Green Mare

Two

When Haudouin had set up his son, Ferdinand, in Saint-Margelon, he urged him to look out for a wife, hoping that he would find one with city manners, ambition and a dowry. Ferdinand was anything but handsome. With his harsh profile, bright pink skin and long, jutting chin he aroused the disgust of his brother, Sergeant Alphonse, who referred to him as “the weasel.” But the youthful veterinary surgeon possessed more solid merits. He was hardworking, well-conducted, economical and a good Catholic. He came out exceedingly well at funerals, exciting general admiration for his irreproachable demeanour. When he marched behind the procession with a pound of wax candle in his hand, more than one mother gazed fondly after him. He was, moreover, good at his job. The first time Haudouin saw him, arms bare and blood-stained, assist a calf into the world after a difficult labour, he was moved almost to tears.

“Now I have seen it for myself my mind is at rest,” he said, “and I am ready to depart.”

To these many virtues Ferdinand added that of a shrewd business sense; he quickly built up a large practice. Those were the days when it was not uncommon for virtue to be rewarded. Ferdinand was singled out as a prospective son-in-law by the parents of an only child. The Brochards, a retired man of business and his wife, had been looking round for a good match for their daughter. Helene. Mme. Brochard was at first unenthusiastic, having flattered herself that her daughter might marry an advocate, a notary or even a cavalry officer, for her education had been conducted by the Demoiselles Hermeline, who kept an admirable and renowned establishment for young ladies. The young vet, however, contrived to let it be known that his studies had been as costly as those of any other professional man, in which he was stoutly upheld by M. Bro-chard. Helene was a good-looking grrl, robust, earnest and warm-hearted, her young body too eager for her to hesitate long over her parents’ choice. During the early years of their marriage the pair had three children, Frederic, Antoine and Lucienne. Ferdinand considered this sufficient, and saw to it that there were no more.

Methodical in all things, Ferdinand extended his connection while at the same time building up his reputation as a solid citizen. He gave fifteen francs a year to the orphanage and fifteen to the hospital. His household was conducted in a strictly orderly manner, and with no more open-handedness than was decent. Throughout the year he wore a morning-coat and a black hat which was a compromise between a top-hat and a bowler. He became a man of substance in the town, and was elected without fuss to the Municipal Council. He was not without political ambitions. By natural inclination he was a monarchist, and he continued to espouse this cause for two years after the war. But the state of opposition did not suit him, and he wanted in any case to profit by the influence his father had acquired in the constituency. With profound inward disquiet he allowed his attendances at Mass to grow less frequent, and by degrees became accepted as a Republican of extreme moderation. After becoming a municipal councillor he carried the process a stage farther by linking his political fortunes with those of Valtier, the Deputy for Saint-Margelon and the surrounding district. Together they became supporters of Gambetta: but when later a large factory was established in the town, holding that the interests of the population had changed but were still not unworthy of their solicitude, they both became radicals. In doing so Ferdinand incurred the execration of all good church families, and his name was spoken with abhorrence by the cure of Saint-Margelon. He never real!}⁷ got over it, and when he attended electoral meetings or banquets at which the perfidy of priests was denounced, although he applauded bravely his heart shrank pitiably within him. However, he contrived to adjust matters in his mind so that his political activities were endorsed by his conscience. It was, so he reasoned, the part of a man of wisdom and enlightenment such as himself to keep abreast of the times; and in order to allay in some degree the remorse that tormented him, he told himself that regardless of his private sympathies he had followed the path of duty. He was, moreover, rewarded with valuable municipal appointments and the palmes academiques.

Old Jules Haudouin came to feel an admiring deference for this son who did him so much credit, and whose Catholic ardour had at one stage disquieted him. No member of the Maloret family could claim to have scaled such heights, not even the two natural sons of Tine Maloret, a shrewd and scandalous old body who, after living for pleasure until she was fifty and more, had managed to retire on the leavings of a former process-server. Whenever he encountered the elder Maloret, Haudouin would say to him in a tone of mock sympathy:

“I was so sorry to hear that your nephew has again failed to get a job with the Post Office. Your sister had so much trouble bringing those boys up, the wretched life she led…”

He would speak the last words with an air of such innocent commiseration that Maloret would have liked to black his eye. And then he would go on to talk about Ferdinand:

“He now has a most excellent position. I must say, he’s a boy who has turned out remarkably well. . ”

Haudouin was, however, less inclined to discuss his other two sons. It is true that there was no particular reason why he should talk about them, since Alphonse and Honore were both in Claquebue; but the fact is that he did not get on with either of them. When he found occasion to reprove Alphonse, the sergeant was apt to reply in an unseemly fashion that he had not had his skin punctured in battle in order to be told off like a schoolboy. The old man considered that the stiff leg had nothing to do with his justified reprimands. It was, no doubt, a glorious wound, and well-deserving of mention in a speech at a political banquet; but it did not excuse Alphonse’s laziness or his fondness for the bottle.

