Green Mare

Seven

On the Sundays when the family from Saint-Margelon came to Claquebue, Honore’s family was on its toes from four o’clock in the morning. Having as usual cleared the dung out of the cowsheds, spread fresh straw, fed the cows, pigs, poultry and rabbits, and then fed themselves, they had to shell beans and prepare salad for a dozen people, wash their feet, put on clean shirts, wash, iron, mend, tidy and sweep, all the time exclaiming that they would never be ready.

At half-past eight Alexis climbed the walnut-tree to watch for the appearance of the carriage over the crest of the Montee-Rouge. He would then cry (but sometimes he gave a false alarm, just for fun, although he knew perfectly well that he would get a sabot in the bottom directly he came down):

“Uncle’s carriage has just come in sight!”

There would then be a dreadful stampede in the kitchen. Honore would use strong language to his wife because he couldn’t find his collar-stud (what the devil could they have done with his collar-stud?) while Adelaide ran round the room with a hot iron in one hand and a needle in the other, ironing and stitching everything in sight, and crying out in a voice even louder than her husband’s that no one did anything to help her, that she was expected to do everything, and that when she died of overwork perhaps they’d begin to realise.

“The sooner the better! Then I’ll be able to marry again!”

“If you can find anyone to have you!”

“I’ll find a woman who doesn’t lose collar-studs!”

“It’s in the drawer. I’ve told you a dozen times! Do you expect me to be everywhere?”

The dog, Blackie, would contrive to get under everyone’s feet, blocking every doorway and being incessantly kicked. Juliette would call Gustave and Clotilde, who never came. They would be found eventually in the ditch or on the midden, mucky from head to foot. However, they were never got into their Sunday clothes until the last minute, since everyone knew it would have been fatal. Juliette would clean them up, brush their hair and dress them while Honore fixed his collar-stud (which really was in the drawer) and Adelaide got into her black dress, at the same time sewing buttons onto the wriggling bodies of her offspring; and when the carriage turned to enter the yard they would all go flocking out of the house, beaming and exclaiming, “Here they are!” Ferdinand (as a rule he was driving his own carriage) would pull up and answer in his prim, inhibited voice, “Yes, here we are!” and would jump down from the driver’s seat to help his wife to alight.

“Yes,” he would repeat, “here we are.”

“That’s it,” Honore would say. “You got here all right.” And the effusions would begin: kisses on the cheeks of cousins and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters-in-law. .

“The dear children!”

“Were you very hot?”

“I haven’t kissed him yet.”

“You haven’t kissed me either.”

“Have you kissed your uncle?”

“Blackie — good dog!”

“How they’re growing!”

“We had to wait five minutes at the level-crossing.” “Get down, you filthy animal! He’ll make a dreadful mess of your clothes.”

“There’s so much traffic on the roads just now.”

“Mind he doesn’t dirty you with his grubby hands.” “Leave me alone!”

“A horse is so easily startled. .

“You wait! When he’s twelve he'll be taller than Antoine. .

The rejoicings would continue for a good ten minutes. Blackie would get kicked, Gustave would get slapped and Alexis would unharness the horse with a due respect for the handsome trappings which did so much honour to the family. The sisters-in-law would go into the house, and Ferdinand, vet that he was, would sav to Honore:

“Now let’s have a look at the animals.”

Not until they entered the cowsheds would the brothers become conscious of the revival of the latent hostility between them, quite forgotten at the moment of their meeting. Ferdinand would examine the animals with professional gravity.

“This cow’s getting too much drv stuff.”

“Perhaps. But she’s giving three-and-a-half gallons just the same.”

Honore would stand back with an air of detachment, making it clear to Ferdinand that he attached no importance to his views. Ferdinand, however, would continue his inspection, reckoning that this free consultation (worth five francs, if you looked at it like that) was almost enough in itself to pay for the meal he and his familv were going to eat; which meant that the pate and sausage they had brought with them were in the nature of largesse. .

But on this particular Sunday nothing took a normal course. Alexis, from his post of observation in the walnut-tree, saw the carriage, but it was so different from his uncle’s landau that he took no notice of it. The arrival of Mainehal with Ferdinand and his family took them all bv surprise. Honore came out of the house in an old pair of patched trousers unbuttoned in front. The younger children were still in their everyday clothes, and their mother had on a flannel petticoat with red stripes. Ferdinand was displeased, considering that this negligence in the presence of a third party must make a very bad impression. He was also embarrassed for his wife and daughter, and he did his best by gestures to convey to Honore that the wind was blowing through his fly-buttons. Honore, however, was too astonished to understand.

