Green Mare - 1933

Five

Ferdinand Haudouin seated himself at his desk, reached for a sheet of headed writing-paper, and paused for a moment, with his eyes raised to the Green Mare, to consider his letter. He wanted it to be at once firm, affectionate, tactful and persuasive. The effort of reflection caused a flush to appear on his cheekbones, his forehead became wrinkled and he tugged at the ends of his scanty moustache. Finally he drew a breath and wrote with scarcely a pause:

My dear Honore—

The black horse was taken with colic at the beginning of the week, and it will be some time before it can be harnessed to the landau. The bay is only used to the gig; it is still young and high-spirited, and has not learnt to adapt itself. If I put it in the landau it would try to go at its usual pace and would risk straining itself. So on Sunday morning we shall go by train to Valbuisson, where Mainehal, who owes me some money, will meet us and take us to Claquebue. He will come for us in the evening, in time for the six-thirty train.

The children will enjoy spending the day with their cousins, and my wife is looking forward to seeing Adelaide. It is always delightful to see the family united; our dear father often said that good feeling between brothers and sisters was as good as an investment in State securities. And that reminds me that we parted on Saturday with words that were perhaps a little harsh. I have given much thought to that painful story, which you should have told me sooner, and I have come to certain conclusions which I cannot risk putting in a letter. We will talk it all over on Sunday at our leisure and in a calm frame of mind. But there is no reason why I should not at once urge you to be on your guard against a certain hot-headedness which, when one comes to consider it, can only be justified in short-sighed terms. Because you will be bound to agree with me that there are two separate matters involved in this affair. On the one hand, there is the duty of giving Claquebue a mayor who suits the necessities of the moment; and on the other hand there is your legitimate grudge against Z- (you know who I mean). Your bitterness is no greater than my own; you know very well how sensitive I am on the subject of everything affecting the family, and that I am ready to make any sacrifice for the sake of our good name. But before the family — I would even go so far as to say, before my political convictions — I do not hesitate to place our country. In doing so I am only following the example and instruction of our dear old father, who was not afraid, in the interests of the country and despite his long-standing devotion to the Empire, to rally his fellow-citizens to the cause of the new Republic. There could be no better moment than the present for recalling that high lesson in patriotism: we cannot allow ourselves to be swayed by personal feelings at a time when France, too long deprived of the vigilance of General Boulanger at the Ministry of War, finds herself once again exposed to the craft provocations of the Germans. I have been told in confidence by people in a position to know that within two years, perhaps in one year, we shall be at war. That is why it is so necessary for the country to unite itself in the face of danger, so far as union with the reactionaries is practicable, it goes without saying. An understanding of this kind, which at present would only be possible in the name of General Boulanger, is naturally a delicate thing to bring about. There are very few men in Claquebue, for example, whose standing and character inspire confidence in both parties. Among the Republicans I can see no one except yourself and Maxime Trousquet. But you don’t want to be mayor, and I think you are wise, because by associating yourself too closely with a general whose future is still uncertain you would risk compromising the name of Haudouin throughout the district. As for Maxime, I do not doubt either his capacity or his devotion, but I must say frankly that I do not think we can overlook the fact that he cannot read or write.

As for the Clericals, you know them as well as I do, and most of them have shown themselves too extreme to be acceptable to the Republicans. I can only think of one who might bridge the gap. During recent Council meetings we have seen him do his utmost to bring the two parties together in the matter of wooding-rights.

That man, as you must agree, is no other than Z-

(you know who I mean). In my opinion, to pave the way for his entry into the Mairie would be the act of a patriot and a loyal Republican.

And I also think, without wishing in any way to under-rate the unhappy consequences of his imprudence, that we may perhaps be wrong in persisting in the grudge we bear him, possibly without ever having considered the matter very calmly. That he had a share in the responsibility for the danger into which you fell (to some extent owing to your own rashness) I fully agree, although we must not forget that he was taken by surprise. But that part of the business is a matter between you and him, and does not concern me; I will therefore only venture to appeal to your generosity to give him the benefit of the doubt. There remains the painful accident which befell our mother and which was the apparent consequence of Z’s indiscretion. You will understand why I say “apparent” if you will consider the circumstances in which our mother found herself when she was forced to undergo that terrible ordeal.

