“OH! THAT’S YOU, dear, is it? My poor Madame Nicolas, is it really true what I’ve heard? It’s an awful thing to have happened. . . .”
“Awful, you may well say, Madame Fouache!”
“That poor husband of yours . . . he’s had a nasty blow . . . in a very sensitive spot. . . .”
“Yes, just think of it, Madame Fouache! Oh! I’m so worried!”
Leaning over the counter, with her hand over her mouth, Mme. Nicolas proceeded to give full details.
“They’re all blue,” she said, in an undertone. “All blue, it was such a frightful knock! That’ll show you the sort of kick the villain gave him.”
“And inflamed, too! Heavens! What’s that you’re telling me, Madame Nicolas! Inflamed! Good gracious!”
“And there’s swelling, too!”
“Swelling, you say?”
Mme. Nicolas closed her fists and placed them together. Their dimensions at that moment were truly distressing.
“Like that. . . .”
Mme. Fouache in her turn pressed her closed fists together to gain some idea of a deformity which went beyond the limits of the imagination.
“Like that!” The respectable postmistress groaned in her distress. “It’s horrible, what you’re telling me, Madame Nicolas! The doctor has seen him, then? What does he think? He won’t be maimed, I take it, that dear Monsieur Nicolas? Oh, but what a loss it’d be to the parish if a handsome man like him couldn’t go to the church any more in his uniform! It’s all because of the fine show he made that people got jealous—it really was—people couldn’t stop admiring him of a Sunday. Once—I’m speaking of a long time ago—my Adrien too got a swelling in the same place on account of—oh well, never mind. But it wasn’t nearly so bad. But you . . . like that, you say? I can’t hardly believe it, you poor dear! And he’s terribly upset, your poor husband, so they tell me?”
“He’s got to stay quiet and not move an inch. Just think, with men, it’s their most important part. According to what it’s like, so’s their whole body, so the doctor says.”
“Yes, yes, of course, you’re right! Strange, isn’t it, seeing how strong they are, that they’re so delicate in one place! What do you do for him?”
“Make him rest all the time, stretched out flat, and compresses, with some sort of stuff they give you, and cotton wool, and be very careful how you put it on. I get so worried and upset about it all.”
“Indeed I’m sure you must. Well, I am sorry for you!”
“I’ve already had enough trouble myself, goodness knows, what with my varicose veins and my rupture. And Nicolas, for all he looks so strong and well, is very subject to stomach troubles and stiff backs.”
“Well, we all have our worries, don’t we? But you’re not going to stay there standing up? Come along and sit down, there’s a dear. You’ll have a cup of coffee with me to freshen you up. I’ve just got some, fresh made. You’re bothered about that swelling, and I can quite understand it. And all blue, you say? But you mustn’t take on about it, you poor dear. Come this way. If I leave the door open I can see people coming in. I’m always being disturbed, but that won’t stop us talking.”
Mme. Nicolas, a woman never given to mischief-making, who had merely come to buy tobacco for her husband, had been a victim of the sympathetic effusiveness of Mme. Fouache. These outpourings were generally regarded in Clochemerle as the last word in cultured refinement. The postmistress and tobacconist was looked upon as a highly educated person of good family, who had suddenly fallen on evil days at the death of an exemplary husband who showed promise of appointment to the highest administrative posts. Mme. Fouache played to perfection a part in which the pathetic element largely predominated, a part which went straight to the hearts of good women, while the reputation she enjoyed as a woman of breeding inspired confidence. No one in the whole town was better qualified than she for the position of general confidante and giver of shrewd advice: “I have seen so much,” she would say. “And in the highest society too, my dear! There were the balls at the prefect’s house at Lyons, with everything of the very best, and I used to go to them, my dear lady, just as naturally as you would come into my tobacconist’s shop here. What a change since then, my word! To think that I used to hobnob with the prefect’s wife as though she were my own sister, just like I’m talking to you now, and here I am now in my old age making up packets of plug—I ask you! Oh, it’s terrible to think of. . . . Well, such is life! Still, you’ve got to rise superior to misfortune, as they say.”
