure to return to the place where one was born, especially when there is a good time in prospect. Claudius is in a happy frame of mind, because he is proud of his uniform, his dark uniform with its lance corporal’s stripe, and because he is to be promoted corporal before his service ends, and corporal of light infantry, the best kind of corporal there is. A good soldier, a good light-infantryman, well thought of by his company officer, a quick and resourceful fellow—such is Claudius Brodequin, with his beret, his smart light-infantryman’s tunic, and his light-infantryman’s calves, which are the finest calves in the army, the finest calves in all the armies in the whole world, the most ample, the best shaped, the best curved in the right place. Cloth calves, admittedly, but still. . . . Not to everyone is it given to have well-rolled puttees, and twice as much cloth on your calves as the ordinary footslogger, who rolls his puttees flat without crossing them, which makes his ankles bunchy and his legs straight all the way up—calfless legs you might call them.
Any self-confidence that Claudius Brodequin may possess, he derives from his calves. To be a good walker, a good climber, you must have good calves, big ones: this is a well-known fact, and it is equally well known, that the value of an infantry soldier depends on his capacity for marching for long periods at a steady pace. And Claudius Brodequin can march like that, Claudius Brodequin, lance corporal in the light infantry, who never gets tired, who can march with the light-infantryman’s step, the most alert step there is, and the smartest of all for a parade.
When he is with his regiment, he is light-infantryman Brodequin, number 1103, a good light-infantryman as has been stated, but out of his element in spite of himself, deprived as he is there of all his usual points of contact. But now, finding himself again in touch with the old surroundings, he has the sensation, though he has only just arrived, of having become Claudius once more, a real Clochemerle lad, with the sole difference that he is more dissolute than he was before he left, having become somewhat of a breaker of hearts as the result of his life in barracks.
Rejoicing at the sight of slopes covered with flourishing vines, he congratulates himself at the thought that he will shortly be reaching the town. He looks forward to a round of excitement and pleasure, especially in connection with the anniversary; and he has a foretaste of hot buns, cool wine, feminine perspiration, and cigars with their bands of paper. He thinks, too, of the pleasure in store for him with Rose Bivaque, with her warm young breast over which his hands love to wander, while she makes a show of self-defense for form’s sake, saying but little, because she has but little to say and the pressure of hot hands has a stupefying effect; to such an extent that, when his conquest has proceeded so far, all else follows of itself. A good girl she is, with sweet gentle ways, and a real pleasure to hold in close embrace. Claudius Brodequin thinks of her. It is chiefly on her account that he has asked for leave.
When he is with his regiment, it is seldom that Claudius Brodequin does not pay his weekly visits to certain ladies. Such visits set a man up, and a good light-infantryman should always keep himself in good form. In this matter Claudius Brodequin is no idler, he does his full share. There can be no doubt of that. He is a light-infantryman with esprit de corps, and does all he can for the prestige of the regiment. Among the ladies he and his comrades have a wide reputation for the promptness and vigor of their exploits. Of these exploits Claudius Brodequin is at other times not a little proud. But now that he is once more under the genial sway of the atmosphere of his native countryside, if he gives a single thought of these garrison ladies, he mutters to himself: “They’re a nasty low lot, when all’s said and done!”
This observation is confirmed by the sight of the gentle hills of Beaujolais. Here, on the old familiar road on which he has so often come spinning down on his bicycle with the other lads, he thinks of the women of Clochemerle, who are not good-for-nothing pox-spreading prostitutes. No, the women of Clochemerle are quite a different story; they know how to be serious; they’re well-behaved; good for use as well as for pleasure, for cooking as well as for love (and there’s plenty of time for both); and lastly, they are women you don’t run risks with. Another difference is, all these good women are barred to strangers: the women of Clochemerle are only for Clochemerle men. True enough, it sometimes happens that they are for several men with only short intervals between, and that they’re not above repeating their little games; but with Clochemerle men only; it’s just a family affair, so to speak; good honest vinegrowers are the only ones who can give them work to do.
