Green Mare

Six

Ferdinand and his wife walked to the station one on either side of their daughter Lucienne, who wore a white frock which she had herself embroidered under the guidance of the Demoiselles Hermeline. The two boys, well enough pleased with themselves in their school uniforms, walked in front carrying the parcels. The prospect of a day at Claquebue during which they would to some extent escape the parental supervision had made them talkative.

“You don't have to worry,” said Antoine. “You’re bound to get at least one distinction, and that means you’ll be let alone all the holidays. But as for me-”

“You can’t tell. You may get one or two credits.”

“No, the head of our class saw my marks. All I’ve got is a couple of passes. The old man’s going to cut up rough about that. Can’t you hear him? ‘The sacrifices I have made to equip vou for a career worthv of the family!. .’ Old idiot!”

Frederic had not been able to prevent himself getting a distinction, and he almost regretted it, since Antoine would suffer all the more by comparison. That morning, indeed, he had been feeling quite remorseful; but his brother’s scathing reference to their father so offended him that he suppressed the words that had been on the tip of his tongue. Antoine changed the subject.

“Did you notice that girl, Jasmin, just now? We passed her at the corner of the Rue de l’Ogre. Pretty, isn’t she?” Frederic was still ruffled. He shook his head. No, he didn’t think all that much of the girl, Jasmin.

“Her nose is too long and sharp, and her hair’s too straight and she doesn’t brush it properly. . Anyway, she’s still only a kid.”

“All the same. .” murmured Antoine with enthusiasm. “Well, that’s all she is, nothing but a kid. She hasn’t got any tits yet. That’s what makes a woman, my lad.”

They were about fifty yards ahead of the others. Their father could not hear what they were saying, but he nevertheless craned his neck and his nose twitched slightly, sniffing the air. Frederic was pleased with himself at having expressed these man-of-the-worldly views on the subject of women, and with a freedom of language which bespoke both the sophisticated undergraduate and the gay dog. Antoine candidly considered the matter, his forehead wrinkled. At length he said:

“Well, naturally I’ve nothing against tits, but what difference does it make when you don’t do anything with girls anyway? All that matters is the face, and especially the eyes. You must admit Jasmin has very pretty eyes.” “You’re only thirteen, you see,” said Frederic indulgently.

“And just because you’re fifteen you want me to think. . Well, what are you trying to say? Go on, let’s hear it!”

“Nothing, nothing. .” said Frederic with a lordly nonchalance. “Let’s not talk about it any more.” And noting the approach of Antoine’s wrath he waited for their parents to catch up.

Ferdinand, who had a plan at the back of his mind, was asking Lucienne how she was getting on with the piano.

“If you were to spend your holiday at Claquebue, would you be able to play the harmonium in church?”

Torn between her dislike of the idea of spending two months on the farm, and the possibility of distinguishing herself, Lucienne was slow to reply. Since the cure’s niece had married, the Claquebue congregation had only heard the church harmonium one week in five, when the Com-tesse de Bombrion came to the village to attend Mass. It would be something, after all, to take the place of a countess. Ferdinand meanwhile was explaining to Helene: “It would be a gesture which would not commit anyone;

a trifle, if you like, but still a step in the direction of the Clericals; and for the more half-hearted Republicans it would be a sign that the wind is changing. I daresay no more will be necessary provided Honore shows a little goodwill, or even if he simply doesn’t interfere. Maloret will know how to make the most of it: the atmosphere of an election is very often decided by trifles of that sort, which are a reassurance for one party and a hint for the other. And in any case, I repeat, it wouldn’t compromise vie in any way. The child would be on holiday, and since there’s no piano she would simply use the harmonium to practise on. It would all seem perfectly natural.”

Helene listened abstractedly. She could never work up any interest in these stratagems of local politics, anxious though she was that Valtier should assist the career of her son, Frederic. Nevertheless, she had agreed to take a hand in the plot which her husband was so meticulously weaving. Since Honore had always shown her an especial friendliness she was to do her best to talk him round, using sentiment where Ferdinand’s logical arguments failed.

At the booking-office Ferdinand asked for five second-class tickets. His social status ruled out the third class, and his politics made it undesirable for him to travel first. He therefore went second, but with regret that no class should exist which might testify to his affluence and personal distinction — for example, a separate coach for the use of the notable and well-to-do: Second class (elite).

“It’s an outing which costs between twelve and thirteen francs,” he remarked to Helene. “If you count the price of the tickets and the things you’ve bought for Adelaide you can’t say there’s any saving.”

“Well, with five of us for lunch we couldn’t go empty-handed,” said Helene.

“Of course. I don’t grudge the pate and the sausage. I was simply working it out.”

