Green Mare

Twelve

Ferdinand pulled up the landau outside Honore’s house and said in a voice of grief:

“Philibert Messelon’s dead. We heard the news on our way here.”

Honore did not say a word, but in his fury that the old man should have died a week sooner than he promised he leapt onto the driver’s seat beside his brother, grabbed the reins and the whip, turned the carriage round on two wheels and beat the black horse with the whip-handle. Juliette, who had jumped onto the step to greet her Aunt Helene, was carried off at a gallop, unable either to jump down or to clamber inside.

“The old devil!” stormed Honore. “I’d like to know what he thinks he’s up to!”

“Well, after all, the man was ill.”

“We’ll see about that!”

The sounds of mourning poured out of every door and window of Philibert’s house, where the twelve Messelons and a concourse of sympathising neighbours were proclaiming that the best man in Claquebue had died, the best of husbands, the best of fathers, the best of neighbours, the best when it came to ploughing, sowing, reaping, managing cattle and looking after the Comviune. As Philibert’s widow distributed handkerchiefs to her sons and daughters-in-law and grandchildren the wails rose till they had the poignancy of sounding brass. In the yard there was tumult of another sort where the more ardent members of the Clerical Party, attracted by the news, were vigor-

ously discussing its political sequel. The Malorets, the Durs, the Rossigneux, the Bonbols and the Rousseliers, after giving the body a glance and a splash of holy water, were talking with a growing excitement of the Municipal Council, the Alairie, General Boulanger and the gratifying changes that must now ensue. Zephe made the startling announcement that the beard of the stone statue of St. Joseph, in front of the church, had grown five centimetres during the night, which he held to be an augury that the Alairie would now pass into the hands of the party of decency and order.

This infamous babble assailed Honore’s ears as he arrived; but keeping perfectly calm he pulled up at the open window, jumped from his seat into the kitchen, ran to the dresser in search of the funnel which was used in the making of blood-sausage, and putting his mouth to it as though it were a megaphone shouted twice at the top of his voice:

“Nom de Dieu de nom de Dieu de bordel de merde!” —or as it might be, “Damn and blast the whole bloody lot of you!”

The Clericals, taken by surprise, seemed to hear the great voice of the Republic and were afraid. Zephe Maloret was the first to recover. Resolved to do battle he climbed onto the midden, but Honore beat him to it by being the first to shout:

“Vive la France!”

“Vive l’Alsace-Lorraine!” retorted Zephe.

Honore bit his lips at not having thought of this.

“Vive l’Armee!”

“Vive l’Armee!”

“I said it first!”

“No, I did!”

So then Honore cunningly set a trap for his adversary. “Vive la Patrie!” he cried.

“Vive la Patrie!” answered Zephe.

“Vive le Drapeau!”

“Vive le Drapeau!”

“Down with Germany!”

“Down with Germany!”

“Down with England!”

“Down with England!”

“Down with the tonsures!”

“Down with the tonsures!” repeated Zephe before he could stop himself.

A wild burst of laughter shook the house and a tile fell on the head of the Dur family who began to bleed at the nose. Honore was laughing like twenty men through his blood-sausage megaphone when a cry of anguish and terror sounded from the death-chamber:

“Philibert has moved! He winked his eye!”

Letting the funnel fall to the kitchen floor Honore ran to the room, crying exultantly:

“I knew it! I was ready to bet he wasn’t dead! I knew it!”

But on the instant he lost all the advantage he had gained over Zephe. A dead man who returns to life is bound somewhat to disappoint his public. Not only the Clericals but the Messelons themselves were disinclined to admit that the old man was still alive, and for family reasons, nearly all excellent.

“He’s dead,” affirmed the oldest of the Messelon boys, still dabbing his eyes. “He must be. My handkerchief’s soaked!”

“He’s dead, he’s dead!” cried the other Messelons and all the Clericals.

“Of course he’s dead,” said Zephe getting down from the midden. “For one thing, he has a majority against him.”

“He winked, I tell you!” roared Honore. “They saw him wink!”

“We don’t want to start an argument,” said the oldest Messelon. “He’s dead and there it is.”

“Of course he’s dead!”