“I never expected you to turn up in Mainehal’s carriage. What’s happened? Is the black horse ill?”

And at this Ferdinand felt his face grow livid. Cutting short the embraces he said in a choking voice:

“Let’s go and look at the animals.”

Honore was saying a few words to Mainehal. He nudged him in the ribs and repeated in supplication:

“The animals. .”

When they were safely in the cowshed he stared apprehensively at his brother.

“Do you mean to say you didn’t get my letter?”

“No. It’ll make you laugh. Deodat lost it. It fell out of his bag while he was having a scrimmage with the kids coming out of school. He had to come and tell me, poor old Deodat — you never saw anyone look so silly!. . But what’s the matter with you?”

Ferdinand had sat down on the three-legged milking-stool.

“My God, my letter! He’s lost my letter!. .”

He hid his face in his hands and groaned in his despair. Honore felt slightly perturbed, recalling that the postman had at first suspected Tintin Maloret. But he was touched by Ferdinand’s evident misery, and helping him to his feet he laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Have a bit of sense, my dear. There’s no need to get in such a state over a letter.”

Ferdinand leaned for a moment on his supporting arm. He felt weak, and the endearment on the lips of his elder brother had caused a sudden pricking in his nose. Honore, too, was moved momentarily to tenderness. He reflected that after all perhaps Ferdinand was not so bad at heart: if he had not been led astray at the College de Saint-Margelon he might have been a good country Haudouin.

“It’s no use crying over spilt milk. If you’ve made a fool of yourself, I’m not going to scold you. And in any case it wasn’t your fault. It was just bad luck. No one could have foreseen that the letter would go astray like that. What did you say in it?”

“I said. . But I’m afraid to tell you. You’ll be furious.” “Rubbish. I know just how you feel. Let’s have the whole thing quietly, and we’ll think it over together.”

“Well, I wrote about politics, but that doesn’t matter… I wrote about our mother. . ”

“You don’t mean you said anything about-”

“Yes, I did. That’s just it. I–I went over the whole story from the beginning, from the moment when the Bavarian arrived. I — well, I said everything!”

And hereupon Honore brandished his fists over Ferdinand’s head, crying to Heaven that never in all his days had he had to deal with an animal of such stupendous, such abysmal, such crass and cretinous stupidity. This was what his blasted education had done for him: it had led him to notify the entire countryside that their mother had let herself be put on her back by a Prussian! If Ferdinand had as much difficulty in handling a pen as he had, it would never have entered his head to write a letter which was likely to poison their entire lives and that of their children. Honore then went on to call his brother a drivelling owl, a half-witted pen-pusher, a clod, a dolt, an oaf, an ass, a cuckold, a lout, a laughing-stock and a bloody white-collared imbecile, at the same time stamping up and down the shed beneath the astonished gaze of the cows, who were all craning their necks to follow his movements. Ferdinand kept pace with him, striving to restore a spirit of reason, but the insults came so thick and fast that he could not get a word in. It was the word “cuckold” that particularly stung him, and that he was most anxious to refute. Honore glared at him with threatening eyes.

“I said cuckold and I meant cuckold — you and me and the wfiole bloody family made to look like cuckolds by a gibbering ape of a half-baked ink-slinger who hadn’t the sense to keep his silly mouth shut about what I told him!. . What?. . No, I’m not going to listen! What the hell good did you think all those pages of scribbling were going to do? Did you think you were going to make me change my mind? And now do you know where your letter is? Maloret has it, Zephe Maloret! It was his kid who pinched it, just like Zephe himself would have done— they’re thieves and spies the whole boiling of ’em! The old man, the last one who died, was just the same, and so was his father before him. So now you can whistle for your bloody letter!”