As for Honore, his father reviled him at least once a week, and never without loud-voiced altercation. Yet Honore was not lazy or sulky or rebellious: on the contrary, he was a good son, just as he was a good husband and father. The fact was that his very presence in Claque-bue represented a standing threat to the interests of the family, and for the simple reason that calmly, and as though without thinking, he disregarded all the delicate touches, the courtesies, the smooth, unconsidered trifles by means of which his father had built up his influence in the village. He was capable, for example, on the very morning of an election of referring to one of his father’s principal supporters as a dirty dog, simply because he was a dirty dog. Or again, being asked in the family circle to give his views upon some project, he had been known to call it dishonest, when in reason and decency he might have applauded its artfulness, family decisions being always respectable.

“I insist,” said Haudouin, “upon your being civil to Rousselier. He’s a Republican and one of us.”

“And a scoundrel into the bargain.”

“Scoundrel or not, he has a vote.”

Other arguments failing, Haudouin was wont to accuse his daughter-in-law of having turned his son against him. He had never forgiven Adelaide for having entered the family penniless, and moreover, thin, bony woman that she was, for lacking the full bosom and wide posterior which do honour to a family. When the dispute reached this point the paternal malediction was never far behind, and Honore would swear that he would leave the house to-morrow. He would have done so, what was more, if the old man had not made the first move towards reconciliation, being terrified by the vision of Honore and Adelaide toiling across the countryside between the shafts of an old-clothes barrow, driving their three or four children in front of them. During her lifetime Mme. Haudouin exer-

cised a tranquilising influence in the home. She died three years after the signing of peace of some rather mysterious wasting disease concerning which the doctors were unable to make any pronouncement.

In his state of widowerhood Jules Haudouin treated his elder sons w ith a greater indulgence. He became particularly attached to his granddaughter, Juliette, the second of Honore’s five children, and thought better of his daughter-in-law in consequence. A few months before his death he told his three sons the terms of his will. He had set aside a sum of 10,000 francs as a dowry for Juliette, who would dispose of it freely from the day of her marriage. The rest was to be equally divided between his sons: but impartial though it appeared, the will was in fact a masterpiece of calculated slyness. Since money is more readily squandered titan real estate, he had left Alphonse his share in the form of negotiable securities: for he felt sure that his eldest son would quickly ruin himself, and he did not want the Haudouin land to fall into the hands of strangers. In doing this he exposed Alphonse to all the perilous incitements of ready money, much to the former sergeant’s delight. Honore received the farmhouse with its surrounding land, and the working capital of the horse-trading business. Ferdinand’s share consisted of pasture, arable land and woods.

When Ferdinand protested at the dowry for Juliette, which only benefited Honore’s family, his father replied:

“You’re quite right to complain. One should always try to get more than one’s share. I wouldn’t want it to be said that complaining has got you nothing, and so this very day I will give you the picture of the Green Mare. You shall hang it in vour salon.”

Ferdinand accepted the gift with filial devoutness, had a handsome black frame made for it, and hung it in the place of honour over the piano. Visitors unaware of the facts mistook it for the insignia of a veterinary surgeon, but those in the know gazed at it with respect.

Old Haudouin, who had never been ill in his life, took to his bed one afternoon and died within a week. He was buried beside his wife, and Ferdinand had two big tomb-

stones made for them in black marble, such as had never before been seen in Claquebue. The dead on either side, wretchedly stretched beneath mere mounds of earth, turned unhappily in their sleep.

Before long it became apparent that the Green Mare was a talisman. Ferdinand was awarded a Grand Diploma of Honour and a bronze medal, became deputy mayor of Saint-Margelon, won 10,000 francs in the State Lottery and shortly afterwards was elected to the Regional Council. He was said to be worth 200,000 francs. Finally, when he was nearing his fortieth year, a sublime triumph fell to him: thanks to his political influence he was able to obtain the post of municipal street-sweeper for the former schoolfellow who had christened him “rubber-bum.”