These words are a fairly accurate summary of the legend conceived and propagated by Mme. Fouache—a legend, be it said, which contained an element of exaggeration. During his lifetime Adrien Fouache had certainly been an official employed at the prefect’s house at Lyons. But his post had been that of concierge. During the twenty years for which he held it, he was mainly conspicuous for his capacity for a daily absorption of a round dozen glasses of absinthe, and his considerable skill at billiards—talents which made him an indispensable companion for the quill drivers who came down to the refreshment room. Mme. Fouache, on her part, readily undertook the delivery of amorous messages from these official gentlemen and received letters on their behalf, without the knowledge of their wives, so that everyone was indebted to them both, and they were held in general esteem. When, finally, Fouache relapsed into delirium tremens and died shortly afterwards, this sad end was believed to have been brought about by his faithful service. A tobacconist’s shop was procured for his widow, who was known to possess secrets the revelation of which would have brought disaster to twenty households.
Mme. Fouache took over the position of repository of Clochemerle’s secrets with all the dignity of a great lady who has lately met with grievous misfortune. As time went on, the accounts of her past life grew out of all knowledge. The excesses of her imagination might well have been betrayed by the weakness observable in some of the expressions she used. But familiarity with classical turns of phrase was a thing in which the inhabitants of Clochemerle were decidedly lacking, while the speech which they themselves used had subtleties of its own. The proud descent of Mme. Fouache was never even questioned, for local pride regarded it as an asset. Holding a position far removed from that of the common herd, Mme. Fouache undertook the custody of the most delicate secrets. Conscientious publicity was thus assured to them.
On this occasion also, thanks to the unfailing care of the estimable postmistress and tobacconist, every woman in Clochemerle learned shortly afterwards of the woeful mishap which had befallen Nicolas. His misfortune aroused a great wave of sympathy. Ten days later, when the beadle appeared in the main street, hobbling along with the support of a stick, these compassionate ladies, as soon as he had passed, kept saying to each other from one window to another, raising their closed fists to Heaven:
“Like that. . . .”
“Just think of it!”
“I simply don’t dare. . . .”
“It must be frightful to see!” said Caroline Laliche, of the lower town, more loudly than the others and with sighs of horror. But no one paid any attention to her fuss and affectation, for this Caroline Laliche was considered to be the most inquisitive woman in Clochemerle and had been caught a dozen times with an eye glued to a keyhole.
Thus it was that Nicolas’ injury attained a widespread fame, and its sad dimensions greatly occupied feminine minds. Mme. Fouache kept the general interest alive by occasional small comments or criticisms, cleverly dealt out; until the day when, observing that public attention had flagged, she sprung upon her hearers another sensational item of news:
“And now the skin is peeling all round.”
And thus a revival of passionate interest was secured.
Rose Bivaque is on her way to see the Baroness, trudging along the four kilometers of zigzag road that lie between Clochemerle and the proud château of the Courtebiche family, situated at the edge of the forests that serve as its background. Rising in lordly fashion it dominates the whole valley. For centuries past the eyes of the humble inhabitants of Clochemerle have been instinctively raised towards this noble pile, which they have been accustomed to regard as an intermediate stage between their lowliness and the majesty of Heaven. Some traces of this mental outlook still linger in the thoughts of Rose Bivaque. This little creature represents the spirit of submissiveness and surrender, and, confronted by so many occasions for displaying it, she has been at a loss to know when to yield and when to resist. It is this laudable docility that has brought about her downfall. Accustomed as she is to submit to everything and everybody, she has quite simply and naturally given way to Claudius Brodequin, without seeing much difference between that surrender and others, all of which come pretty easily to her. This little Rose Bivaque is an exact copy of her forbears, those women of the Middle Ages who have passed down the centuries, lowly, obscure, straightway forgotten, in this same valley of Clochemerle, where they have carried out their humble tasks, borne and suckled their children, and suffered like the beasts of the field, without questioning their lot or rebelling against it. They have left this earth, where their presence was hardly noticed, having understood little or nothing of the stupendous illimitable Cause which had given them birth and sustained their lives.
