Green Mare

Fourteen

By half-past twelve Anai's Maloret and her daughter were already clearing the table. Tintin was gazing enviously at his father and brother who, stripped to the waist, were shaving, one on either side of the window. Ana'is had laid out two clean shirts in the bed in a corner of the kitchen. Zephe put down his shaving-brush on the window-ledge, looked at his daughter and said:

“We ought to buy a horse.”

Marguerite was describing the Haudouins’ dining-room to her mother in a low voice. Zephe persisted:

“If I could spare the money I’d certainly buy a horse.” Marguerite pretended not to hear. Zephe developed his line of thought, introducing another matter already discussed in the family.

“It’s the same with the postman’s job. He ought to be told how things are. Deodar’s old enough to retire, and Noel could do that job as well as anyone.”

“But I’ve already told you I’m going to talk to him about it,” said Marguerite with a slight irritation.

“It’s no use just talking, the thing is to get it settled. It’s the same with the horse. .

“You don’t mean you really expect him to buy you a horse?”

Shocked by this blunt way of putting it, Zephe made no reply but stood stropping his razor on the flat of his hand. The thought that his daughter would have the Deputy at her disposal for a whole afternoon had put him in a fever of excitement. After allowing a suitable pause he went on:

“Just the same, there are things you’ve got to realise.

We’ve had extra expenses with you being here, and-”

“I’m paying you plenty.”

“I’m not saying you aren’t. But there are expenses just the same. It upsets the household, and we eat different kinds of food, and we don’t get so much work done — it all costs money. And then you’ve got to remember that you owe your upbringing to us. . These things can be settled in no time if you go about it the right way. I said a horse, and I might have said a cow or anything else — but if it’s a horse you’ll gain by it as much as we shall. . ” He drew the razor down his left cheek. Noel, on his side of the window, was at work on his right cheek. AnaTs gazed unhappily at her daughter, grieved by this rapacity. She would have liked to intervene in defence of a love-affair which she thought of as splendid and romantic, but the mere sound of the razors on male cheeks awed her into silence. Before starting on his right cheek Zephe went on: “And you might as well ask about a tobacco-stall, too, while you’re at it. I’ve as good a right to one as most people, I’ve three children and I might have more. I’ve lost my father, and I’ve one son nearly grown up. It’s all a matter of putting it in the right way. Those who don’t ask don’t get. Or there might be something better than a tobacconist’s — that’s what you’ve got to try and find out.”

Anais moved in the direction of the window and said in a hesitating voice:

“Instead of asking for so much all at once, don’t you think it might be better to wait until they’re married?” Noel, his razor in the air, turned and looked at his sister with a sardonic grin:

“Married! That’ll be the year the pigs sprout wings!” Zephe gazed at him frowning. He knew as well as Noel what Valtier’s interest in Marguerite amounted to, but he did not like to hear it put into words. He was at all times a believer in strict verbal discretion, knowing by experience that even the most dubious circumstances can remain unembarrassing if they are referred to with circumspection. He knew the value of politeness, and would have been capable of passing his life in pretended ignorance of the fact that his neighbour was a criminal. It was customary in his presence to refer to Valtier as Marguerite’s fiance. The pious fiction deceived no one except Anai's, and even she did not believe in any serious engagement, but thought rather of a romantic attachment, advantageous for her daughter, which owing to social differences could not be officially ratified.

The two men put on their clean shirts and sat down on either side of the window to wait for Juliette’s arrival, both a little uncomfortable at finding themselves so spick and span on a week-day.

“You’d think they were going to have their photographs taken!” said Marguerite.

Anais, who had never been photographed, and who since the previous day had thought much about the Hau-douins’ album, asked again to be told about it.

“Is there a picture of Alexis in it?” asked Tintin.

“Of course there is,” said his sister. “They’re all in it, even the old ones who are dead.”

“I’d so much like to see it,” said Anais.

Zephe was also curious. He questioned his daughter, trying to picture the family groups from his own recollections.

“Jules Haudouin was a sly, tough old devil,” he said. “Honore isn’t much like him.”

“There are quite a lot of pictures of Honore in the album. There’s one where he’s dressed as a sharpshooter.”

Zephe stood up to banish a troublesome thought.

“You weren’t a sharpshooter,” said Tintin, with a hint of reproach.

“Me?” said Zephe, with a short laugh. “I should think not! A gang of roughs who went round drinking and looting, that’s all they were! They got themselves such a bad name that people were glad when the Prussians arrived. I heard that they had a party in the church at Chassenay that went on for three days, with whores from Saint-' Margelon. Puffed up like turkeys just because they were armed! That just about suited Honore, being with that lot! If he didn’t get shot, it’s not because he didn’t deserve it a dozen times over!”

“Come now,” said Anais. “There’s no harm in Honore.”