Claudius Brodequin is thinking of Rose Bivaque, that good Clochemerle girl, who later on will make a good Clochemerle woman; quiet, never noisy; have children, be able to make cabbage soup and a good stew, and keep the house clean; while he himself, Claudius, will be working in old Brodequin’s vines, his old dad, who’s still good for a day’s work, but who’ll end up in time by making a pair with the old woman, the two of ’em all knotted and twisted like the roots of an old tree, like you see so often. All that—Rose, the vines, a little house—it’s something fine to look forward to. And all he has to do, has Claudius Brodequin, is to wait for his promotion to corporal, yes, that’s all! After that, he’ll come back home quite a swell, and get on with the selling of good Clochemerle wine, and that gets a good price in good years.
On leaving the station, after a distance of three kilometers has been covered a turning is reached at which the traveler comes upon a view of Clochemerle, which lies above him. It seems almost as though one could touch the houses, but the wide bends and curves in the road have to be taken into account. As he gazes at his native town, Claudius Brodequin is thinking how he will soon be entering the main street, with his smart uniform and the shrewd knowing look of a man who has quitted his own little corner of the world and met with life in the big towns.
He knows that he will not be able to meet Rose Bivaque until nightfall—there are the girl’s parents, and the people who are always ready to gossip as soon as they see a boy and girl together. No need, therefore, to hurry as far as Rose is concerned. And the old Brodequins, his parents, live in one of the isolated houses which lie right at the farther end of Clochemerle about two hundred yards from the town hall. In these circumstances it would be a pity to go from one end of the town to the other without calling a halt. Claudius Brodequin has walked fast, and his uniform is heavy. He has unbuttoned his tunic and taken off his tie, but he is perspiring nevertheless. And that confounded sun is making him thirsty. He decides to go in and see Torbayon, the innkeeper, on his way, and have a drink. He will meet Adèle there. Suddenly he thinks of Adèle.
This reminds him of the time before his military service. Adèle has played a secret rôle in his life, a rôle which a youth of eighteen may assign to a woman who has passed her thirtieth birthday, and whose abundant physical attractions are landmarks which safeguard the imagination against barren or unfruitful flights. Some kind of excitement deep down within him leads Claudius Brodequin (though now he has his Rose) to think of Adèle. For the habits of one’s boyhood are not easily shed; and, among all the mental pictures he can conjure up, it is with that of Adèle that he feels most at ease in the conception of certain erotic enterprises—which, in actual fact, he has never undertaken.
A mental picture can be controlled to a marvelous extent, far more so than a material body; it can be molded and transformed in every possible way at one’s leisure. In Claudius’ mind Rose stands for the safe and the durable, while the ripe opulence of Adèle Torbayon provides him with the material for fantasy and flights of the imagination. In a word, Adèle Torbayon is the kindly favorite of the little imaginary harem which Claudius Brodequin has collected in the course of various encounters, ever since the age of puberty has opened his eyes to certain aspects of the physical world. Thus it is that, while he steps out bravely for Clochemerle, Claudius Brodequin thinks once more with much pleasure of Adèle, a pleasure which may be readily understood.
Among the women who produce a certain effect upon the men, immediately after Judith Toumignon and a good second to her (for it is she, unquestionably, who bears away the palm) comes Adèle Torbayon. Opinion on that score is unanimous. Less beautiful than Judith, less dazzling to behold, but easier of approach (seeing that she runs a café), Adèle is a dark-haired, sturdy woman, a highly pleasing specimen of her type. Her ample bosom is a little uncontrolled, but this helps to send your mind wandering in her direction. When Adèle bends over to put the glasses on the tables, her bodice falls slightly away in an agreeable manner, and this posture, so suitable for a good hostess, gives her hinder parts, beneath the tightly stretched sateen, a prominence which makes an excellent effect—and is a great inducement to order another bottle. Another feature of Adèle’s great charm is this, that she sometimes allows one to touch her. It should be made clear, however, that this permission is not really a permission, that is to say, she appears to be inattentive and absent-minded, exactly what is required for the thing to be done in a decent sort of way.
It should perhaps be explained that a woman like Adèle, an innkeeper’s wife, with an established position in the town and herself a temptation to look at, if she started putting on airs would lose customers for a certainty. (It’s all very well to provide good food—pure goat’s-milk-cheese, pork sausages, and the best Clochemerle wine—but a woman who will never let anyone touch her can only end by making herself unpopular. Men go to a café for pleasure of every kind, and they would rather be stinted in food than have to do without the other. Lewd creatures men are, it’s their nature. You’ve got to reckon with that if you want to get on in business.) When she becomes conscious of some nasty fellow going too far, she goes off the deep end, Adèle does:
“What sort of place d’you take the Torbayon Inn for? D’you want me to call my husband?”