An exact copy indeed of those women of former ages is little Rose Bivaque; like them she thinks but seldom, and never reasons; is submissive to men; adaptable to routine; believes in the influence of the moon, the decrees of Nature. Passive obedience is ingrained in her. So she has no remorse, and indeed is almost undisturbed.
Just a little surprised she feels, for strange things are happening to her; but this surprise has to yield to her consciousness of an irrevocable Fate—a feeling she has inherited to its fullest extent, a feeling which is one of the strongest of those to which humanity is subject. She thinks to herself as she trudges along: “Oh well, then,” or, “Well, there it is!” phrases which represent the utmost limits of her mental range, and are interspersed with an occasional “It’s a funny business” and “I can’t help it, can I?”
These words of hers represent the gropings of a mental process so elementary and undeveloped that she has no conception of the width and range of which human thought is capable. Rose Bivaque is immersed in, and penetrated by the lovely outpourings of Nature, the dazzling sky, the bracing air, the sun, the sheer beauty of all that surrounds her; but these bodily sensations are powerless to alter the barrenness of her mind. She sees a lizard, a little green quivering creature, at her feet. She says: “There’s a little lizard.” She finds a crossroad, hesitates, and makes up her mind: “That must be the right way!” She perspires, and murmurs: “It’s hot!” By these comments, the mental concepts of a lizard, of heat, and of hesitation have been discussed in all their bearings, so far as she is concerned.
There are people who blame her and call her a senseless little creature, this Rose Bivaque, this girl-mother only eighteen years old. But as I see her trudging along the road, a solitary figure with the bloom of health on her cheeks, with a faint smile reflecting the exuberance and the animality of youth, I find her a touching, an appealing figure, almost pretty, this little Bivaque who accepts her fate without protest, knowing as she does, knowing absolutely—she who knows nothing at all—that one can play no tricks with human destiny, and that a woman’s lot must be fulfilled, fulfilled to the uttermost, whether she wills it or no, so soon as the time has come for her wholehearted collaboration with the world’s great scheme of human birth.
Neither remorse nor uneasiness is with her as she goes her way, but her mind is troubled at the thought of finding herself in the Baroness’ presence. Now here she is entering the château, mounting a grand flight of steps and being led to the door of a big room that is lovelier and more splendid than the interior of a church. She hardly dares venture onto the bright, slippery floor. The sound of a voice with a tone of authority makes her turn her head. The Baroness addresses her:
“That is you, Rose Bivaque? Come here, my child. It’s that Claudius Brodequin, so I hear, who has done this to you?”
Blushing and awkward, the young delinquent makes her confession:
“Yes, it was, Madame la Baronne.”
“And what fine tales did he tell you, this young man, that he managed to seduce you? Will you please explain?”
Rose Bivaque’s faculty of exposition is quite unequal to such a task. She replies:
“He didn’t tell me anything, Madame la Baronne.”
“He told you nothing? Better and better! Well, then?”
Driven into a corner, the girl blushes still more hotly. Then she explains, with simple sincerity, the manner of her fall.
“He didn’t tell me anything . . . he . . . just . . . acted.”
This reply, which reminds her of the time when she herself wasted no words, disconcerts the Baroness. But she continues, with unrelaxed severity:
“He acted! I like that! He acted because you let him, you little simpleton!”
“I couldn’t stop him, Madame la Baronne,” is the girl’s candid reply.
“Good heavens!” the lady of the manor exclaims. “Then any young coxcomb who comes along can do what he likes with you? Look at me, Mademoiselle. Answer me.”
This reproof is countered by Rose Bivaque by a display of firmness. Her consciousness that she is telling the truth emboldens her:
“Oh no, Madame la Baronne! There’s lots of boys who’d like to make up to me. I’d never, never listen to them. But Claudius—he makes me feel all funny. . . .”
The Baroness recognizes the language of passion. With innumerable recollections of surrenders no less inevitable, she closes her eyes. When she opens them once more, her expression is lenient and kind. With practiced eye she takes Rose in at a glance, her dumpy figure and fresh, healthy looks.