When the Bavarian sergeant came round the corner with his detachment, and saw an isolated, almost deserted house, with a single woman leaning out of the window, is it not reasonable to suppose that his vile resolution was already almost formed? You said to me yourself the other day that the Bavarians are brutes who keep up their warlike fury with murder and pillage, and above all with rape. I need only remind you, among other instances, of Louise Boeuf, who had to endure the assaults of eleven of the swine. It seems certain, then, that the presence of a sharpshooter in the house merely served the sergeant as a handy pretext; a pretext which saved him from having to use force, and which enabled him to deal with the matter alone, without the help of his twelve or fifteen ruffians. Had it not been for that pretext I think with horror of what might have been the plight of our dear mother. The whole thing remains revolting, of course, but after all she onlv vielded to one man, and he was a sergeant. In fact, we cannot even be sure that he was not an officer. And then, our mother was no longer young, and there are affronts which a woman past the age of fifty feels less acutely than one in the flower of her youth.

These arguments have occurred to me so forcibly that I have departed from my first intention, which was to reserve this delicate matter for our next meeting. I find mvself wondering whether I should post this letter, after scribbling down conclusions which may seem hasty to your way of thinking, although I am sure that a full discussion of the matter will show them to be well-founded. My dear Honore, Helene and the children join me in sending affectionate messages to you and your family. Above all, be very careful in repeating what I have said to vou about General Boulanger. It is better not to commit oneself too soon to a course which is not yet altogether clearly defined — even Yaltier seems to be still hesitating. If vou should be writing, be sure and give me news of poor Alesselon.

Your affectionate brother,

Ferdinand.

Ferdinand re-read his letter only once. Delighted with the smoothness of its development and the persuasive firmness of his argument, he sealed it without further hesitation, put on his bowler hat and went out. As he walked down the street he repeated passages to himself, charmed by the happiness of his phrasing. People he encountered noted that he was almost smiling, and a rumour went round that he had come into money. Nevertheless, after he had dropped the letter into the box a wave of misgiving passed through him at the thought of the momentous secret he had confided to the post. However he quickly recovered, rebuking himself for his lack of faith.

The letter was postmarked during the afternoon, spent the night at the Saint-Alargelon Post Office and the next morning went by train to Valbuisson, arriving there at eight-thirty and reaching the Post Office at nine o’clock. The clerk, after stamping it again, placed it with a pile of letters, and the Claquebue postman took charge of it. .

That morning Deodat had fifteen letters and three items of printed matter. He left Valbuisson a little before ten to cover the six miles to Claquebue. The letters were tidily bestowed in the leather wallet which he carried slung over his shoulder, and off he went, walking at a good, steady pace, not too fast, just the speed that was called for. And he thought of his letters, reciting the names of the recipients in the order in which he would bring them out of his wallet, and not making a single mistake, which shows that he knew his job.

At the foot of the Montee-Rouge, Deodat remarked to himself, “When I’ve reached the top of the slope I shall be that much nearer.” And he laughed because it was true: when he had reached the top of the slope he would be that much nearer. He walked steadily like a steady man, a quiet man; in fact, a sensible man who knows what he’s about, a good postman. He was hot under the glaring sun. But this was also because his uniform was of good, solid material, a thing which he would be the last man to complain of. Decidedly.

Deodat climbed the slope reflecting that he was the postman. It was a good situation. If he hadn’t deserved it, he wouldn’t have got it. In order to be a good postman (there are postmen and postmen, like in everything else) you have to have a head on your shoulders; you have to know things; above all, you have to know how to walk. Not everyone knows how to walk, whatever they may think.

Now to take an example: suppose you were to go bustling off at top speed to Valbuisson to collect the Claquebue mail, what would happen? You’d be all the slower coming back, you’d be exhausted, and even if you managed to finish the journey what do you suppose you’d be like when it came to delivering the letters? If you’re a postman you have to think about being civil to the customers, and nobody can be civil with a blistered foot. And then next time you went to Valbuisson you’d have to have your foot in bandages! In short, there would be no end to it. What you have to do is to walk steadily, like a steady man, and watch where you’re going and see you don’t tread in cow-pats. There’d be no end to the new boots you’d have to buy if you didn’t watch out.