Words such as these are a signal for the appearance of Arthur Torbayon, a tall strong man. He looks around with an air of suspicion:
“Was that me you called, Adèle?”
In order to relieve the general embarrassment, Adèle replies with a presence of mind for which everyone is grateful:
“It’s Machavoine here. He wants you to have a drink with him.”
The delinquent, without being asked, offers to stand drinks all around, only too thankful for his escape; and, as everyone is a gainer by the incident, they all approve of Adèle and give her full credit for her tactful behavior.
Thus, ready though people are to slander their fellow creatures, there is really nothing detrimental to be said of Adèle Torbayon. True, she exposes herself to certain little experiments, but there is no doubt that she does this chiefly in order to give pleasure to others; for the men of Clochemerle love to admire the good salient at the base of her back, to feel the jolly weight of those two firm friendly hillocks, with their equal distribution on either side of the median parting and their enchanting symmetry which owes nothing to artifice. Every man may take note of these things; he has but to be a regular customer at the inn and observe due propriety. Thanks to this friendly understanding, this decency of behavior, the inn parlor radiates an atmosphere of home.
Needless to say, the women of Clochemerle are not kept informed of the attractions of Adèle. These, however, Claudius Brodequin has been in the happy position of being able to appreciate; he was once a faithful worshiper, an adept enthusiast; a little too timid, perhaps, a little too discreet; but this must be put down to his youth. (Later, he often blamed himself for his shyness.) With this genuine quality at his disposal, he learned what true ardor really means, while Adèle, with a maternal indulgence, let him have his way. Forbearance such as this she would be more inclined to show to boys than to hard-bitten men. Boys are more unspoiled, and with them there is no danger. They may talk and brag afterwards, but in the meantime they are quick to blush and lose countenance. Moreover, they don’t worry about what they spend, and they hardly notice what they are drinking. So, if there is a bottle of wine a trifle sour, she brings it with a smile, as though it were the best in the house.
These recollections of Adèle Torbayon recur vividly to Claudius Brodequin as he goes on his way. That this innkeeper’s wife, with her intoxicating qualities, should be given first place among the attractions of the town is a matter beyond dispute.
For a soldier who steps along briskly and whose thoughts bring him pleasure, two kilometers are quickly covered. Claudius Brodequin is now arriving at the nearest houses in Clochemerle. There is no sign of movement in these, and very few people are to be seen; but in spite of this, there is a fusillade of greetings from every direction.
“Hello, young Claudius!”
“You’ve come at the right time, Claudius Brodequin. All the girls are waiting to dance with you.”
Clochemerle is giving him a real welcome. Claudius Brodequin answers without stopping; later, he will see every one of them. For the moment, he just keeps straight on. The town seems unaltered.
He has now reached the entrance of the Torbayon Inn. There are three steps to go up, three rather shabby steps—a sign of good business; the customers have made them the worse for wear. As the sun is shining full on the front of the house, the shutters have been drawn. Half blinded by the dazzling light, Claudius stands on the threshold of the empty room, dark and cool, in which swarms of invisible flies are buzzing. He cries out: “Hi, there!” Then he stays motionless in the doorway, sharply outlined against the glare outside, waiting to recover his sight. He hears a step, a figure emerges from the shadows and approaches him. It is Adèle herself, as tempting a sight as ever she was. She looks at him carefully, recognizes him. She is the first to speak:
“So it’s you, Claudius!”
“So there you are, Claudius!”
“Yes, here I am!”
“So it’s you in person, as you might say.”
“Yes, it’s really me, same as it’s really you, Adèle.”
“Well, here you are.”
“Yes, here I am.”
“Happy are you, anyway?”
“I’ve nothing to make me not happy, sure enough.”
“Sure enough!”
“Sure enough.”
“So you’re what you might call happy, then?”
“That’s it!”
“It’s a nice thing to be happy, sure enough!”