“Nice little creature!” she says, patting her cheek. “And tell me, my child, is he talking to you about marriage, this irresistible young man?”
“Claudius’d be willing enough for us to marry, but his father and mine can’t stop quarreling about the Bonne-Pente vines.”
Rose Bivaque has suddenly acquired an air of self-confidence; an avaricious tendency—together with a spirit of submissiveness—is one of the primitive instincts which she has inherited from the women of her breed. She is a child of the soil, and, young though she is, she knows full well the importance of a patch of vineyard that lies well in the sun. The Baroness, on the contrary, has no notion of this, being too much of the great lady to condescend to an interest in such vulgar trifles. Rose Bivaque has to explain to her the circumstances of the strife between the two families. She is now in floods of tears. As she listens to her, the Baroness notices that this deluge has no ill effect on the girl’s features. “A happy age,” she thinks to herself “If I cried like that I should look a perfect sight! You’ve got to be young to have troubles. . . .” She ends by saying:
“Set your mind at rest, my child. I shall go and give all those skinflints a shaking-up as soon as I possibly can. You shall have your Claudius, and the vineyard into the bargain, I promise you.”
Then she adds, for her own benefit:
“I must do what I can to keep all these wretched peasants in better order.”
Again, for the last time, she looks thoughtfully at Rose Bivaque, such a simple creature, with all her cheerful serenity now restored, like a rose a trifle battered after rain. “Deliciously stupid, but how genuine!” In dismissing her, she says:
“And I will be its godmother. But in future, for heaven’s sake, look after yourself better!”
Then she smiles, and adds:
“In any case it won’t mean much to you in future. It’s only once that it means so much. And on the whole it’s a good thing to get through with it as soon as possible. Women who have waited too long become incapable of taking the plunge. Women need so much unconsciousness. . . .”
These words are not intended for the ears of Rose Bivaque, who is already some distance away and would not understand them. The thought of her Claudius overshadows all else. He must surely be awaiting her on the road, halfway between the château and the town.
“What did she say to you? Was she nice or nasty?” Claudius asks at once, as soon as he sees her.
Rose Bivaque tells him of the interview in her own way; and Claudius, with his arm around her shoulders, kisses her on the cheek.
“You’ll be married before any of ’em.”
They gaze at each other. Happiness is theirs. It is a splendid day, very hot. They have finished all their little secrets. They listen to the kindly concert which the birds are giving in their honor. They walk along in silence. Then Claudius says:
“Three more weeks of this weather and the wine’ll be first-rate!”
Hippolyte Foncimagne was suffering from an attack of angina. This tall, handsome young man had a delicate chest. For several days he had not left his room, and Adèle Torbayon was worried about him. It should be added that her feeling of anxiety was accompanied by others, of pleasure mixed with temptation. Her anxiety was due to the fact that, as a hostess, she was undertaking the responsibility of having a sick man in her own house; her pleasure, to the knowledge that so long as he remained a prisoner indoors, Foncimagne was being withdrawn from the influence of another woman; and, finally, her feeling of temptation was the outcome of an interest she took in her lodger which was by no means platonic—an interest inspired no less by the physical attraction of the clerk of the Court than by a spirit of revenge directed against Judith Toumignon, her triumphant and detested rival. A longing for vengeance, which had been smoldering within her for years past, was perhaps the strongest element in her weakness for Foncimagne. Many women will understand this feeling.
One morning when Arthur Torbayon was busy in the cellar bottling wine, Adèle Torbayon went up to Hippolyte Foncimagne’s room, carrying a warm gargle prepared in accordance with instructions given by Dr. Mouraille. (“You couldn’t leave that poor boy to shift for himself, and if he only had his Judith to look after him he’d probably die.”) Since the previous day a nasty southwest wind had been blowing, heralding the storm which threatened to break; and every fiber in Adèle Torbayon’s body, softened and relaxed, cried out for some means of putting an end to her physical discomfort, a feeling of oppression which gripped her across the chest and paralyzed her legs. She was conscious of a vague desire to burst into tears, to become defenseless, to heave deep sighs and utter cries half suppressed.