Honore could not make himself heard above the clamour and was sorry he had left the funnel behind. Juliette and her cousin, Antoine, had got out of the carriage to shout in his support, but theirs were the voices of minors, having little carrying-power. Fortunately Alexis and Ernest, together with a party of the best of Claquebue’s Republicans, having heard the summons of the funnel came running up to restore the balance. Being reassured on this count, Honore pushed his way to Philibert’s bedside; but

Ferdinand got there at the same moment and said after prodding the corpse:

“He’s cold and stiff — dead as a doornail. You can see for yourself. When I tickle him with my toothpick he doesn’t even smile!”

The Messelons were overtaken by a wave of rejoicing that spread all through the kitchen and into the yard. Honore took advantage of their exuberance to make a sign to Berthier, Corenpot and other tried Republicans to gather closely round him. Then he leaned over the corpse, took its hand and whispered in its ear:

“Philibert, you’ve played a dirty trick on me, but never mind. I’ll make it thirty-five sous a day instead of twenty-five.”

The corpse did not move.

“Forty-five,” said Honore.

He thought he felt a pressure of Philibert’s hand, but so slight that he could not be sure.

“Fifty-five. .”

There was no response, and then he said in a fury:

“This is my last word, Philibert — three francs, five sous! There’s no one in the village who gets as much as that a day!”

And then the trusted Republicans saw a smile on Honore’s lips while he continued to whisper in the dead man’s ear, but no longer in anger.

Out in the yard Zephe Maloret was holding his audience spellbound with his tale of St. Joseph’s beard, how it had grown five centimetres during the night.

“It was fifteen centimetres yesterday evening and now it’s twenty. I measured it. You can go and see for yourselves. Five centimetres it has grown, and there’s been nothing like it in Claquebue since the birth of the Green Mare, which we all know was the work of the Devil himself!”

In the face of this prodigy, denoting so clearly Heaven’s active participation in the affairs of the Commune, who could any longer doubt? The Clericals cheered for St. Joseph and also for Zephe, whose election as mayor seemed now assured. There were even Republicans who began to reconsider their position, and Honore, as though his courage naa raiiea nun, aia no more man remanc in a subdued voice that St. Joseph was the patron saint of cuckolds. Moving near to Juliette he signed to her to follow him into the garden, and there said:

“While I keep Uncle Ferdinand amused, jump onto the landau and drive it down the road till you pick up Guste Berthier. He knows what to do.”

“But Aunt Helene and Lucienne are still sitting in the landau.”

“Never mind, take them with you. Put them down at the cemetery and wait there with them till Berthier comes back.”

In order not to be seen leaving the garden with her father, Juliette made a detour along a path. As she passed a row of beans she heard a stifled laugh and came upon her cousin Frederic seated on a pile of cut grass with his arm round Marguerite Maloret’s neck.

“I like your little cousin,” said Zephe’s daughter. “He has a nice soft skin.”

With eyes blazing and cheeks scarlet Juliette stood gazing down at the laughing, mocking pair. She made no reply to Marguerite, but seizing Frederic by the arm she dragged him to his feet, smacked his face twice and pushed him along the path in front of her. When he tried to struggle loose she hung on with both arms round him and bit him, lingering at the tender flesh at the nape of his neck.

“I can do what I like,” protested Frederic. “It’s none of vour business, and I like her better than you.”

“A slut!” said Juliette with tight lips. “I’ll pay her out!” “She’s rounder than you!”

“Do you want your ears boxed again?”

“And anyway she wanted to!”

“Go on!” said Juliette. “Hurry up!”

They reached the yard, which still resounded with the merits of St. Joseph. Juliette pushed her cousin into the landau, and taking her place on the driver’s seat drove the carriage out onto the road.

“I’m taking you to the cemetery,” she explained to Aunt Helene. “I thought you’d like to say a prayer at the graves of our dead.”

She pulled up alongside Guste Berthier, who got up beside her and took the reins. They talked together in low voices until they reached the cemetery, where she got out with her aunt and cousins.

“I’m going on to the Mairiesaid Guste Berthier. “I’ll pick you up on my way back.”

While Aunt Helene said a prayer at the graves of her parents-in-law, and Frederic and Lucienne measured St. Joseph’s beard, Juliette stood contemplating the defunct Malorets, who had three tombs together at the edge of the path, a short distance from those of the Haudouins.

“Old pig,” said Juliette, to Grandfather Maloret, “so now you’re in hell, and serve you right! Now you know what happens when you behave like a dirty old man with your own daughters! I expect you’re sorry now, but it’s too late!”

The old man was too abashed to say anything, lying there with six feet of earth on his stomach. Juliette passed on to his sister, Tine Maloret, who lay beside him.