Deodat reached the crest of the Montee-Rouge. He said aloud, “There’s Claquebue!” We all have our habits. When he reached the crest of the Montee-Rouge he always said, “There’s Claquebue!” And he was always right. There it was, the first house on the right, the second house on the left. He went down into the village reflecting that he was the postman. It was a good job, a good calling. You can say what you like about being a postman — when you come right down to it, there isn’t very much to say — but it’s a good job. You have to take care of your uniform, of course; but if you do take care of it it’s a good uniform. When anyone meets a postman they know at once what he is.

The first house opened its shutters and said to Deodat:

“Are you doing your round?”

“That’s it,” said Deodat. “I’m doing my round.”

The second house said nothing. This was because there was no one there. At the third house Deodat thrust his hand into his wallet and called as he entered the courtyard:

“Widow Domine!”

The widow Domine must be in the garden. He might have left the letter on the window-ledge with a stone on top, but he waited. The old woman had heard him and came shuffling in her clogs round the corner of the house.

“Good morning, Deodat, are you finding it hot on your round?”

“Good morning to you, Justine. Gardening must be hot work too.”

The courtesies being accomplished, he held out the letter saying in his official voice:

“Widow Domine.”

The old woman gazed mistrustfully at it without taking it, then tapped the pockets of her apron in search of her spectacles. But spectacles are not much use when one cannot read.

“It’s from my Angele. Will you tell me what she’s written?”

Deodat read her the letter, without being puffed up about it. He just thought how useful it was to be educated. When he had finished the old woman drew nearer to him and asked:

“Well, what does she say?”

She had understood nothing of the letter. When one reads what has been written down it is not the same as speech. Deodat explained that Angele was well, and that she had been offered a situation where she would get ninety francs a year and her clogs.

“And at the end she says, ‘Dear mother, I hope you are feeling better and will go on the same.’ It’s to be kind, you see. She wants you to take care of yourself.”

The widow Domine wagged her head in astonishment. She would never have believed it.

Deodat then walked more than another half-mile while he distributed three letters. They were not great correspondents in Claquebue. He would have liked to have a wallet stuffed with mail, so that the work done might bear some relation to the energy expended. He would have liked to have a letter for every house. But since there were not so many one had to make the best of what one had. After all, he delivered all there were. He walked down the middle of the road, steadily, as becomes an upright man who knows where he’s going. If a cart should come along he would keep to the right — a cart, a flock of sheep, a procession or whatever it might be. When you are a postman you have to be ready for anything. He walked between a bright hedge and a clump of acacia. They are pretty to see, dog-roses in the hedge, the big acacias. But he saw nothing of them; he had no need to think about them. He passed by tranquilly, carrying on his shoulders the big, round head which was so useful to him in his calling. In fact, he would scarcely be able to do without it, being a postman. If he had no head, where would he put his cap?

Before reaching the turn of the road Deodat moved over to the right because he heard a noise. He did not yet know what it might be. “I’ve time to piss,” he reflected. When one has done six miles on foot this is something to be reckoned with, and time must be allowed for it. There are people who piss casually, not thinking what they’re doing. But a true postman cannot behave like that: he must consider everything in relation to his job. Having finished, Deodat bent his knees slightlv to make room for himself inside his trousers and walked on. The noise grew louder, and as he passed the turn of the road he understood: it was the children squabbling on their way home from school. Deodat knew them all, because that was his business, to know everyone in Claquebue. There were the two voungest Haudouins, Gustave and Clotilde, the three Messelons, Tintin Maloret, Narcisse Rugnon, Aline Dur and some others — a dozen of them straggling all across the road and shouting at one another as though they were grown-ups.

The dispute was over a bird which had flown out of the hedge. No one had had a chance to see it properly, Tintin Maloret no more than anyone else, but he insisted that it was a lark, and in a tone of voice that had caused displeasure. Jude, the oldest of the Messelons, had said calmly: “Well, if you ask me, it was a crayfish.”