They had their second-class compartment to themselves. There were never many travellers on that line, which had come into being through the clash of local and electoral interests (and was a source of sour memories to Ferdinand, who had failed in his attempt to get it to run through Claquebue, being thwarted by a nephew of the Minister, a large farmer in the district, who had steered it his own way at the cost of a detour of ten miles). The railway company had used up on it a store of old rails and rolling-stock which had suffered considerably during the 1870 war, so that the train swayed and leapt about like an animal with a limp. Even the passengers in the second-class coach were rocked and jerked and flung against one another, and forced to shout at the top of their voice to make themselves heard above the rattle of the wheels and the groaning of the ramshackle coaches.

Husband and wife and the two boys sat each in one corner of the compartment. Lucienne, sitting in the middle, kept to the edge of the seat and did not lean back for fear of dirtying her white dress. She looked at her white canvas boots, fastidiously wondering what the Demoiselles Hermeline would say if she were to come to school in the white open-work cotton stockings which she was wearing to-day for the first time — a surmise not far removed from the domain of practical possibilities, since Sunday stockings generally became week-day stockings in the end. There was a certain lack of modesty in the wearing of white open-work stockings which she must not fail to record in her written Conscience Scrutiny. On the other hand, in wearing them she was only obeying her mother, who had bought them for her. Should one eschew the sin of vanity by committing the sin of disobedience? Because it was by no means certain, had she uttered any protest, that her mother would have fallen in with her views. The dilemma might, however, be turned to profit, because Lucienne recalled that her Conscience Scrutiny book was not up to date. Between now and to-morrow evening she would have to find four or five sins w^Torthv of recording: and this was a minimum, because who, without being guilty of the sin of pride, could claim to have sinned less than four or five times in a week? The youngest of the Demoiselles Hermeline, Mile. Bertrande, who took the first-year classes in Conscience Scrutiny, did not permit trifling misdemeanours, unworthy of comment, to be offered as real sins. Innocent though they might be in practice, her charges were expected to enter in their notebooks sins of sufficient substance to be used for their undoing, that is to say, to serve as object-lessons for the edification of the whole class. Being pressed for lack of material, Lucienne finally resolved that the stockings might be made into a double sin — first, the sin of having worn them, and secondly the sin of having been half-inclined to disobey her mother, who wanted her to wear them. The more she considered this method of presentation, the more it pleased her. There was every reason to hope that Mile. Bertrande, after meditating upon this pious conflict, would end by giving her the nine marks out of ten which were so hard of achievement in the sphere of “effective Christian virtue.” However, that still left three other sins to be conceived and committed within two days, and Lucienne, without going so far as actual premeditation, found herself wondering about the temptations which chance might obligingly set before her in the course of the present day, to help her bring her book up to date. Suddenly her father’s grating voice broke through the rattle of the train.

“Lucienne, you still haven’t told me if you’re capable of playing the harmonium.”

Rendered meditative by the noise and the rolling prospect of the cornfields, which filled his gaze, Ferdinand had conjured up a vision that was almost pure poetry. He had pictured Lucienne playing the harmonium in the church where he had attended his first communion, and the thought had greatly moved him. The scene had grown in his mind. With an admiring murmur the parishioners of Claquebue recognised the daughter of Ferdinand Hau-douin, one of themselves, who had made his way in the world; a good Republican, but a just man; one who, like a true Republican and patriot, was always to be relied upon when the honour of the country was at stake. And Ferdinand heard the music of the liturgy swelling above their respectful whispers on a note of pride. He heard it even though he was not there himself, because it was not for him to attend Mass; he was too good a vet for that. He was too good a Republican and too good a patriot, but none the less he sent his daughter to Mass, he sent her to the harmonium: and he did so because the hour was grave. The harmonium broke into a marching song, and the cure intoned the Mass of the Fatherland. Ferdinand felt his breast swell. Troops in mass formation were to be seen framed in the open doorway; their appearance was magnificent, nothing to worry about in that quarter. . The flapping of the flags caused a breeze to fan his empurpled brow. Leaping on the back of the Green Mare, which was nibbling the general’s black horse, he galloped out in front of the troops. In the church the congregation rose to their feet, and led by Lucienne made the rafters ring with their song of love for General Boulanger and their country. Zephe Alaloret was elected mayor by a huge majority, and Frederic, an exalted figure, loaded with decorations and wearing a triple gold chain across his chest, travelled first-class on all the railways of France, with a Government permit. .