She entered the room and went up to Foncimagne’s bed, where he lay in a plaintive mood, his mind filled with restless, feverish fancies under whose stimulus he felt that his strength was returning to him. His hostess arrived at such an opportune moment for giving concrete reality to these daydreams that he put his arm around Adèle’s hips—which were wide and firm and easy to hold—with the air of a sick child full of whims and waiting to be spoiled. A great wave of calm refreshing peace surged through the body of Adèle Torbayon; it was as though the storm had broken at last, and big raindrops were falling to cool her fevered flesh. Her show of indignation lacked conviction:
“Come, come, you’d never dream of such a thing, Monsieur Hippolyte!” she said in a tone of quite inadequate severity.
“On the contrary, I’m dreaming of it very vividly, my lovely Adèle!” the sly fellow retorted, taking advantage of his hostess’ encumbrance (she was still holding the tray) to strengthen his position.
Profoundly disturbed, and with her senses now thoroughly awakened, the innkeeper’s wife defended her husband’s honor with hastily conceived—and very feeble—objections.
“But just think, Monsieur Hippolyte, I’ve got a roomful of people downstairs!”
“That’s right, my lovely Adèle,” was the irresistible reply, “it would never do to keep all those people waiting!” With a dexterous movement he secured the small bolt, which he could reach from the head of his bed.
“You’re locking me in, Monsieur Hippolyte, that’s not nice of you!” the innkeeper’s wife murmured.
Having arranged to secure this alibi for herself at all hazards, come what might—though she knew well enough, in her occupation, the value of time—it was with gentle unhurried leisure that Adèle Torbayon made her surrender. In her case, an indifferent manner and dull, unattractive clothes only served to conceal a genuine aptitude for the task in hand, together with physical qualifications of an unexpectedly high order—a valuable tonic for a man recovering from illness and highly appreciated by him after a long period of low diet. The innkeeper’s wife was no less fortunate in her partner. In the art of love Foncimagne had excellent manners and great skill; he possessed the knack of gradation, of transition, and he displayed all the inventive superiority of a man who habitually works with his brain. (“You can always spot intelligence wherever you find it!” was the subconscious thought in Adèle’s mind. Then, suddenly, another thought emerged from its dim recesses, and became the crowning point of her happiness: “And there’s Arthur bottling wine. . . .”) Yes, this clever fellow, this charming Foncimagne, was a very different pair of shoes from Arthur. A strong sturdy man, Arthur was, there was no denying it, but he didn’t know how to use his strength and hadn’t a streak of imagination anywhere.
“Well, well,” Adèle Torbayon remarked later, with a show of modesty that might have been earlier displayed, “well, well, Monsieur Hippolyte, I’d never have believed it of you!”
This ambiguous statement could have been taken either as eulogy or as kindly reproof. But Foncimagne’s feelings had been too thoroughly reciprocated for him to feel in the slightest degree disturbed. This reassuring recollection enabled him to make a display of false modesty.
“Then you weren’t too disappointed, my poor Adèle?” he asked hypocritically, as though he were commiserating with her and making excuses for himself.
The innkeeper’s wife fell into the trap that the handsome but vain young man had laid for her. Astonished that a thing so long deferred should have been so easily brought to pass, she was still overcome by her feelings of gratitude and of general well-being. Her gratitude she expressed, in these words:
“Oh! Monsieur Hippolyte, anyone could see you were a well-educated man!”
“Well enough to hold a pen?”
“You’re a rascal all the same!” Adèle said tenderly, stroking her lodger’s hair.
Already she was conscious of a renewed stirring within her of feelings deeply and strangely aroused. But this time the call of duty was too strong for her. Disregarding with an effort the superficial compliments which, as a matter of politeness, the young clerk of the Court was showering upon her, and seizing her tray, she declared:
“I must go and see what’s happening downstairs! If the customers call out, Arthur’ll come running up from the cellar. . . .”
At these words they smiled at each other. Adèle, bending over him, burst out effusively:
“You monster of a man, this is the first time I’ve ever been unfaithful to him, and that’s a fact!”
“It wasn’t so terrible?”
“I’d thought of it as something awful! Isn’t that funny?”