This, of course, was sarcasm: no one has ever seen a crayfish flying out of a hedge. It annoyed Tintin, who demanded:

“Well, if it wasn’t a lark, what was it? ”

Gustave Haudouin said that it was a tit, and the three Messelons agreed with him. Tintin Maloret laughed coarsely and said that they must have had their eyes full of dung to take it for a tit. Not wishing to leave him victorious in the argument, Jude said:

“It’s just like a Clerical, not knowing the difference between a tit and a lark.”

And this had changed the nature of the whole squabble. Narcisse Rugnon, Aline Dur, Tintin Maloret, Leon Boeuf and Nestor Rousselier at once joined forces against the tit, while the three Messelons and the two Haudouins vigorously supported it. By the time Deodat appeared on the scene they had quite forgotten the original subject of the argument. They were calling each other slimy beetles, fat turds, bitches, bastards, knock-kneed Clericals and bosseyed Republicans. The appearance of the postman might have allayed their fury, but Jude Messelon dragged him into it.

“You see that lot over there? They’re calling us names because we vote for the Republic!”

Deodat was at first at a loss. He had never been an ardent politician, knowing nothing whatever about politics, However, he sought to establish a simple line of reasoning. Since he was the Government’s postman, he was the Republic’s postman: therefore he was a Republican.

“One ought to be for the Republic,” he said. “The Republicans-”

But Tintin Maloret interrupted him, observing that their sow had farrowed fourteen Republicans only last week, and tapping himself on an unmentionable part of his anatomy he suggested to the postman that a pair of spectacles in this place might improve his clarity of vision. Astonishment and righteous wrath reduced Deodat first to open-mouthed silence. Meanwhile the insults were starting to fly again. Overtaken by a sudden inspiration, Nestor Rousselier began to sing, and the rest of the lark-party joined in:

“Republican mob, you’ll lose your job — so stuff your pamphlets down your gob!. .”

And at this Deodat suddenly forgot that he was a postman. The mists of battle mounted to his head, a baleful light shone from his gentle, china-blue eyes, and he forgot. He forgot the road along which one walks steadily like a steady man, a true postman of God and the Government. The wallet hanging at his hip ceased to be a postman’s bag and became a schoolboy’s satchel bulging with his arithmetic book, his Scripture and his reader. And now the dew on the hedges, the dog-rose, the scent of the acacias, filled his eyes and his nostrils. Seeing Clotilde Haudouin tugging at the plaits of Aline Dur, and Tintin spitting in the faces of the Messelons, he forgot his age. He forgot everything. Had he raised a hand to his grey moustache he would have remembered. But he heard the thud of blows, the cries of defiance, the squeals, the slaps. A song of battle rose up from the ranks of the Republicans, and flinging himself into the ?nelee, which he dominated with his greater height, he joined in the refrain, bellowing more loudly than any of the other children while he buffeted the Malorets:

“Clerical rabble, all prayers and babble! Fling ’em into the ditch and let them scrabble!”

Buffeted from in front and booted from behind, Tintin Maloret retreated with his supporters. The song of reaction was silenced, while that of the other side achieved such volume as to frighten the last tits out of the hedge. “Clerical rabble, all prayers and babble. .” Deodat, quite out of breath, raised himself up to his full height, seeming a giant by the side of his schoolfellows. His loud laugh of happiness and triumph caused the ends of the big grey moustache to quiver. Jude laughed with him and said:

“My word, Deodat, you’re a mighty fine postman, for a postman!”

And at this Deodat came back from the wars as abruptly as he had set out. His schoolboy’s satchel had opened during the skirmish, and some of the letters had fallen onto the road. Deodat, Deodat, my true heart, this is what happens! One listens to the songs, and one forgets that one is a postman!. .

“There’s one missing!”

Deodat counted the letters again, he felt his pockets, he even looked in his cap.

“Perhaps it fell into the hedge,” suggested Jude Mes-selon.

The children explored the hedge and the ditch. The other party had re-formed a hundred yards down the road, and were once again singing, “Stuff your pamphlets down your gob!” But Deodat took no notice. He had no thought for anything now except his letter, which was more dear to him than any of the other letters, because it was lost. It was his very best letter. He was thinking of how he would have walked on along the road (steadily, like a steady man, like a postman who knows he is a postman) to deliver it to Honore Haudouin. Honore would have said, “Well, Deodat, so you’ve finished your round,” and he would have answered, “That’s right, I’ve finished my round,” and then they would have chatted of one thing and another, and. . Jude Messelon, who had been crawling on all fours along the ditch, stood up suddenly as an idea occurred to him.