Trembling with rage, Honore went and leaned against the manger between the placidly champing muzzles of two cows, and gradually calm was restored to him in meditation. It could scarcely be doubted that Zephe had the letter, or that he would try to make use of it. But thinking it over, and allowing for the worst, Honore sensibly concluded that after all mere talk could do him no great harm. Undoubtedly the whole of Claquebue would learn that the mother of the Haudouins had been to bed with a Bavarian; and it was the fact alone that would be remembered, not the extenuating circumstances. Honore did not deny that public opinion in the matter meant a great deal to him; but when all was said, it was a dead person who was primarily affected, and for him there was a great gull between the dead and the living. What was spoken aloud about the dead had less importance than what was merely thought about the living, far less. He reminded himself moreover that his career and livelihood did not depend upon the good name of the dead — it was different for Ferdinand — and that his purpose was simply to render it disinterested service. And finally, in the humiliation of knowing that the contents of the letter would go the rounds of Claquebue there was an especial solace to be found: his desire to be revenged on Zephe, so long deferred that he had ended by giving it up, was thereby awakened to new life. Henceforth his hatred would be secure: and at the thought he felt the lightness of heart of a patriot who learns that at last war has been declared.

Ferdinand, respectful of his brother’s meditations, tried to follow their course by studying his expression. But Honore was careful not to betray his rise in spirits. He had at once perceived the advantage which the situation gave him over his brother: an honourable advantage, due to the confidence Ferdinand had in him.

“Well?” demanded Honore.

“I don’t know what to say,” murmured Ferdinand in a voice of misery which seemed to come from his Sunday boots.

“Perhaps you’re really feeling rather pleased about it,” said Honore. “After all, you want Zephe to be mayor of Claquebue. He won’t need your help, after this, in keeping me quiet. He's got a better hold over me through vour letter than through all your arguments. I certainly shan't oppose him now; I shall be onlv too thankful if he keeps his mouth shut. But after he's been elected mayor he'll start coming to you for money — twenty, thirtv, fifty thousand. I daresay — perhaps even more. Well, that doesn't worry me, I haven't got any money. And when he's got all the money he can out of you he'll want the house; and when he's got the house.

Overwhelmed by this prospect of disaster, Ferdinand sank down again on the milking-stool and began to groan.

"Still, we mustn't lose our heads,’’ said Honore. "Perhaps, after all, Tintin.Maloret hasn't given his father the letter. Although I must sav I should be verv astonished."

“YVhv should he keep it?”

"Exactlv. If he took it you'd think it would be to giye it to Zephe; although with kids one can never be sure, they get queer ideas in their heads. For instance, I once caught Alexis throwing a five-sous piece into the river, and I could never find out why.”

Ferdinand shrugged his shoulders; to throw money into the river was simply idiotic.

“I hope you punished him.”

“Why should I? It was his own money.”

"You were wrong. The boy deserved to be punished. You allowed him to do it, but later on when you find him throwing money away right and left you'll be surprised. We’re always too lenient with them.”

And Ferdinand went on to say that if he ever caught Antoine doing anything of the kind he’d take steps to teach him the value of money; and in a sudden burst of ra^e which assuaged his anguish he began to abuse Antoine as thought he were already robbing him of all his possessions.

“A worthless young idler who doesn't even know the history of France! I could have nailed him proper this morning if I’d wanted to over the Peace of Westphalia. The bov's bone-lazy. Do you think I'm going to work my fingers to the bone iust for him to throw my money away? I’d stop his pocket-money for three months, and no dessert and no outings either! That’d teach him the value of money!”

“Good God, you earn enough for him to be as extravagant as he likes, when he’s old enough.”

“You’re on his side, naturally — never having been able to keep a halfpenny of your own money!” said Ferdinand furiously.

“I’ve done what it pleased me to do and a bit more. If that doesn’t suit you, I’m sorry.”

“No one has the right to do what they please when there are others dependent on them. You’d encourage a boy like Antoine to waste money, and you wouldn’t care in the least if later on he had to live on his brother’s savings.”

The hint implied by these words did not escape Honore.

“When it comes to counting on one’s brother-”

“I hardly think you have any reason to complain!” blurted out Ferdinand.

It was the reply which Honore both desired and feared.

“So now you’re reminding me that I’m living in your house! All right then, I’ll clear out next week. You can do what you like with your blasted house! I’m sick to death of being told that I’m living at your expense!”

He was shouting at the top of his voice. Ferdinand struggled in vain to make his own shrill piping heard.

“I’d sooner sleep in a ditch than spend another week here! I’ll go on Wednesday, and I’ll go right away from Claquebue. You can come and live here if you like, and you can deal with Zephe by yourself. I don’t belong here any more.”