“Sure enough.”
“Then maybe you’re thirsty?”
“Yes, Adèle, I’m thirsty all right.”
“Then you’d like a drink?”
“Yes, I’d like a drink, Adèle, if it’s all the same to you.”
“All right, I’ll get you one. Same as it used to be?”
“Same, please, Adèle.”
While she goes off to fetch a bottle of wine, the young man settles himself at a table in a recess, where he liked to sit in the old days. In this corner he has had daydreams in which his thought has wandered over an ocean of rare delights, an ocean on which the gentle swaying of Adèle’s bosom has been, as it were, twin waves of prompting and suggestion. So he takes his old place, removes his beret, wipes his face and neck down to his chest, and then leans on his elbows with arms crossed in joyful ease, in the heart of his own countryside. Adèle returns, and pours out his wine. While he is drinking she looks at him, and her alluring bosom seems to be heaving with emotion—but it is only the steps from the cellar. This time it is Claudius Brodequin who, having wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, is the first to speak:
“Look here, Adèle, why d’you ask me if I’m happy?”
“Oh! nothing. Just—you know. . . .”
“Is it because people have been saying things?”
“Well, you ought to know there are always people chattering. You know they do, sometimes.”
“What are they saying, Adèle?”
“Oh, about Rose.”
“Rose?”
“Yes, Rose Bivaque, of course. Are you surprised?”
“Got to know, before I can say.”
“Well, it’s what she’s beginning to look like—like someone who’s gone wrong.”
Here’s a pretty kettle of fish! Rose starting a baby, during his absence—and the whole of Clochemerle in the secret. The old Bivaques won’t be pleased, indeed they will not! It’s enough to get a boy roughly handled, lance corporal in the light infantry though he be. In any case the matter wants thinking out. Claudius Brodequin pours himself out some wine, drinks, and slowly wipes his face. Then he says:
“Well, Adèle?”
“Well, there it is. Of course you’ve nothing to do with it?”
“What with, Adèle?”
“What Rose is like, of course!”
“Anybody saying so?”
“Well, some people have sort of half said so, that’s only natural. People will talk, you know.”
“Who is talking?”
“Oh, people who talk without knowing anything about it, like it always happens. But you ought to know best whether you done it or not. You know better than anybody, don’t you? They weren’t there when it happened, that’s a certainty. Didn’t you know about all this talk?”
“No, I didn’t, Adèle.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I told you. Because of her parents, I mean, and the people in the town who are chattering about it. Suppose it was all lies—some people are always telling ’em—just nasty spite. . . .”
“Suppose it was all lies, Adèle?”
“Well, you’ve been warned and you’ll be able to shut their mouths double-quick, all those people chattering away and knowing nothing about it and poking their noses in without seeming to. Suppose it was all lies, as I said.”
“Yes, suppose it was.”
“Suppose it was you. . . .”
“Me, Adèle?”
“I’m only saying suppose. I can’t tell what really happened, can I?”
“No, Adèle, you can’t tell, of course you can’t.”
“You know what you’d have to do.”
“Yes, Adèle.”
“Anyone who’d got Rose into trouble, so that she’s going to have a baby, if it was you—mind, I’m only saying suppose—p’raps it’d be better if he married her. Don’t you think so, Claudius?”
“If she’s going to have a baby—I think you’re right, Adèle.”
“She’s a nice, well-behaved little thing in some ways, Rose Bivaque is. But there’s no shame about what’s happened to her, when all’s said and done. Don’t you think I’m right, Claudius?”
“No, there’s no shame about it, there isn’t.”
“Anyone who’d marry her and take the little one—if it was his, I mean, of course—well, my idea is he wouldn’t do so badly out of it.”
“No, he wouldn’t, Adèle.”
“You’re a good lad, Claudius.”
“You’re all right, too, Adèle.”
“It’s Rose I’m thinking of when I say that.”
“Yes; Rose, I know.”
“Well, there you are!”
“Yes.”
“It’s best for Rose, no doubt of that.”
“I expect so.”
“It’s because she’s to have a baby that I’m saying this, and because it’s a wretched thing for a girl to have a baby and not be able to say where it came from. But as you’re here—”
Claudius Brodequin has placed his two francs five centimes at the side of his bottle of wine while he is still speaking. He takes up his beret and his haversack, and rises.