His brothers, in the meantime, saw their respective legacies rapidly diminish. Although Honore knew all the ins and outs of horse-coping, he had never been moved by his father’s example to fake a horse or do anything to conceal its imperfections. He had a great fondness for animals, and sometimes lost a sale simply for the pleasure of keeping a horse a little longer; or sold it for no more than he had paid in order to oblige a friend. Worse still, he lent money left and right. His horse-trading business rapidly declined, and in the end he gave it up, without regret, to become a plain farmer. Since he had fallen into debt his situation became increasingly difficult, until Ferdinand, after lending him various sums and in order to “straighten out the position,” bought the house and land from him at a low price, leaving him in occupation, however, on the understanding that he would supply him with beans, potatoes, spring greens, fruit and salt pork.

Alphonse, even more than Honore, brought upon himself the calamities by which he was overtaken. His stiff leg made it difficult for him to work in the fields, but he might have sold linens or groceries, or at the worst made do on the modest income from his capital. Instead of this he swigged good wine, smoked thirty sous worth of cigars a day, and fed richly every day of the week. He lived this life of dissipation not only at home but in the town as well, where sometimes for days on end he infested the quarters of ill-fame in company with the most disreputable characters. And having frittered away half his fortune he married a girl more notable for her legs than her moral principles, who ate up what was left. Ferdinand, justly incensed at this conduct, did nothing to help him. Too often had he suffered the humiliation of having the ex-sergeant, always in liquor, burst into the salon of the Green Mare and scandalise the guests with his outrageous talk (on one occasion he had even sung the Internationale). Nevertheless, when his ruin was complete Ferdinand showed his goodness of heart by paying the family’s fare to Lyons, where Alphonse seemed to want to settle.

Thus the ill-fortune of the two elder brothers bore witness to the tutelary powers of the Green Mare. A benevolent deity, the guardian of solid principles and saving traditions, she bestowed honours and fortune upon Haudouins of good will — those who showed themselves to be prudent, industrious, calculating and possessed of an eye for sound securities.

On the days when his family was gathered together in the salon, and when he knew his accounts to be in good order, Ferdinand would experience a slight sense of intoxication arising out of the sheer happiness of living reasonably. Looking back over the way he had come since he was first installed in Saint-Margelon, it seemed to him in his modesty, forgetful of his own toil and shrewd contrivance, that he had done no more than cull the rich fruits of a mystical tree growing from the very entrails of the Green Mare. These were the occasions when the three young Haudouins were required to listen to the story of the fabulous animal that had attracted the notice of an emperor. Frederic, the eldest, never wearying of this epic, would listen with a beating heart, sometimes recalling a detail overlooked by his father, or adding some pious embellishment. Lucienne, concealing a desire to yawn, would exclaim politely in the right places. As for Antoine, the youngest, one might already suspect, from his sardonic grin, that he would come to no good in the world.

Mme. Haudouin detested these tales of the mare. Although she dared not say so, she considered that her hus-

band was blunting the sensibilities of their children. She was a gentle, affectionate mother, always in secret revolt against their father’s severity. Her days beneath the roof of the Demoiselles Hermeline had imbued her with a strong feeling for music and poetry, and she still knew by heart a number of the poems of Casimir Delavigne. Unknown to her husband, she gathered the children around her to teach them to appreciate the works of the more purely romantic poets, which they read together. Floods of heartrending verse were poured out in the salon, and there were occasions when they were all in tears except Lucienne, who remained unmoved. Lucienne was a well-behaved and quite pretty child of whom it might be hoped that some day she would marry well, but who took no interest in poetry. H er first concern was to keep her dresses clean and to please her schoolmistresses and parents. A good little girl, in short.

The boys enjoyed their mother’s poetry recitals, especially Antoine, who knew at least a thousand lines of poetry by heart and enjoyed making use of them to confound his father. This boy’s hatred of his father was final and unalterable. He made a point of being among the last in his class at school in order to displease him. When he brought home his weekly report for signature, Ferdinand would threaten in a fury to send him to boarding-school. His mother would have great difficulty in smoothing things over, because Antoine’s attitude to the paternal threats was always one of defiance. Not only was he dawdling, idle and disobedient, but he was wholly lacking in filial respect.