“It’s Tintin Alaloret who took the letter! I remember now. He bent down, and just as I gave him a kick on the head he put something in his pocket.”

Clotilde Haudouin then said that she had seen it too.

“You couldn’t have seen,” said Jude. “You were flat on your face after Aline had tripped you up.”

“Well, I did see!”

Clotilde frowned, and being convicted of untruth her face grew pale, and rage made her nostrils quiver. She said coldly:

“Down with the Republicans! ”

Deodat had dashed off in pursuit of Tintin. He was positively running, the good postman. Because of a song that had taken his ear by surprise, because of the scent of acacias that had crept into his nose, there he was running along the road, running on the legs that belonged to the Government, instead of walking like a postman, not too fast and not too slow.

“Tintin! Wait a minute, my dear!”

The Tintin party had taken to the paths over the fields. Deodat could hear laughter, already grown distant, and snatches of song, “Stuff your pamphlets down your gob. . ” Now quite out of breath he leaned against the trunk of a cherry-tree, without even reflecting that the rough bark might damage his uniform. He had lost a letter and was greatly troubled.

“What’s the matter, Deodat?”

Juliette Haudouin leaned with one hand against the cherry-tree and smiled at him.

“You get prettier every day, Juliette! I’ve lost a letter for your father, and they say Tintin Maloret may have taken it.”

“Well, you’ve only got to ask his father to make him give it back.”

Deodat had already thought of this, but how was he to confess to Maloret that he had been fighting with the children? He confided the problem to Juliette, who laughed without mockery, finding it quite natural that one should be carried away by a song.

“You’ve only got to tell Zephe that the children were fighting and you separated them. He’ll believe you.”

Deodat went on his way, walking now at a proper postman’s pace, while feminine cunning gleamed in his china-blue eyes. Juliette watched him go, then walked across the meadow until she came to a lane enclosed between hedges, where Noel Maloret awaited her. He was a square-shouldered boy, very dark-skinned, with his moustache already grown.

“I was beginning to wonder if you were coming,” he said.

“You can wait a quarter of an hour, surely,” said Juliette.

They looked each other in the eyes, but Juliette had a serene and steady gaze which caused that of Noel to become troubled. They had nothing to say to one another, and so they said nothing. But every minute that passed was a disappointment to Juliette.

“It’s hot,” said Noel at length.

“It’s the hot season.”

“I’ve got to be going home to dinner. Shall I see you this evening, as usual?”

“Yes, if you want to.”

Thev separated, and Juliette reflected, not for the first time, that Noel was very silly. .

At first Deodat thought that he was in luck. Zephe was standing in his doorway with Tintin beside him.

“Do you know,” said Dcodat, “just now I came across a crowd of children fighting.”

Zephe turned his solemn face towards his son.

“I don’t mind betting this young limb was going at it harder than any of them.”

“Exactly,” said Deodat, quite forgetting to be artful. “And while I was fighting with them he took a letter which fell out of my bag.”

“Is that true?” asked Zephe.

Tintin protested vigorously, amazed that anyone should suspect him of having taken a letter. A fat lot of time he had for picking up letters when people were bashing him on the head, and kicking him on the behind and going for him all round. But rather than remain under suspicion he preferred to be searched on the spot.

Zephe raised handsome, candid eyes to confront Deodat.

“If he took your letter he must still have it on him. He hasn’t been out of my sight since he got back here. Would you like me to search him?”

Tintin was searched from head to foot. He was made to take off his breeches, his shirt was shaken, his bottom was slapped and the contents of his satchel explored.

“No,” said his father finally. “As you see, he hasn’t got it.”

Deodat could only agree.

“But what will Honore say? It may have been an important letter.”

A sudden gleam appeared in Zephe’s honest eyes. There were at least half a dozen men in Claquebue whose name was Honore. He did not, however, betray his desire to know to which of them the letter was addressed.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “You’ll just have to tell Haudouin what happened.”

