SHE DID NOT RETURN. IT WAS said that she had gone to live with her sister, where she was to give birth.
And so, not long afterward, Jean-Luc, one morning, left the house. Tall and slightly stooping, they saw him come, after locking his door; he walked slowly, leaning with one hand on a big baton, holding the little one in the other.
First he went to the blacksmith’s. The blacksmith was so surprised at how much he had aged that he halted his iron. Jean-Luc said to him:
—She’s betrayed me a second time, don’t ever mention her to me again!
Meanwhile Marie, having heard him, had come down; he repeated to her:
—Don’t ever mention her to me again.
He added:
—I’ve come to let you know.
He left, he continued on his way, he went off to the village. From time to time, he stopped, sitting on the edge of a wall, a heap of beams, a fence. And everyone thought the same as the blacksmith: “How thin and aged he looks!”
For the little one’s sake, he also went to see his two cousins, Théodule and Dominique, then he started back, walking down the little street, passing by the fountain, then along the gardens in front of the houses, which are so small, but square and tidy between the crooked fences. Some women, some girls came; one of them carried a little pot of cream, and walked with precaution; another, light in color, had blond hair and a blue and white apron; some men said hello to Jean-Luc: he continued on his way without answering them.
Great sunlight had spread through the sky again, clearer and brighter, as can sometimes be the case after days of bad weather; the remains of the snow melted, and the edges of the roofs in the shade, still garnished, dripped: then, in the hollow earth, a straight line appears where little stones, unveiled, gleam.
He went home, boiled some water, began to wash the cups and dishes. He swept the kitchen; when it was in order, around midday, he made the soup; he gave it to the little one to eat, clumsily holding out the big spoon to him.
Then placed his hands before him, and told himself: “They’re too heavy. Hers were small and light; but her hands have known evil.” He went on: “These here, these are mine.” He looked up: “We’ll put them to use.”
Upon which, Félicie having arrived, he put together a big pile of Christine’s clothes, which he gave to her; and he said:
—Take these and bring them to your house. And be off, I don’t want to see you anymore!
But she returned, and he took pity on her simple-mindedness; she regained her place by the fire. And thus he entered his new life.
It was difficult, but he held on nevertheless. Others helped him, for they thought: “It’s Christine who’s in the wrong, not him; he has a lot of qualities; but he doesn’t see clearly.” Which is why Marie, from the very first day, said to him:
—Jean-Luc, when you leave, be sure to bring me the child, I’ll keep him with my own, one more will go unnoticed.
Jéromette too had come. She was a little old woman, who had once had two daughters and one son—and all her children were dead, her husband too, like her children; so she had put her love in flowers to such an extent that they were everywhere in her bedroom, and her windows were garnished with them, as well as her little garden. She said to Jean-Luc:
—I’ll watch over the little one too.
So that when he went to the woods, upon his return he found the child well-bathed and well-dressed, which encouraged him to go on living. He made an effort, he said: “I have to show everyone I’m strong!”, and lifted his heavy fists. And encouraged himself, grabbing his ax or the wedge for the tree trunks, and when he fell back down, as sometimes happened, he cried: “Get up!”, he got back up, for he thought: “I’ve got this child and he’s mine; I have to last for him.”
He still found comfort in this, and by repeating it to himself, went on:
“One shouldn’t ask for too much.” And, sometimes, in the evening, he felt something like relief, the days having come one after the other, like fresh water over a wound; with little pleasures that reappear: to feel his work was accomplished, eating one’s fill, smoking before the fire, and heat ran through him, the kind that makes the blood run and the heart beat more at its ease; he went to see the little one who slept, he returned; he told himself: “There, I’m at peace, I’ve come to terms with it.”
Whereas those first days, he constantly searched for Christine, and everything was like an image of her; such was a die he found, a planted nail, the sound of footsteps, or a voice outside, and he turned toward the door, and it was only Félicie, or whoever, just someone passing by. And he felt something break within him, every time. A great weariness also, for he fought it with all of his might, having promised himself never to think of her again. Humiliation each time too, for he told himself: “She’s the stronger one!”, and he thought: “Is there someone in the world who’s unhappier than I am?”
Now he was cured, at least he wanted to believe it and forced himself to. One day the sun came out from behind the forest branches, from where the snow had come down (there were heaps of it at the base of the trees); he saw the sun hoist itself into the air, fling itself at the sky—and, after the intense cold and the sad mornings of winter, it was a great joy to behold. Jean-Luc went to see his fences, they were deteriorating, he told himself: “As soon as the weather’s good, I’ll begin to rebuild them; the property has to be in good shape for the little one.” He also examined the house, which had been neglected during summer, when the days are devoured by work in the fields, and the previous winter too, for he hadn’t been around (something he thought long about)—he saw the loose steps on the staircase, the walls dented and cracked; he told himself: “We’ve lived in disarray, that’s all over now!”
He had a little money in a box, which he had saved with difficulty and patience, he counted it, he thought: “I need to double that by next year.” And, daydreaming of how he could achieve this: “Well, there isn’t much to do this time of year … what if I went to see Comby, he needs a worker, and I’m qualified.” He went to see Comby, the carpenter; he was hired in no time, he went back to the shooting board, to the gouge, and to the brace.