Seeing his brother aghast at these last words, Honore added with a savage grin:

“I wouldn’t buy your letter back from Zephe if he offered to let me have it for fiftv centimes!”

Ferdinand was beside himself with agitation and alarm. He moved a few jerky paces as though hypnotised, raised the tail of a cow in an unconscious professional gesture, and stared at his brother with expressionless eyes. Honore, still boiling with rage, was on the verge of going back to the house to tell everyone of their forthcoming departure,

which would have obliged him to carry out the threat. But the sight of Ferdinand’s distress made him pause. Shrugging his shoulders, he took a step towards him. Ferdinand stood with the cow’s tail in his hand, smiling vacantly at him. Honore was suddenly touched and remorseful.

“Ferdinand. .”

Ferdinand did not move. He murmured a few incoherent words, of which Honore caught, “—the letter. .” “Ferdinand, where’s the sense in quarrelling? Leave that cow alone and let’s talk quietly. Your letter’s with Maloret and we shall have to try and get it back. Why not sit down? I don’t like to see you standing there like that, you look like an idiot. To start with, I should like to know exactly what you wrote to me, in full detail. Try to remember.”

Ferdinand could recall almost word for word every letter he had written during the past year and every speech he had made. Although at first he stumbled a little in his perturbation, he was not slow to gather strength, embellishing his recital with inflections of voice and movements of his hand—“My dear Honore, — The black horse was taken with colic at the beginning of the week. . ” “Yes,” said Honore when he had finished, “you’ve landed us nicely in the soup. You certainly didn’t leave out much.” “All the same, what I wrote was perfectly right.” Honore did not even trouble to answer. He sat down on the milking-stool and pictured Zephe Maloret’s pleasure as he read and re-read the letter. He had no doubt that it had been intense, and for him this was the greatest humiliation of all, compared with which the thought that the whole village would know the letter’s contents was as nothing. Zephe was now assured that the words he had spoken to that Bavarian sergeant had borne fruit, and no doubt in the form he had hoped for at the time. The more Honore thought about it, the less importance did he attach to the business of recovering the letter. What mattered far more was to exact such vengeance as would cause Maloret never to be able to recollect that incident without wincing.

Ferdinand held his breath, waiting for the words of wisdom. Seeing his brother blink both eyes and spit on the toe of his sabot, he concluded that something was taking shape in his mind, and in order not to disturb him moved away on tiptoe to proceed with his Sunday inspection of the animals.

“Leave my cows alone,” said Honore without looking up. “You aren’t going to do any good by prodding them about.”

Honore did not normally hesitate to give his brother the rough edge of his tongue; but he had never before ventured, and in such blunt terms, to assail the time-honoured practice of the consultation. Ferdinand perceived instantly that a change had come about in their relations. The occupant of his house, whom he had unconsciously looked upon more or less as his bailiff, had abruptly become the head of the family, the master of the Haudouins, whom in their present pass he was happy to obey.

“But if it isn’t going to cost you anything. he murmured timidly.

“Leave them alone, I tell you.”

Ferdinand meekly desisted.

“But let me just warn you,” he said despite himself, “that Fidele’s in season.”

“Well, if you’re interested.

Ferdinand detested nothing more than the coarse jest evoking specific images which might haunt him for days. He blushed, glanced at the cow, Fidele, could not prevent himself from gauging in his mind’s eye certain possibilities, and was revolted by his brother’s ribaldry.

“I really don’t understand how a man your age can talk that sort of filth! I don’t understand it!”

Honore had already forgotten what he had said. “What filth?” he asked.

“Why, what you just said.”

“I said something filthy?”

“ ‘If you’re interested’.

“How do you mean, if I’m interested?”

“It’s what you just said, ‘If you’re interested’.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Or rather, ‘If Vm interested’.

Ferdinand was growing agitated. Honore gazed at him anxiously, afraid that emotional disturbance had unsettled his mind.

“You should have something to eat,” he said. “Adelaide will make you some coffee to fill in the gap till dinner.” Ferdinand did not reply. He was filled with bitterness. Not merely had his morals been made the subject of a licentious jest, but he had been made to look a fool into the bargain. And this, as he noted not for the first time, is the way innocence and modesty are customarily rewarded. .