Their father’s voice caused the children to start. Antoine, his heart overflowing with tenderness, had been dreaming of the eyes of the little Jasmin, whose exquisite softness caused a flower-garden to spring up miraculously on the drab leather seat and all life to glow with a soft radiance as far as the eye could see. He and Jasmin, and her eyes, were walking together in the meadows; he had flown out through the window of the train in response to her smile. When the vinegary voice broke in upon his Jasmin, Antoine gazed indignantly at his father, once again noting that he had a face like a horse, vulgar, obstinate, crafty, cruel, vicious, stupid, smug and bad-tempered. “Well, anyway, I don’t look like him. I may not be handsome, but I’m not a bit like him. And Jasmin smiled at me. . ” Frederic, who had been dreaming of university diplomas and bowler hats, turned his head towards his father, who repeated:

“Yes or no — can you manage the harmonium?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never tried,” answered Lucienne in a small voice that was swallowed up in the rattle of the train.

Mme. Haudouin came to her rescue.

“You can’t expect her to sit down at the harmonium and play it straight off. It’s a thing one has to get used to.”

Ferdinand made an impatient gesture. He had now set his heart on the harmonium.

“She can have lessons. Even if she does play a wrong note or two, no one will notice.”

Helene went on to say that she would find it dull at Claquebue, to which Ferdinand replied that no right-thinking child finds it dull in the place where her grandparents are interred.

“That’s so, isn’t it, Lucienne?”

“Yes, Father. I’ll put flowers on the graves of the dear departed.”

Ferdinand was delighted. Helene had only argued against the plan from consideration for her daughter, whose dislike for the life of Claquebue she well knew. Annoyed at finding her so acquiescent, she very nearly abandoned her to the dear departed, but was goaded by her husband’s undisguised satisfaction into continuing the argument.

“You don’t seem to have considered that during all the weeks she’s there Lucienne will be left to her own devices. There will be no one to keep an eye on her, and she will be surrounded by bad examples. You always say yourself that the way her cousins behave is disgraceful.”

“That’s very true. I hadn’t thought. We should have to. . Dear me, how difficult it is!… If only I could be sure that Honore will back me up and not be against me. Or if Messelon could manage to live another year, or even six months!. . Valtier would have time to forget about this hussy, and then the whole problem would be solved.”

Ferdinand seemed suddenly crestfallen, and his wife was not displeased. Although she had acquiesced in the manoeuvres designed to place Valuer’s protege in the Mairie of Claquebue, she did so without enthusiasm. She had no great liking for the Deputy, and found it hard to reconcile herself to the idea that her son, Frederic, should eventually attach himself to him in order to achieve a brilliant career as an attorney, or something of the sort. The witty, cynical, gluttonous politician seemed to her a doubtful mentor for a youth who already showed too much tendency to be influenced by his teachings. Moreover it was her secret wish to see Frederic a cavalry officer. Helene had always had a weakness for the army. In her schooldays, at the establishment of the Demoiselles Hermeline, she had dreamed at least once a week of being abducted by a second-lieutenant, and since her marriage she had not ceased to be disappointed by her husband’s social circle, which consisted entirely of the working middle-class of Saint-Margelon. She dreamed of the salons of officers’ wives where the pianos were all “grand” and the armchairs unencumbered with loose covers.

There were, stationed in Saint-Margelon, a regiment of Hussars and an infantry regiment which would gladly have exterminated one another with cold steel. The cavalrymen despised the infantrymen for going on foot, and the infantrymen alleged that the cavalrymen were nothing but parade-ground soldiers. The hatred between them was thus well understandable. Number Seventeen, Rue des Oiseaux, was constantly being put out of bounds on account of the brawls among the rank and file. Nor was there any better feeling between the officers. Those of the cavalry bore such names as Burgard de Montesson, played the piano or even the harp, got into debt, seduced the daughters of the bourgeoisie, rode out to dinner, went stiff-legged to Mass, were Royalists to a man and ignored their colleagues of the infantry. The infantry officers, for their part, played piquet and kept up their spirits by reciting the names of the Revolutionary generals whose fathers had been butchers, bakers, dyers and stable-boys. They suffered somewhat from their ostracism at the hands of the cavalrymen, and wished one of the supply regiments were quartered in the town so that they could ostracise them in their turn: for the officers of the supply corps were nearly as ridiculous as those of the administrative branch. The good people of Saint-Margelon muttered all through the year about the arrogance of the cavalry officers, but on the fourteenth of July all the cheers went to the Hussars, who were accustomed to bring the Military Review to an end with a charge that caused every heart to beat faster.