“For,” as he repeated, “land is the best investment, it stays put, it lasts; money just has a pretty sound.” Only a sad feeling and grave air remained with him, a certain wisdom had come. When, once again, everything was destroyed in one swoop.
Mardi Gras had arrived, and, because it was beautiful and hot out, he had gone to see the masks, the buffoons, as they’re called, and all those who were in the village had done the same, so that, all up and down the street, the benches were filled with people. There were a dozen of these masks; the pack walked up the street, then came back down it.
And so, the elderly, a little removed from life, looked on without saying anything, leaning forward on their hard knees, while the young enjoyed themselves.
The pack walked by, walked by again; with, as is custom, boys dressed as girls—and they all had their faces hidden or else colored with soot, having faked bellies with pillows, having changed their gait, having changed their voices. The game, for those watching, was to try and recognize them; you wondered: “Who’s that?” And you figured it out, and you laughed.
They laughed hardest about a buffoon who had just arrived, short and paunchy, walking with a bag full of ashes he threw at girls’ faces, and you could hear the girls scream among the laughs, while the paunchy buffoon ran after them. Everyone said: “It has to be Anthime.” He was Jean-Luc’s neighbor, and had quarreled with him over a share of water; all of a sudden, seeing Jean-Luc, he approached him, and, standing there, legs wide, began to say, pointing to the little one:
—Where’d you find this one here?
The little one, who was afraid, hid behind his father’s shoulder. The buffoon went on:
The crowd watched Jean-Luc grow pale. He didn’t answer him, except to say:
—Be on your way.
But, as soon as he left, Jean-Luc rose and went home.
That same evening, he had been invited to the blacksmith’s, he didn’t come; sometime past eight o’clock, someone decided to fetch him; they found the house shut and came back, saying: “He was already asleep.”
He was not asleep, quite the opposite, for the thought had entered his head like a worm pierces through wood, he was tormented by it, to the point that all thought of sleep had deserted him. He told himself: “If that was Anthime, he’s my enemy, he may have lied; but she too may have lied, she’s never done anything but!” Holding the lamp above the child, he went on: “His hair is blond, not black like mine, and, she too, she too had black hair; he’s blond like him, ah! my God!” He went to stand before the small mirror, he examined himself. Because the light came from above, his face appeared even more thin and hollow, with two holes instead of eyes, two holes in the middle of his cheeks, creases in his forehead, and his pallor. He thought to himself: “Does he look like me? How can I be sure? What should I do?”
He let himself fall at the end of the bench. Then, much like when a ray of sunshine, on a sad November evening, suddenly pierces through the clouds with a false light, he saw more clearly the misery that was his life. He said: “I can’t go on! I can’t go on!”
Some girls could be heard laughing on their way home; then came the sound of harmonicas with their light jittery notes, because this was the day of celebration before Lent comes.
The following day, Jean-Luc began to drink. They had to carry him home and put him to bed; they even had a lot of trouble finding the key, which he had hidden in a new place; and old Jéromette, having brought the little one home around six o’clock and finding no one, had to bring him back to hers and put him to bed there.
Jean-Luc fell from bed in the night, woke in the morning on the floor with a bump on his head. He got dressed, went out drinking again. Three days in a row, he drank.
The fourth day, Jéromette returned, still with the child; she said to Jean-Luc:
—I have to keep an eye out to see when you’re home. This is ugly behavior, Jean-Luc.
He looked at her without answering, but, when she handed him the little one, whom, despite her old age, she had carried all the way there, he pushed her back hard.
—Lead him, he said, to those who made him.
And so, full of pity, she brought him home again, and now the little one asked for his father, and he cried the entire way back, so that people came out of their houses, and asked:
—What’s going on?
—Ah! well, she said, I just don’t know what to do anymore.
For she was poor and not strong enough to take care of a child all on her own.
But, a moment later, Jean-Luc also left, walked all the way to see Firmin Craux, who was an old man, rich and very greedy, living at the entrance of the village. In the past he had wanted one of Jean-Luc’s cows. Jean-Luc, having entered, offered it to him. Craux asked:
—How much?
—Three hundred, said Jean-Luc.
The old man said:
—That’s too much.
For he knew everything. So Jean-Luc began to tell him:
—Listen, I don’t need it anymore. Do you like it?
—Yes and no, said Craux.
—Well then! name your price!
Craux told him:
—Two hundred.
It was about half of what Foumette was worth. For she produced eight liters of milk. Even so, Jean-Luc told him:
—Agreed!
But Craux went on:
—One more thing, I’ll give you a hundred now and the other hundred in three months; I’ll write something up for you.
—Never mind then!
—Alright, then a hundred and seventy up front and you’ll bring me the beast at once.
Jean-Luc walked back through the village. It was mild out, the roofs puffed out a vapor. He went to the stable, untied Foumette; he pulled her with the rope, but she mooed, already missing her warm litter, while people said to him:
—What are you doing? Where are you leading her?
But he did not give them an answer. He halted in front of Craux’s house. He returned once more, gripping his heavy wallet tight in his pocket. That night, he went out drinking again.
He placed two fifty-franc coins on the table; he said:
—This one’s on me.