When the brothers left the cowshed it might have been observed that Ferdinand was of a yellow-greenish hue, and that he kept his posterior tightly tucked within the shelter of his jacket. Honore, on the other hand, appeared to be in high spirits. His eye was bright, and his body filled his clothes. He was heard to say:

“And for God’s sake don’t try to do anything more. You’ve done enough already. I absolutely forbid you to go anywhere near the man.”

Of the numerous different ways of making love practised in Claquebue, not all were approved of by the cure. I have no need to describe these in detail. They did not constitute a fund of common knowledge, since there was scarcely anyone in the village who knew even a quarter of them. They were household recipes, heirlooms conveyed from one family to another by marriage, childhood recollections or, more rarely, confidences between friends. It might appear at first sight that in a village comprising a few hundred souls these exchanges would cause the knowledge to spread until it became common property, but such was not the case. Personal preferences, the especial inhibitions of a wife or the authority of a husband, variously limited the horizon of each separate household, establishing habit and usage and driving into forgetfulness not only more recent acquisitions but sometimes even the traditions on which a family had lived for a hundred years. Young married couples were generally conservative, the husband insisting upon his own conventions. Certain families, admittedly, being of a more curious disposition, were attracted by novelty and variety. The Berthiers, for example, practised no fewer than five different methods. But they were exceptional, and there was no respectable, hard-working family which went beyond three. The Haudouins of Claquebue confined themselves almost invariably within the tradition handed down to them by Jules Haudouin, and even Alexis, the most enterprising of Haudouin’s sons, added to it nothing but refine-

ments of detail. Alexis from his childhood displayed the liveliest curiosity regarding the arts of love, reflecting upon all the possibilities suggested to him by his knowledge of the human anatomy, and showing himself to be inventive and remarkably uninhibited in his experiments with girls of his own age. But at the age of eighteen he put aside the knowledge he had acquired in preparation for his entry into a world where refinements and embellishments were merely so much useless lumber. The same thing happened to his brothers, as it had done to his father and as it did to the majority of the men of Claque-bue: having reached the stage of ripened adolescence, they abandoned their youthful, turbulent, untrammelled ways of love and, calling themselves severely to order, set about the serious business of choosing a wife. They did so with regret, like invalids on a diet who dream over their lightly-boiled eggs of the brave days of beef and dumplings; but who learn to endure it none the less, because the great thing is to stay alive in order to go on earning money. When a man is obliged with aching and sweat to scratch his living out of the soil he cannot worry his head with all the varieties of amorous procedure, or even half a dozen of them: he sticks to one, and rarely gives it a thought. The men of Claquebue forgot not only the gleanings of their tender years: they also forgot that the delights of love had a large place in their children’s play, or they pretended to do so.

The boys at an early age were possessed of an almost insatiable curiosity concerning everything which might gratify their sexual instincts. They were an ardent, chattering, restless flock, as unashamed in their pursuits as the young pastoral gods whose activities were untrammelled by the compulsions of hard living. They formed a band of pleasure to which each made his separate contribution— an ingenious contrivance, an obscene jest, a scrap of knowledge garnered in the family circle. They experimented among themselves, measured their potentialities and were no less roughly candid in their handling of any girl who fell into their clutches, debating and commenting upon their discoveries in the forthright language they heard upon the lips of the men. The girls took no part in these diversions, except when they were the victims, merely observing them at a distance, their curiosity being off-set by a somewhat precocious sense of religious duty. The figure of the cure had for them all the prestige which women ordinarily accord to the priest and the doctor. He was well aware of his influence over the feminine half of Claquebue, and had been known to confess that had there been no women in the village he might perhaps have made saints but would certainly not have made good Catholics.