“A dozen times over he deserved it — and worse! — and he still does, and what’s more he’ll get it!. Zephe laughed silently and added, lowering his voice. “Yes, he’ll get it, all right. . We might have a word with his Juliette about that, eh?”

He was looking at his son. The little laugh was repeated, half-threatening, half a question. Marguerite’s cheeks grew hot. She, too, laughed, and said as she looked at him:

“A lot of talk!. . But that’s all it’ll come to. .

Noel got up abruptly and took a step towards his father. He seemed about to say something, but then turned and sat down again without having spoken a word. For a moment silence reigned in the kitchen, and all the Malorets were hot-cheeked, their hearts beating. Zephe turned to Tintin and said tersely:

“Clear out! You’ve no business in here.”

Tintin reluctantly obeyed. His mother followed a minute later with a basket on her arm. Marguerite sat on the corner of the table listening to the sound of her footsteps dying away; then she murmured with her arms crossed on her bosom:

“She’s grown up to be such a fine, pretty girl — so pretty!. .”

Leaving the lane lined with apple-trees, Anals went along the road, Juliette, coming level with the Messelons’ house, called to her at a distance. Anai's flushed and hurried on. When Juliette called again she looked round but did not stop.

“I’ve got to run out!” she cried, waving her basket. “Where’s Marguerite?”

“She’s waiting for you in the house.”

Entering the Malorets’ yard. Juliette saw that the kitchen shutters were drawn to. She crossed the yard and pulled them open with a sudden movement, disclosing the two men seated on either side of the window with their backs to her. They stood up together, embarrassed at having been caught in this attitude of waiting.

“I see you’ve made yourselves beautiful!” said Juliette, laughing.

She gazed at them, affecting an air of amused interest. Zephe, appearing to be unconscious of it, said amiably:

“Come in. Marguerite hasn’t quite finished dressing. You don’t want to wait out there in the sun.”

Noel nodded agreement.

“I don’t mind the sun,” said Juliette, “but seeing you’ve cleaned yourselves up to receive me I won’t stay outside.”

Leaving the window, she made for the door, pushing it open with a nonchalant gesture. She found, as she entered the kitchen, that the shutters had been drawn to again, and her heart beat a little faster.

“One has to try and keep the place cool in this heat,” said Zephe.

The two men were standing together near the window, scarcely visible in the half-darkness except for the white splashes of their shirts.

“Sit down,” said Noel, pushing a chair towards her. “No need to go on standing.”

Juliette refused, but amicably. She had been surprised by an unexpected note of gentleness in Noel’s voice, matching the mystery of the half-darkness; and she was suddenly troubled by the presence of the two slow-moving men, and the calm, like the stillness of deep water, prevailing in the shadowy, cool kitchen. The assurance born of the bright sunshine was leaving her, a sudden weakness was entering her bones and her flesh. Noel was talking in the same slow and gentle voice of heat and of drought. The two white shirts were motionless, but they seemed to have drawn a little closer together, and it was as though a separate conversation were going on between them, between Noel and his father. And Juliette grew apprehensive not only of what might happen but of what might not happen because of the passing of time, the shyness of Noel, the uncertainty of both men. She dared not speak, lest with her own words she should break the spell that had overtaken her. As Noel fell silent Zephe talked in his turn of the harvest and of threshing. She listened to the alternating murmur of their voices filling the kitchen with a monotonous soft echo, and she listened to the voiceless conversation, question and answer, in which all three were now joined. Still silent she moved three paces towards the other end of the room, where she could see the white coverlet of the bed. She stopped. The men stayed where they were. She took three more paces, reaching the end of the long table, and murmured:

“It’s nice in here.”

When she had reached the foot of the bed the white shirts moved at the other end of the room, moving slowly as she had done, and with pauses. They were separating, one approaching her and one moving towards the door; and still they continued to talk, still with the same low and steady voice. Juliette stood huddled in the corner of the room by the foot of the bed, watching the white shirt draw nearer. A small, plaintive sound passed through her lips, half-protest, half-invitation; but when the white shirt was within a foot of her she uttered a cry:

“Marguerite!”

Zephe, with his hand on the latch of the door, uttered a short laugh.

“Call Marguerite if you want to! Call her!”

Juliette called again—“Marguerite!”

The door opened and closed. Reaching out suddenly, Noel took her head in his hands, pulling her towards him by the hair and murmuring gross and tender words. She began at length to struggle, trying to thrust him away.

“Leave me alone! I don’t want… I swear I didn’t mean. .!”

She thought of Honore and the household that awaited her, and was overtaken by a burning sense of shame. Noel was pressing her down over the bed, an arm about her, a hand plucking at her skirt. With a convulsive effort she struggled partly free and hit him with all her strength in the face. For an instant he paused, taken by surprise; then in a fury he flung her on the bed. His hands passed over her. Juliette lay with her eyes closed, sobbing with shame and pleasure, prepared to accept defeat. And a voice sounded from outside, through the almost-closed shutters, seeming so near that it might have been in the room itself. “Good day to one and all! Here’s the postman!”