“Well, so long, Adèle.”
“Well, so long, Claudius. You’ll come again now you’re back?”
“Of course, Adèle.”
“Oh! Good lord! Good lord! Oh, my god! my god!” Thus thinks Claudius Brodequin as he makes his way along the main street of Clochemerle, so absorbed that he sees no one at all. “Oh, good lord! there’s Rose going to have a baby. Oh, my god!” Beyond these exclamations, he is incapable of thought. Forgotten are his smart uniform and the brave show it makes, forgotten his pride in being a lance corporal in the light infantry; he moves like a young fellow whose calves are no better than an ordinary soldier’s, a sorry sight, and no longer the finest calves in all the armies in the whole world, calves which he has been careful to do up afresh while he was in the train two stations before he arrived at Clochemerle. “Oh! Good lord! Good lord!” He forgets even to stop at the tobacconist’s to buy cigarettes and greet Mme. Fouache, who never fails to put in a word of flattery for her young customers, and tell them that a man who doesn’t smoke is not a man at all. To be saddled with a girl who is going to have a baby, that’s a new experience altogether, and it may lead to nasty trouble, seeing that his parents and Rose’s don’t get on with each other, all on account of some old quarrel about boundaries. So upset is Claudius Brodequin that he forgets to return the greetings he receives. Fadet, the cycle dealer, whom he was on the point of passing without seeing him, has to slap him on the shoulder:
“You’re some marksman, young Claudius, so I hear!”
“Good lord! It’s you, is it, Eugène?” says Claudius Brodequin. “Good lord!”
He can think of nothing else to say, and continues on his way as far as the main square. At this point he lingers, wandering vaguely here and there beneath the chestnut trees, his head buzzing with his repeated exclamations of “Oh, my god!” which make a thunderous noise and deprive him of all faculty of thinking ahead. At last an idea occurs to him. “The best thing would be to speak to Mother.” He starts off once more, in the direction of his home.
“Ah! So there you are, my boy!”
“You look fine—as fit as anything, my Claudius! Had a hard time?”
“Yes, I’d say I had—specially the gymnastics.”
In the kitchen Adrienne Brodequin is busy making the soup. She is cutting up the leeks and peeling the potatoes. She kisses her son, then goes on with her work, talking all the time:
“Well, then, I suppose you’ve just arrived?”
“Yes, I’ve just come from the station.”
“Just at the right time. What I mean is, I was thinking of writing to you. Lucky I didn’t actually, since you’ve come. It’s because I thought of writing that I’m telling you you’ve come at the right time.”
“What did you want to write to me about?”
“Oh, there’s some stories going about the town. . . . Did you talk to anyone as you came along?”
“Yes, I did, but it wasn’t anything important.”
The moment has come to speak. Claudius Brodequin is conscious of this, and knows that it would be preferable to make a clean breast of everything before the family reassembles, which must happen shortly now. But he is at a loss to know how to begin, and considers the best way of setting about it. The big clock ticks away noisily, with its pendulum in the form of a gilded sun swinging from side to side behind the glass case. The minutes slip away, urged forward by the creaking mechanism. Some irritating wasps dart here and there above a shelf on which a basket of plums is reposing. His mother seems to know about it—it is she who should make the first start.
Adrienne and her son are still back to back (the best position when there are grave matters to be discussed); she is still busy sorting out her vegetables, while he is absorbed by his thoughts of Rose, and is trying hard to discover a way of broaching the subject. Suddenly, and without turning around, his mother asks, speaking slowly and in a tone of voice in which there is not even a trace of annoyance:
“Was it you, Claudius?”
“Was it me? Did what?”
“Make Rose pregnant?”
“Can’t say for certain.”
“Well, could it be you?”
“It might be.”
Thereupon the clock takes up the tale, with its undeviating rhythm which never varies day in day out. With a flick of her dishcloth, the mother chases away the wasps, which have become too enterprising. “We’ve had far too many of these filthy little pests this year!” Then she asks him a question:
“D’you want to marry her?”
Claudius Brodequin prefers the questions which he asks himself to those which are put to him. This trait he inherits from his father, Honoré Brodequin, a man who prepares his words as though they were mouthfuls of food. He replies:
“Let’s hear what you think.”