The boys’ eroticism was by no means only verbal or mimed. The field of their curiosity was almost boundless, extending far beyond family traditions, embracing all the perversities and limited only inasmuch as a certain vagueness in their conceptions kept them in some degree sundered from reality. During the summer months the children were required to stay away from school in order to watch over the flocks, and they did not fail to profit by this sunny spell of freedom and leisure. The girls not infrequently allowed themselves to be got at by the boys’ eager persuasions, and yielded without really wanting to, more from indolence and for lack of anything better to do than from any real desire. It was rare for such encounters to take place in strict privacy: as a rule there were interested spectators: and the garde champetre, the watchdog over property and good manners, when he chanced to come upon these pastoral festivities, was not disposed to treat them as a matter for serious concern. The only truly bad behaviour is that which assails property or diminishes its value, and these juvenile antics had no such consequence: they were privileged experiments conducted in the closed world of childhood, and so to speak purely academic. The garde might rebuke the offenders, but in general it was only the boys who let the sheep and cattle stray whom he reported to their parents. The apparent injustice might be regarded as a reward for the good shepherds, who thus learned that in a well-conducted world everything is on the side of those who respect the property of others. And in cases where the garde did mention the matter to the parents, they did not appear to be unduly disturbed by the report of their child’s depraved instincts. The sinner would be made to tremble for five minutes while his father thundered out his grief and astonishment that any child of his should be so ill-conducted, and while his mother considered sending him to confession within the week: but by the next morning the family would have been overtaken by a comfortable amnesia, and the shepherd would be sent out into the meadows as usual, regardless of the temptations that there awaited him.

It was not uncommon for the boys who were most active in these frolics to cherish in their hearts a shy love as pure and fragile as a bubble blown in paradise, a romantic yearning having nothing to do with the delights of the flesh. Later on, having arrived at man’s estate and learnt the trick of confounding all things, they were apt to laugh coarsely at that vanished grace: but the best among them recalled it with tenderness.

Honore Haudouin’s children joined without restraint in the uninhibited gambols of their age. Their father saw no reason to object, but rejoiced rather in their hunger for love and life and envied them a freedom which he himself had lost, being confined within the bonds of family custom. “It won’t last,” he reflected with melan-cholv. “The time will come soon enough when they’ll be ashamed of enjoying themselves when there’s work to be done.”

Alexis, at the age of thirteen, denied himself no pleasure suggested to him by his lively imagination, and was greatly admired by his companions for his boldness and ingenuity and his readiness of speech. He did almost everything he said, and talked about the things he did with a wealth of detail, a precision and a richness of imagery which caused his conversation to be much in demand. His eyes were always alert, his hands ready to seize the opportunity, and he had a laughingly persuasive way with the girls. He was more often caught by the garde champetre than any of the other boys. “You little devil! That’s the third time this summer! I shall tell Honore if you don't watch out!” But as a rule it was an empty threat. There was an especial charm in Alexis, a grace and liveliness which won indulgence for his misdemeanours. Even at that early age he was becoming conscious of the mystery and the contradictions of womanhood. His conquests were not really so numerous, despite his gifts. The fact that a little girl had once let him have his way with her did not mean that she would do so the next time: enduring unions are a matter for grown-ups: children have more pride, and consider, in any case, that it is sufficient to belong to their parents. Thus it was owing as much to necessity as to curiosity or opportunity, that on one occasion Alexis was caught with a boy his own age. Feeling that this time things had gone a little too far, the garde reported him.

“I’m sorry to have to say it, Honore, but that lad of yours is getting beyond himself.”

Honore frowned slightly as he listened to the story.

“Tiresome of him. I wish those kids would find some other way of amusing themselves. Still, it’s only while they’re young.”

“I thought I’d better tell you. .

“You were quite right. It was good of you to take the trouble. Don’t worry, I’ll give him a sound hiding directly he gets home.”

But that evening Alexis did not come home, and his mother grew anxious as night fell. Honore guessed that he was staying away from fear of the wrath to come, and was himself afraid. “One never knows with children,” he reflected. “They cry as easily as they laugh, and there’s no knowing what they may do.” He set out for the water-meadows. Dusk was spreading over the countryside and he grew more and more alarmed. He thought of his son’s terror, all by himself in some corner of the darkness, or perhaps prowling up and down the river bank. He took off his sabots in order to run faster. Reaching the communal pasture he could at first see nothing. Night had almost fallen, and a mist rolled out from the river over the plain. Suddenly their dog, subdued and mistrustful, appeared out of the darkness and sniffed at him. Honore was afraid to call lest there should be no reply. At length he came upon the cows lying in a line on the damp grass, as though they were in the cowshed. Alexis was huddled against one of them for warmth. He watched his father’s approach, at once comforted and apprehensive. Honore took him in his arms, holding him tightly to his heart, which was still pounding front the exertion of running and because of his fear.

"You must never be afraid of me," he said.

Finding the boy unresponsive, because he was still ashamed, he said:

“You mustn't do it again, that's all.”