Noel drew back. Juliette jumped off the bed, and run-

ning to the window pulled the shutters wide. Zephe was standing on the other side of the yard, looking round with a heavy frown.

“Come in, Deodat!” cried Juliette. “Come in!”

And Deodat opened the door and came in, laughing because he was the postman. It was no accident that brought him there; it was his job. That morning he had set out for Valbuisson as usual, and he had come back with his steady postman’s stride and the letters bulging in his wallet. Between the Durs and the Corenpots he had stopped to piss in the hedge, without really wanting to, and those moments deserved to be recorded in letters of gold (suppose he had arrived too soon, and gone away again, or too late, instead of at the exact moment!). But he didn’t know about that; he didn’t know about anything; it was not his job. Good postmen never know; they piss in the hedge when the need arises, and that is all. And then he had called at the Berthiers’ and the Rusillons’, and then he had come along the lane flanked by apple-trees, just as he was supposed to do. That is how it is. The postman comes walking steadily in, saying good-day to all the world, and the girls are kept out of trouble, and all because the postman does his job.

Zephe and his son were decidedly aggrieved at the interruption, but he gazed at them serenely with his china-blue eyes.

“I’m late,” he said; “but that’s because the train was later than usual. I’ve a letter for Marguerite.”

As she straightened her clothes and tidied her hair Juliette looked at the big, round head that he wore on his shoulders just like everybody else: at the moment he had it bent over to the left while he peered intently into his wallet, ostensibly to see better, but in reality because he was a good man.

“Deodat, darling Deodat, what a wonderful postman you are!”

“I just do my job,” said Deodat modestly. “Isn’t Marguerite here? ”

Zephe, who had followed him into the kitchen, held out his hand for the letter.

“She’s dressing,” said Juliette. “I would like you to wait in the yard with me until she comes. Then you can give her her letter.”

“Just as you please, my dear. Well, good-day to you both. And good-day to Anai's.”

Juliette slammed the door on the Malorets and stood stretching in the sunshine.

“Deodat, I love you!”

“One has to be careful, my pet,” said Deodat.

“It wasn’t my fault — it wasn’t!”

“One has to be careful, that’s all I’m saying. Once when you were Only five years old — five, mark you! — you ran away from home, and I found you crying under the trees on the road to Valbuisson and took you with me on my round. My old woman would remember, if she was still alive. She gave you a pear. It came off the big tree we had at the corner of our house, do you remember? They were fine, big pears. The old woman was very fond of them.”

Marguerite came out of the house and kissed Juliette.

“I’ve a letter for you,” said Deodat.

After reading it Marguerite slipped the letter into her bodice, and the three of them went down the lane lined by apple-trees. When Deodat had left them Marguerite said:

“A pity he turned up just as that moment! You thought it would all be settled by this time, didn’t you?”

“You know quite well I didn’t really want to! You wouldn’t have arranged everything so carefully if you hadn’t known.”

“One never quite wants to — and thesn one’s glad when it has happened, if it isn’t our fault!”

“You speak for yourself!” said Juliette angrily.

“No, I’m speaking for you much more than for myself. I’m not so complicated. I know you’re trying to get me into bed with your father, and that’s why I’m going there, because I don’t mind. To say nothing of the fact that Honore will enjoy it too, and I don’t blame him!”

Juliette flushed crimson, and Marguerite went on acidly:

“Love can’t be much fun with a wife like his.”

“If you think the men are all like your lot, you’re mis-

taken! Father doesn’t care twopence about that sort of thing!”

“That remains to be seen. And if it’s true, why did you come to fetch me at one o’clock, when Valtier won’t be here till three?”

“It’s not three o’clock. It’s half-past one. I’ve done what Uncle Ferdinand told me to do.”

Marguerite pulled the letter out of her bodice.

“This is from Valtier. I’ll read you what he says. “My sweet little fury, — Your fat old Deputy won’t be able to be at Claquebue at three o’clock on Thursday, as we arranged. . ” Do you hear that? And he goes on to tell me to come back to Paris, because he’s been called back there unexpectedly. But he says three o’clock.”

“So you’ll be leaving to-morrow,” said Juliette, in considerable embarrassment.

“No, not to-morrow. I don’t like travelling on a Friday. I shall go on Saturday, and glad to get away from here. It’s not much fun, you know, our native village. A pretty girl doesn’t often get what she deserves, specially at harvest-time. You don’t like it much, do you?”

Juliette shrugged her shoulders.

“If your Deputy isn’t going to be here,” she said, “I don’t see why you’re coming with me now.”

“Well, now we’ve practically reached your house I wouldn’t want to turn back without saying hello to Honore.”

As they entered the yard Honore greeted them from the dining-room window, and Marguerite remarked to Juliette:

“I see he’s got a clean shirt on, too!”