Adrienne Brodequin had already made up her mind in the matter. This was evident from the promptitude with which she replied:
“I wouldn’t find any fault with it if it was what you wanted yourself. She could come here, your Rose could, and give me a hand. There’s work enough for two, and I’m not as active as I used to be.”
“And Dad, what’s he got to say about it?”
“He’d be quite glad for you to marry, if old Bivaque would give Rose his Bonne-Pente vines for her marriage portion.”
“And the Bivaques—have you heard what they’re doing about it?”
“The Curé Ponosse has been looking into it, lately. I’m certain he and the Bivaques think the same about it. He told old Bivaque that you and Rose must put yourselves right with God. But Honoré wouldn’t listen to any soft nonsense. He said to the Curé Ponosse: ‘Once it’s been fixed up at the notary’s, there’s plenty of time to settle with God. Bivaque’s not going to fall out with God over a bit of a vineyard.’ As far as the marriage goes, you’ve only got to leave everything to your father. He’s a man who’s always had a good head.”
“I’ll do what’s wanted, Mother.”
The course to be followed thus decided, Adrienne Brodequin turns around at last and looks at her son:
“In some ways,” she said, “you’ve done pretty well for yourself after all! Your father’s pretty pleased on the whole. Now that Rose is in for it, old Bivaque’ll have to give up his vineyard. She’s nice, is Rose, and those Bivaques have got a sunny bit. Yes, you’ve done pretty well for yourself, Claudius!”
It is true that his father is not angry. On his return home he says to Claudius with mock severity:
“Well, you’ve been hitting it up, you young devil, you!”
But all the wrinkles on his sunburned, leathery face are puckered up with the pleasure he feels. As he thinks of the fine Bonne-Pente vineyard, which will soon cease to belong to the Bivaques and will become the Brodequins’ property, it occurs to him forcibly that the sequel to a few moments’ pleasure may be a prize which the work of a lifetime has failed to secure. So what happens to all the nonsense the curés dole out to you? Of course, the cures have to talk about Heaven, because that’s their job. That’s all very well, but are there any vineyards in Heaven? In the meantime, best take old Bivaque’s now there’s a chance. And there’s another thing too—who was to blame in this business, Rose or Claudius? The question doesn’t need asking. It’s for the boys to get hold of the girls, and it’s up to the girls to look after themselves. Nevertheless, Honoré, a shrewd man and one who always observes all necessary precautions, thinks it best to get Heaven on his side, and the curé into the bargain. The expectation of an approaching increase in the patrimony of the Brodequins puts him in a generous mood:
“I’ll give something to Ponosse the day of the wedding, blest if I don’t! I’ll blow a couple of hundred francs, all in one go, for his church.”
“Two hundred francs!” Adrienne says, plaintively, startled and overcome. (It is she who stores the savings in the linen cupboard, which they never leave unless they are put in another and even safer hiding place.)
“Very well then, fifty anyway!” Honoré says, with a return to more prudent ways.
Everything is settling itself without any fuss or bother at all. At eight o’clock in the evening, a handsome young soldier with fine calves comes down from the upper town with the lively step of a light-infantryman on parade. It is Claudius Brodequin, conquering hero, looking smarter than ever. He is there to be gazed at, envied, and admired. Claudius Brodequin, who has been taking liberties with little Rose Bivaque, that pretty little creature. And he has played his cards well! For this undertaking, skillfully conducted as it has been, has not only brought him pleasure and delight, with a prospect of more to come, but will earn him, in addition, an enviable little vineyard at Bonne-Pente, where the best vines of Clochemerle are to be found. Mighty well things are turning out for him! While Rose stays quietly at home, waiting for his child, he, Claudius, will be finishing his military service and be promoted corporal, corporal in the light infantry, good people! When he comes back from his regiment, he will find the little one already waiting for him, the good vineyard now part of the Brodequins’ inheritance, and his Rose once more ready for love. If that’s not a master stroke, Claudius, you scoundrel, I don’t know what is! Alone though he is, he laughs aloud as he goes gayly along to see his Rose, who must be expecting him now. He laughs again, and says to himself: “Good lord! Good lord! Good lord!”