They went back hand-in-hand, following behind the cows, who were somewhat puzzled bv his nocturnal excursion but made no comment, since the master was there. They could not see one another's faces, and the mist made the grass so soft that thev could not hear their footsteps. They were father and son. hand-in-hand and happy to have been afraid, each on the other's account. From time to time Alexis felt a slight tremor pass through his father's large, warm hand, as when one recalls a great disturbance.

“I won't do it again." he said. "You can be quite sure.”

"I know," said Honore.

He was thinking that he had found his son again and that the rest did not matter. And in fact Alexis kept his word. He rebuffed the advances of his fellow shepherds with loud indignation, and then proposed other diversions scarcelv less perverse. The devil was in him. a lively, laughing imp as inquisitive as the devil himself, and not afraid to show his tail.

The cure of Claquebue, whom nothing escaped, closed his eyes as best he could to the turbulence of his youthful parishioners. In the confessional he passed rapidly over certain sins. He was content that his question. “Have vou been misbehaving with a girl?” or “with a boy," should be answered with a simple ves or no, and he wished to hear no more. This was not because he considered that indulgence in the lusts of the flesh was a sin more abominable in children than in grown-ups. The contrary was the case, and his knowledge of evil was in anv event so extensive that he was not easily shocked. But he decided nothing lightly, acting constantly in the best interests of God, the Church and his parish, which had come to be inseparably intermingled in his mind in the same angry love — an efficacious love, when all was said. It was not so much sin itself that he hated, but its consequences: and having observed that the sexual pursuits of children were a mere bodily activity, having nothing to do with love or faith or friendship or hatred, he preferred to regard them as no more than the manifestation of innocence. The children played — thus did he reason — but when they grew up they would play no more; the delights of the flesh would be merged for them in the cares of living, and then only could these be made a rod to beat them with. Moreover he considered that childhood was the best age for the sowing of wild oats, rather than adolescence, when misconduct is bolstered with arrogance and turns to licence and revolt. Not only did he ignore the children’s behaviour, but he was at pains, in his religious instruction, to avoid any allusion, even condemnatory, to the sins of the flesh, and he passed over all such passages in the Scriptures. The Divine mystery was presented to the children in a light of sexless, rarefied femininity which the cure conjured out of the catechism with talk of the Holy Virgin, the Infant Jesus, guardian angels and the more venerable of the saints, all bearded, of course. It was not until later, when the children had reached adolescence and love was a more difficult matter, that they encountered the wrath of God. For the present they loved and sought to please him, provided it was not too much trouble. The boys between ten and thirteen, for example, humoured God by not allowing the younger children to join in their more ribald jokes and pastimes: it also gratified them to set up categories of seniority. The younger ones, mortified by this, had ribald jokes of their own which were not really much inferior. The rule in any case was not a fixed one, the older boys being not unready to let fall crumbs from their superior knowledge to impress their juniors. But Alexis never allowed Gustave and Clotilde to join in these occasions. From genuine piety, and also from a sense of his responsibilities, he kept a watchful eye on them which they feared more than their parents’ supervision, asking awkward questions as to what they had been up to, forbidding them to go to certain places, and doing battle with Tintin Maloret, who was anxious to take their instruction in hand. This role of guardian angel pleased him, and when his nurselings protested at a show of austerity which his own conduct belied, he said suavely: “Wait till you’re ten, and then we’ll see.”

Where Gustave and Clotilde were concerned, Alexis greatly mistrusted the society of old men. He recalled the last years of their grandfather Haudouin, and his abandoned cynicism of speech. The old ones, when they felt themselves to be within a year or two of the end and had settled their affairs on earth, had nothing more to gain by good behaviour. No longer able to work, they were like the children, who did not have to think of earning their daily bread. “God knows,” said the old men, “we’ve kept ourselves in hand long enough, we can break out a little now!” And since the workers were not interested, and were too busy in any case, some of them talked to the children and might even do more than talk. The cure was less afraid for the children than for the old men themselves, who risked dying of apoplexy with a black sin on their conscience. And so he constantly let it be known that old age is virtuous and respectable, with the light of serene wisdom in its eye, hoping to persuade the old parties to live up to their reputation. On the whole his faith in human vanity was justified. Most of the old men behaved themselves: and indeed, an aforeseeable consequence, it was not uncommon for those in the prime of life to turn to them for counsel on occasions when good sense, perception and vigour were called for.