“Yes,” said Deodat with a sigh. “I shall just have to tell him.”

And he went off to find Honore, not even remembering that he had one or two letters to deliver on the way. For the space of five hundred yards his life was in ruins.

Meanwhile Zephe Maloret had thrust his son before him into the stable. Taking down a four-thonged whip, he lashed him across the calves and said in his quiet, controlled voice which caused the entire household to tremble: “You’re going to tell me what you’ve done with Hau-douin’s letter or I’ll beat you black and blue.”

Honore loved his wife with an added love for the children she bore him, and marvelled in her pregnancy to see his pleasure thus endowed with substance. His children, his two daughters and three sons, were past desires still warm and living, red-cheeked and bright-eyed; no more than the best and strongest of all the great family of his desires, but so lovely, so demanding, that he could scarcely recall the others. He repeated their words and sang their songs as though they were his own. And so his happiness in love was endless, being reborn in a smile from one of his daughters, in a quarrel between his sons, in their young loves which were also his. At times when he was working in the fields he would be overtaken by a sudden impulse to return to the house, and the blood would rise to his cheeks at the thought of Gustave and Clotilde, the two youngest, the latest embodiments of his love. Perhaps they were playing with the dog, or sprawled on their stomachs absorb-edly following the course of a beetle by the edge of the well. He would laugh to think of it, and then, since the thought of his children had occurred to him, he w'ould pass on to the others, working up the scale from Clotilde to Ernest, or down, or taking them at random, as the case might be. And he would laugh again to think that he had sowed and reaped so fine a harvest, and with no trouble at all, with laughter and pleasure, simply because he carried good seed.

When he took the two younger ones on his knee, or played or disputed with the older ones, he seemed to be remoulding and refining those former desires of his, endowing them with a better shape. And the tenderness he bestowed on the children was unconsciously recalled when he embraced his wife, so that the children in some sort taught him how to make love, and as he grew older he grew more rich in love, until the house was filled with it.

This manifestation of paternal love, mingling pleasure with achievement, outraged the pure-mindedness of Ferdinand. Whenever he came to Claquebue he was moved to blush at the depravity which he perceived in his brother’s family. The children’s words and the father’s laughter, the bearing of them all, bore witness to a license and laxness in the confrontation of sin which carried a taint of hell itself. The whole household, with the possible exception of Adelaide, seemed to take pleasure in flying in the face of that hideous peril of which Ferdinand, in his thoughts, did not hesitate to speak the proper name. If he had dared to speak as frankly to Honore he would have told him that well-conducted children do not amuse themselves in the contemplation, and even in the close inspection, of each other’s bodies. He had caught them at it! The thing would have been disgusting even between a little boy and girl who were unrelated. And when he had come upon Gustave and Clotilde engaged in the abominable pursuit they had rearranged their clothes and greeted him with no more concern than if he had interrupted them in a game of marbles! To have said anything to their father (apart from the fact that it was really not the sort of thing one liked to talk about) would have been to invite his laughter or else a cool rebuff. On one occasion, it had been a weekday, Ferdinand had gone out into the fields to look for Honore, who with his daughter was turning the hay. Juliette was then sixteen. Ferdinand had kissed her on the cheek, saying amiably:

“How our little Juliette is growing!”

“Yes,” said Honore, “she’s a big girl now.”

Juliette laughed, leaning against his shoulder, and he kissed the top of her head, and putting an arm round her cradled one of her breasts in his hand (through the stuff of her blouse, but still!).

“Look how grown up she is!”

Father and daughter laughed together, and the monstrous shamelessness of this behaviour so afflicted Ferdinand that his purity writhed in his stomach.

“No, really, Honore!” he protested. “Really!”

Honore stared at him at first without understanding, and then, letting go his daughter, he took a pace towards him, suddenly so angry that he could scarcely speak.

“You poor devil! You’re like a dung-fly, that spreads muck wherever it goes! Clear out!”