And, with a final fond glance at him, his good hostess slipped out of the room and closed the door noiselessly behind her.
Left alone, Foncimagne fell once more into daydreams, now considerably enriched by this episode which had introduced so delectable a variety into his life. He was himself henceforth the possessor of the two prettiest women in Clochemerle, sworn enemies, moreover, which added a certain piquancy to the whole business. He offered thanks to Fate for having sent him two striking victories at so little cost. Next, leaving Fate aside, for Fate after all had not achieved them unaided, he came to the conclusion that he himself had been largely responsible for these successes. He indulged in an orgy of that exquisite pleasure that is derived from complete self-satisfaction. Then he applied himself to a comparison of the respective merits of these two amiable ladies. Although their most irresistible points of attraction were differently distributed, and displayed a highly individual character in each case in the matter of modeling and general outline, each had her own peculiar charm, on both Nature’s gifts had been richly bestowed. Judith may have been the more ardent, the more generously responsive; but Adèle’s passive, purring ways were not without allurement. In any case, both women displayed a wholehearted sincerity; indeed, in view of the danger of gossip, their straightforward methods would have been the better for some restraining hand.
Foncimagne was happy in the thought that while one was a brilliant blonde, the other was a dark-haired brunette. Such contrast would be an excellent stimulant, for this alternation in the game of love, by breaking the monotony of a liaison which had already lasted for a long time, would give the latter fresh charm. The effect of the pleasure he had just enjoyed with Adèle was to make him vividly conscious of the power of his attachment to Judith. But his attachment in no wise prevented him from feeling sincerely grateful to Adèle, who had just yielded to him with a straightforward simplicity which he could only regard as having been highly opportune, at a moment when he was feeling bored in his lonely room and tired of reading. A slight weariness overcame him and restored to him a precious inclination to sleep, which had evaded him for the past forty-eight hours. He would have time for a good nap before his afternoon gargle, which Adèle would bring up at about four o’clock.
His sore throat forgotten, he fell sound asleep, in that peace of mind which comes from a feeling that all’s well with the world, when the senses are at rest.
Adèle Torbayon descended the stairs, still exalted with emotion after the display of those refinements of the art of love which the clerk of the Court had been making for her benefit, and took up her stand at the door of her house. On the opposite side of the road Judith Toumignon was also standing at the entrance to her shop. The two ladies then exchanged looks. Judith Toumignon was dumbfounded by the unaccustomed expression which appeared on her enemy’s face. The look of hatred she bore at other times, as of a woman who has been insulted and whose revenge has yet to come, had been replaced by one of forbearance mingled with contempt—the look of the victor for the vanquished.
The smile of mocking triumph which was faintly outlined on the lips of the innkeeper’s wife, and the kind of languorous happiness by which she was still permeated, gave rise to a terrible suspicion in Judith Toumignon’s mind. She recognized in her rival’s attitude the symptoms of that inner joy which often allowed her to consider other women with feelings of pity. She could have no doubt as to the origin of that peculiar radiance with which she herself habitually shone. Retreating once more into the shelter of her shop, where Adèle Torbayon could no longer see her, she gazed long and earnestly at the window of Foncimagne’s room, waiting in anguish for the usual token of fidelity from her lover—a gentle raising of the window curtain—which he was in the habit of giving her several times daily when they could not meet. But Foncimagne was sound asleep, enjoying a succession of dreams in the course of which women of admirably varied charms gave ardent proof of their gratitude for an adroitness in the art of love for which Clochemerle could find no parallel. The lovely Judith had to endure the unbearable suspense which comes from a presentiment of treason. Between her and her lover, separated by a distance of only a few yards, there lay all the obstacles which illicit love encounters, an insurmountable barrier which she could not cross to obtain the reassurance she so sorely needed. Several times during the day she saw the same smile on Adèle Torbayon’s face, a smile pregnant with meaning, which wounded her to the heart. She thought to herself:
“Could it be true? I shall discover soon. . . .”
Schemes of vengeance crowded into her mind. So cruel were they that her lovely features, at other times so calm and serene, were changed beyond recognition.