“You’re just the same as Zephe’s daughter, but don’t worry, she’ll end up like you have. She’ll end up in hell, and you will have shown her the way!”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” said Tine, sighing. “You know how people talk.”

“You mean it isn’t true, all the things they say you got up to? But what about your two sons — and that process-server? Well?. .”

The last was a son of Zephe who had died at the age of five. One could lay no heavy sins to his account. He had a tiny grave, unadorned except for a cross and a heart in white enamel bearing the inscription: “He is in Heaven.” Juliette merely remarked coldly:

“In Heaven? I wonder!”

She then prayed to God to keep all dead members of the Maloret family in the hottest corner of hell. As for the living ones, she would take care of them.

Just as Aunt Helene was getting back into the carriage the cure came out of the presbytery on his way to the Messelons’. She offered him a seat in the landau which he accepted, fearing lest he should be late for Mass.

“I’ve put a parcel under the seat,” said Berthier, “if you wouldn’t mind watching out for it.”

It was a large parcel, carefully wrapped, with no sparing of newspaper or string.

“I’ll take it on my knees,” said the cure. “I’ll look after it.”

As they went along he asked Mme. Haudouin after her husband’s health and her children’s progress at school. Lucienne told him that she had been top in Conscience Scrutiny, but he congratulated her without much warmth. He disapproved of Mile. Bertrande’s zeal, considering it wrong that spiritual matters should be treated as though they were botany. A great clamour was to be heard as they approached Philibert’s house. The Clerical Party were now cheering St. Joseph and General Boulanger.

The cure began to grow^r concerned. His arrival abated the commotion, and the Dur family at once informed him of the miracle of St. Joseph’s beard. He heard the news without enthusiasm. He was no revolutionary and he had a horror of miracles. However, he could not humiliate the Durs in the presence of the Republicans by issuing a formal denial.

“St. Joseph has great powers,” he said, “but he has a reputation for being sparing in their use. One should, in any case, always approach these matters with the utmost caution. Before making any positive claims on his behalf I would recommend waiting until his beard is below his waist.”

The Messelons had come out to greet him, sighing and mopping their eyes.

“Well anyway, Monsieur le Cure, we can’t expect him to give us back our dead.”

“That would call for a very great saint, my children— a very great saint indeed.”

The cure got out of the carriage and went into the house, still with the parcel in his hands. In the death-chamber Berthier took it from him, and taking off the wrappings displayed a plaster bust of the Republic. The cure could not restrain a gesture of annoyance. Passing to the bedside, Berthier held the bust to the dead man’s face for a chilly kiss. A murmur of astonishment and reproof went up from the spectators, but Honore, putting his lips to the blood-sausage megaphone, which he had fetched from the kitchen, cried in a ringing voice:

“The Republic does not forget her true friends! And now you’re going to see her wake old Philibert up again!” And it was so. At the Republic’s third kiss the old man’s eyelids quivered and he raised his head from the pillow. A solemn and splendid song rose from the throats of the Republicans. It was the Marseillaise. The women burst into tears, and the Rousselier family, until that moment among the most stalwart supporters of reaction, joined in the refrain.

When the rejoicings had subsided a little, questions were showered upon Philibert.

“What’s it like being dead?”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“What did you think about?”

The old man seemed a little dazed by the experience. He waited for the noise to die down and said in a piping voice:

“I found myself in Paradise at about eight o’clock this morning, and fifty years younger, as you’d expect. It’s a very nice place, with a nice climate and plenty of amusements. Your wine costs you almost nothing, and it’s the same with food. God was very friendly and not a bit standoffish like they try to make out. “Seeing you’ve just arrived, Philibert,” He said, “I’ll stroll round with you for a bit.” Just being friendly, you see, just to show me the sights. So off we went, both of us talking and me feeling no different than if it had been Dur or Corenpot or anyone else, which shows you the way he knows how to put people at their ease. But to tell you the truth, there weren’t so very many people in Paradise, and that’s what surprised me most of all. I shouldn’t think there was more than twenty all told from these parts. There were a few Berthiers and Haudouins and Corenpots and Coutants and one or two others, but — it’s a funny thing — there weren’t any of the ones I’d been expecting to meet there. ‘Well, that’s funny!’ I said to God. ‘I don’t see old Dur here!’. . ‘He’s in hell, my child.’… ‘I don’t see old

Mother Rossingneux either.’. . ‘She’s in hell too’. . ‘And what about the three Boeuf girls?’. . ‘They’re all in hell.’… It was the same no matter who I asked after, and in the end I understood why. The fact is that in these days the only people who go to Heaven are the ones with progressive opinions. You’ll say that’s a bit hard on some people, and I’m sorry about it myself, but when you come to think it over you can’t help seeing it’s right. After all, if you’ve spent your whole life fighting against the Republic, which is the mother of us all, you can hardly expect-”

“Monstrous!” cried the cure. “Outrageous! This is a put-up job!”