Ferdinand also had an unavowed preference for the Hussars. On one occasion when, as a member of the Council, he was on the platform at the school prize-giving, he had found himself seated beside their Colonel, whose name was De Prebord de la Chastelaine, and this gentleman, wiping his monocle, had turned to him and said, “Deuced hot, ain’t it?” Charmed by this unaffected simplicity, Ferdinand had become the regiment’s devoted adherent from that moment. They had several times called upon his professional services in the absence of their own veterinary surgeon. He had thus encountered a certain Lieutenant Galais, and they had entered into a discussion on the subject of gelding which had led to mutual esteem. The lieutenant was an earnest young man, a horseman by vocation, who spent his leisure in the composition of a work on the cavalry-harness used by the Sequani at the time of the conquest of Gaul. Impressed by so much scholarship and sobriety Ferdinand came home singing his praises.

“The best horseman in the regiment! I understand he has no private fortune at all, and I’ve heard that he’s rather lonely among all those chaps with their titles.”

The “no fortune at all” went straight to Mme. Hau-douin’s heart. She dreamed again as she had dreamed so often beneath the roof of the Demoiselles Hermeline: the adored of a marvellously poor young officer, she killed off her parents, who were insufficiently decorative in any case, and brought her inheritance to the marriage-bed. And as it happened the dream was not wholly unfulfilled. Ferdinand had occasion for further horse-talks with the lieutenant, and one day invited him to his home on the pretext of showing him some anatomical plates. Helene watched the street from behind the window-curtains. When she saw the two men coming she sat down at the piano, and uttered a cry of surprise when the lieutenant entered. Flattered by her blushes, he found her attractive and besought her to finish the piece she was playing; and thereafter he studied musical notation in order to be able to turn the pages for her. He took to visiting them regularly. Ferdinand complained that she did not pay him sufficient attention. It was true that she did not talk very much; neither had the lieutenant any great fondness for small-talk. They looked gravely at one another, confident of their love, and not even her husband’s presence could mar their happiness. One afternoon Lieutenant Galais found Helene alone. She played and he turned the pages,

and their unspoken avowals were even more tender than usual. But when he took his leave, feeling her hand tremble in his own, he murmured her Christian name. . and then hurriedly withdrew, tottering slightly on his bandy-legs. Thereafter their chaste loves were uttered in looks alone.

The train drew in to Valbuisson, escorted by a lieutenant of Hussars and the eyes of Jasmin. Mainehal, the man who owed Ferdinand money, was awaiting the travellers in the yard of the small station with his carriage. He was a large, civil-spoken man who had quite decided not to pay.

“The harvest looks splendid this year,” said Ferdinand.

“It looks all right, but on my land it’s nothing but thistles.”

“Come, come, you mustn’t say that!”

“It’s true, I assure you, Monsieur Haudouin.”

“You’re exaggerating, my dear Mainehal.”

“No, indeed, Monsieur Haudouin. Why should I exaggerate? But in any case I shan’t be able to pay you this year. Even if the harvest were good I couldn’t manage it.”

Ferdinand was taken aback by this coolness. He climbed furiously into the carriage, considering means of redress. Antoine tried to avoid sitting either beside his father or confronting him. He waited for the rest of the family to instal themselves on the two seats and then started to ciimb up beside the driver, saying that there was not enough room at the back; but his father pulled up a sort of folding-seat between his legs and compelled him to sit on it. The carriage started on its way through Valbuisson, and the party returned to their rhythmic meditations — Jasmin, the Hussar, bowler hats and Conscience Scrutiny.

Antoine had his head almost buried in his father’s waistcoat, and was forced to twist his neck in order that he might see nothing but the eyes of Jasmin.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Ferdinand, who considered it wrong that a child having reached the age of reason should be lost in day-dreams.

“Nothing,” said Antoine in a cold voice, without turning his head.

“Well, since you aren’t thinking about anything you can tell me the date of the signing of the Peace of Westphalia.”

Antoine neither moved nor answered. His father remonstrated in a shrill voice which caused the horse to prick up its ears.

“You hear that, everyone? He doesn’t know the date of the Peace of Westphalia! He ought to be ashamed of himself! He’ll be a disgrace to the family, like his Uncle Alphonse. Very well, this afternoon instead of going out to play with his cousins he shall stay with me. The whole time!”

The carriage was filled with a shocked silence. For her brother’s benefit Lucienne mentally recited a prayer recommended by the Demoiselles Hermeline as an aid to recalling the great dates of history. Frederic drew the figures in the air with his finger, and Mme. Haudouin tried to catch her son’s eye in order to comfort him with an affectionate smile. But Antoine, staring down at his boots refused to see anything. Ferdinand repeated:

“The whole time! He shan’t go out of my sight!”

And finally Antoine’s breast heaved with a sob, while his eyes were blurred with the vision of Jasmin. He gulped and muttered in a stifled voice:

“Sixteen forty-eight.”