“A thorough young rascal,” said Ferdinand. “He reminds me of his Uncle Alphonse.”

All Ferdinand’s hopes were centred on his elder son. Frederic was always at the top of his class. He had not inherited his father’s graceless physical appearance, and his ready sociability made him popular with his schoolfellows. When he had incurred punishment he knew how to talk his way out of it, unlike Antoine, who paid the penalty in sullen silence. Frederic, in short, seemed plainly designed for the proud destiny of carrying on the fortunes of the Haudouins, or, as Antoine already said with that deplorable grin, of perpetuating the “green” branch of the family.

“He’ll never give me any anxiety,” said his father. “He’ll get on in the world.”

And so it turned out. Except for a trifling set-back when he was fifteen, Frederic headed straight for success. At that age, however, the poor boy fell in love with a girl who was killed in a railway accident. He thought his heart was broken for ever, and at first tried to express his grief in poetry. Finding that rhymes did not come easily to him, he looked round for some other outlet and decided that the least he could do would be to enter holy orders. He would become a preaching brother. At once he saw himself clad in fustian, with the tassel of a Franciscan’s girdle dangling at his calves. When he informed his family of this decision his father said simply:

“You’ll get no dessert until you have changed your mind.”

It was mortifying to Frederic that his vocation should be thought worthy of no more serious a hindrance; but after having held out for two months, and given his weekly pocket-money to the poor, he ended by yielding to his mother’s arguments in favour of a worldly career.

Ferdinand Haudouin’s home was a gloomy one. The father’s constraining presence, the mother’s conjugal disappointments, which induced in her a state of settled apathy, the withdrawn face of Lucienne, the clash of temperament between the two brothers, all gave rise of an atmosphere of rancour and mistrust. Frederic and Antoine felt for one another as brothers, but no more. The bond of brotherhood did not prevent anger and disdain, but merely made reconciliation easier.

On Sundays when the weather kept them indoors the household was more than usually dismal. Mine. Haudouin and the children were bored nearly to tears, while Ferdinand, checking his accounts, kept a sharp look-out to see that they did their homework. At these times Antoine prayed for his father to die during the week, and the very utterance of the prayer comforted him a little.

During the summer months they generally spent Sun-

days at Claquebue. Ferdinand harnessed his landau and drove them all to the home of Uncle Honore. For the children, who got on well with their cousins, it was a true day of rest, and Mine. Haudouin had the satisfaction of seeing her husband treated without ceremony by his brother.

Honore and Ferdinand did not entirely hate one another. There was indeed a kind of affection between them, and nothing that touched either, whether for good or ill, could leave the other wholly unmoved. Each despised the other, but Ferdinand seldom got the better of their arguments since his reasons for doing so were such as could not be avowed. “I think you're inclined to be tactless,” he would say, reproving Honore’s forthrightness; to which Honore, often catching him in the act, was able to reply, “You lie like a trooper!” This difference in tone was fairly constant between them. Both passed for extreme Republicans, anticlerical and even irreligious. Honore’s attitude in these matters was based upon no sort of calculation. He had been a Republican under the Empire and continued passionately to be one because it seemed to him that the Republic still needed defenders; he had turned anti-Clerical to resist the too-overt influence of the care, and he was irreligious because the vision of eternal life appalled him. Ferdinand, on the other hand, continued to worship in secret that which he publicly disavowed, and his brother’s zeal, moderate yet sincere, constantly affronted him. Unfortunately he had no means of conveying this to Honore without giving himself away, and he was even obliged to protest with a show of the utmost vigour when his brother remarked, “I tell you, vou’re like a fish out of water!”

Ferdinand's sole satisfaction lay in the thought that fortune had dealt with each according to his deserts, and that he had been infinitely more favoured than Honore. But even this was something that Honore might have disputed, for he had a wonderful capacity for happiness, and did not really belieye that any man’s lot was more enviable than his own. His perfect content was marred only by one shadow, which was, however, a heavy one. It was the recollection of a humiliation the smart of which could not be dulled by time. Having been prevented by circum-

stances from taking immediate revenge, Honore had resigned himself to enduring this open wound to his pride when, by a caprice of fate, his brother’s political activities reopened the matter, giving the old, half-buried story a new turn. This series of events began on an afternoon of brilliant sunshine, when Honore was cutting corn on the level expanse between the Raicart woods and the road which runs lengthwise through Claquebue.