But his efforts to deny the miracle were drowned by Honore with his megaphone. Amid tremendous uproar the Republic militant acclaimed the Republic triumphant, and fourteen families, their eyes opened, renounced their reactionary beliefs.

While a numerous public congratulated Philibert upon his resurrection, Ferdinand, with sagging limbs and a dry throat, was in a state of acute anguish. While he seconded the cries of “Vive la Republique” with wincing nods of his head, he was gazing in despairing apology at Zephe Maloret. He attempted to raise the name of General Boulanger, but his tongue betrayed him, and he only stammered:

“Vive Saint Joseph!”

Seeing and hearing which, Honore picked him up under his arm and dumped him in the landau. But Ferdinand’s calvary' was not yet at an end. As the carriage returned to Honore’s house, packed to bursting-point with the two families, Juliette took it upon herself to scold her brother Ernest for the lamentable lack of gallantry and enterprise whereby he might have secured the downfall of the Maloret family.

“You’re leaving for Epinal to-night, and y'ou haven’t done a thing about getting back that letter! And all the time I’m sure Marguerite’s got it hidden in her stay's!”

“Really Juliette!” protested Ferdinand. “How can y'ou talk like that in front of the children?”

“The children!” said Juliette with scorn. “You ask

Frederic where I found him just now! I found him in the Messelons’ garden lying on a pile of grass with his arm round Marguerite Maloret’s neck!”

Ferdinand undid his collar in haste and murmured feebly:

“He shall copy out the whole of the Bucolics—the whole lot and go without everything!.

Then, with a voice suddenly restored by tribulation and wrath he cried:

“Wretched boy! The mistress of you-know-who!. . He kissed her—his mistress — he put his arms round her neck! When I think of all I have done for him, the sacrifices, the long hours of work-”

Honore, who was driving, reined in the horse in order to undertake Frederic’s defence.

“You’re making a lot of fuss about next to nothing. If all he did was to kiss her-”

“But how do we know he only kissed her? Frederic, you’re to give me your word of honour that you — that— well, anyway, you’re to give me your word of honour!” Frederic swore by his patron saint and upon the heads of his brothers and sisters and by the first-communion medal hanging round Lucienne’s neck that he had done no more than kiss her. Ferdinand was somewhat reassured.

“I hope you realise,” he said to Honore, “how tiresome this might be. As it happens, M. Valtier is coming to Claquebue on Thursday. And while I think of it, I have a favour to ask you. He wrote to me to say that he wants to see the girl.”

“Well, I’m not going to stop him.”

“No, but he can hardly visit her at her parents’ house. It might be misunderstood, and in any case he wouldn’t be able to — to talk to her as freely as he might wish. He asked me if he might meet her at your house.”

“What!” exclaimed Honore. “My house isn’t a-”

“No one need know. I would bring him in the gig at three o’clock on Thursday, and Juliette could go and fetch Marguerite, just as she might call on any girl to take her for a walk.”

“I should love to,” said Juliette softly. “We all have to help one another, don’t we?”

She was nudging her father to get him to agree, but Honore would not give way so easily.

“Why the devil can’t they go and mess about in the woods?”

“It may be raining,” said Ferdinand.

“Well, they can take umbrellas, can’t they? Anyway, that’s their look-out. I must say, this is a fine job you’re doing now!”

“Honore, you’re torturing me!. .You know how helpful Valtier can be to the children, and especially to Frederic.”

Honore amused himself by making a great show of reluctance, before finally, at the instance of his daughter, he agreed to play host to the Deputy’s amours. Juliette glanced in malicious triumph at her pretty-faced cousin, consumed with jealousy for the fortunate Valtier.

“You mustn’t punish poor Frederic,” she said gently. “He’s suffering quite enough already.”

“He shall copy out the whole of the Bucolicssaid Ferdinand firmly. “The boy has got to learn decent behaviour. On that point I am inflexible!”