And not for the first time in his life Ferdinand had been compelled to retreat, with his small, round bottom tucked in under his jacket and his face scarlet. What particularly infuriated him was that he should be slinking off like a guilty man, and feeling like one, when all he had done was to stigmatise an abomination. He had uttered his protest in the rightful indignation of an honest and an upright man who knows well what he stands for: yet somehow Honore, with the warmth of infamy still in his palm, had left him momentarily wondering whether it might not be his own mind that harboured the promptings of hell. Fortunately he could turn for reassurance to the whole repertoire of decorous behaviour. It was an accepted fact, and no one could deny it, that for a father to embrace his daughter cupping her breast in his hand was utterly impermissible, was revolting. Recounting the incident to his wife he said: “All that business of frankness and saying things straight out, you can see now what it really amounts to. He thinks he can do anything he likes because he does it openly.” Helene suggested mildly that perhaps he was seeing evil where none existed; and nothing was more calculated to enrage Ferdinand than this.

“So now you’re sticking up for him? And that disgusting child who enjoys being pawed about, I suppose you’re on her side too?”

“I’m only trying to understand.”

“That’s what I meant,” said Ferdinand with an angry titter. “It seems there are two wavs of understanding!” And he recalled the searing shame, still alive in his bosom after twenty-five years, of having been caught peeping under his mother’s petticoat. It seemed that there were people, fathers of families, who could fondle their daughters’ breasts, and brothers and sisters who could examine each other’s body, without finding harm in it, without blushing at discovery — in a word, without sinning. And there were others who suffered the torments of the damned merely for having been caught out in a moment of natural curiosity!

On so many occasions did Ferdinand come into conflict with what he termed his brother’s brazenness: so often was he set down, so often was his righteous wrath turned back upon him and his purity made to seem rotten in the light of day, that he began eventually to wonder whether indeed the sins he assailed had no existence except in his ow^rn imagination. He began even to wonder if he were possessed, and at such moments even his most irreproachable impulses afflicted him with an anguish of misgiving. He dearly longed to be able to deliver himself of these anxieties, to spread them out for inspection in the darkness of the confessional, but his political activities made it impossible for him to do so anywhere in his own district. He was well known in all the villages, where he had been seen at the side of Valtier, whose candidacy for the Chamber of Deputies he had supported. He dared not openly associate with the priests concerning whom he had helped to spread, and even inspired, the most tendentious rumours and the grossest calumnies. Driving about the countryside in his gig, or crossing the Cathedral Close in Saint-Marge-lon, he would gaze in an ecstasy of longing at church doors which seemed to him to open upon a heavenly abyss of forgetfulness. In his desperation he found pretexts for going farther afield, even if it meant spending the night away from home. Like the gay dogs who take the train to visit remote places of ill-fame, thus keeping their reputations unsullied, he travelled long distances to enter a confessional. But these excursions brought him no relief. The confessors turned a listless ear to this sinner who seemed to have nothing worse than good intentions with which to reproach himself. “My child, your sins are not grave. Provided you do not let your faith be undermined, you will always be happy in the Church.”

Ferdinand came away from his confessions more down-

cast and disquieted than ever. The Church offered no haven, neither could his sins be classified among those which are mortal or those which are venial: they were not even sins of intention, but sins without depth or substance, mere appearances conjured out of the obscene recesses of his imagination. After attending early Communion, as he wandered about the streets of some strange town while waiting for the train to take him home, he would find himself envying the profligates coming out of the one-night hotels, the whole squalid world which he pictured in his self-torment, of bloated profiteers in vice and pimps and whores. These at least bore the burden of sins which would impress the priests. It seemed to him that were he to partake in even one of their crimes, his apprehension might be transformed into solid, tangible remorse and his link with God restored. He even went so far as to tell himself that deliverance awaited him in those streets set apart where the voices of women assailed the ears of the passer-by with warm and heavy promises. So he entered them undesiring, his throat dry with shame; and passed along them unseeing, with long strides that grew longer when the women spoke to him. It was useless. In the end, being forced to conclude that he was too pure to dare, he gave up these outings altogether. In any case, they cost money.

But the cure of Claquebue scented in Ferdinand a hint of the odour of sanctity. Divining something of that inner tension, the secret heaving of foetid scruples, the writhing recoil from all the mvstery of sex, he felt that such a man must raise the tone of a parish by merelv living in it. Professed Radical and anti-Clerical though Ferdinand was, he would have liked to have him in Claquebue. Sometimes he even dreamed, and it made his mouth water, of hearing his confession. He would never answer with words of tepid indulgence, like the priests in the towns, who were not true saviours of souls. He could hear himself exclaiming, ‘ But this is terrible!. .” in a voice of horror calculated to draw into the confessional all the darkest shadows at the Church’s command. He saw the abashed sinner, burdened with dismal fears, going about the village spreading among his parishioners that holy mistrust of the flesh which is the first step to Paradise. Upon souls such as Ferdinand’s the true work of salvation might be accomplished, and almost without effort. He was very different from the weak reeds who came punctually before the supper hour to confess, “Father, I have deceived my husband with Leon Coren-pot,” and then tranquilly departed, having been instructed to say an Ave, a Pater and a Confteor. He was a real Catholic.

Ferdinand knew nothing of this approval. More and more did he come to feel himself abandoned and at the mercy of all the fiends of hell. In penance for his wholly platonic perversities, he sought to achieve complete chastity. He was in any case harrowed by fear whenever he exercised his conjugal rights, or else so overwhelmed by remorse when it was over that he could not sleep. Increasingly mistrustful, and fearful of everything which might serve as a pretext for his obscene imaginings, he developed a mania for persecuting and spying on his own family. His sons were subjected to a rigorous supervision, especially Antoine, whose laziness laid him particularly open to suspicion. “Idleness is the father of all the vices,” said Ferdinand, knowing precisely what he meant. Frederic, being industrious, was viewed more leniently; but there was a scene of high tragedy when his father discovered a work of sex-education among his schoolbooks. It looked no different from the other books, being enclosed like the rest in a blue paper cover, but Ferdinand had a wonderful nose for scandal. Opening it at random he came upon a diagram of the section of a testicle, greatly enlarged. He plunged, trembling with fury, into the dining-room, where the family was at supper, and thrust the testicle under the nose of the guilty party.

“On your knees, abominable boy! Monster! Is there nothing you respect, not even your parents?”

When his wife asked in consternation what was the matter, he cried:

“He knows everything! I can’t say more than that. Little beast! Get down and ask forgiveness on your knees! You shall go without dessert until you come of age!”

For a long time after this Ferdinand could not meet his son’s eyes without blushing to the roots of his hair. Nor did his daughter escape his zeal. Catching her in a gesture which he thought open to suspicion, he condemned her to sleep for six months with her hands tied behind her back.

These maniac perturbations in no way affected his professional activities. Indeed, the reverse was the case. Driven by a relentless energy he spent his life upon the roads, proceeding from calving cow to carbuncular pig; and was no less relentless in demanding that his sons should be at the head of their respective classes, and that Lucienne should be a model among accomplished young ladies. Since the Church had no power to exorcise and no balance in which to weigh his phantom sins, and since he was as it were rejected by his true community, or ignored, or invalided out, he sought to compensate himself through his family, which by diligence and unexceptionable behaviour must bear witness to his singular virtues. He drove them heavenwards as though he were building a Tower of Babel.

“Antoine, take your hands out of your pockets and let me here you say your grammar. . The word ‘erection’ is a noun, not an adjective. It. And suddenly he was blushing furiously. “Why are you looking at me like that? What have I said to make you look like that? You ought to be ashamed of yourself!…”

During the winter they rarely went to Claquebue, but spent their Sunday afternoons at home. I was a witness of those dismal gatherings. Helene and her daughter occupied themselves with needlework while the boys learnt their lessons, or pretended to, all of them oppressed by that sense of collective unease that weighs upon silence-rooms. For their father was there, bringing his accounts and his correspondence up to date, and looking up sharply from time to time to glance at them with apprehension and misgiving: to assure himself, perhaps, that his wife and children were not taking advantage of his preoccupation with honest toil to indulge in furtive and shameful gestures or pass round dirty postcards: and then he would lower his head again, troubled by some passing image evoked in his mind by the sight of the keyhole or the candles on the piano. . Of the five, he was probably the most unhappy; but not all his suffering was comparable with my own when his gaze rested upon me. All that tumultuous,

static life which the brush of Murdoire had caused to pulsate beneath my green coat seemed turned to stone. Even now, after forty years, the recollection of it makes my blood run cold.