Green Mare

Eight

Deodat walked along with a steady postman’s stride, his eyes as blue as ever. As he crossed the gardens or passed along the hedges the summer flowers took on a brighter hue; but he never noticed, he just went on steadily. He was doing his postman’s round, beginning at the beginning and going on to the end. That was what he was supposed to do, seeing that he was the postman. He had to do his round on Sundays just like any other day, but he didn’t mind, it was his job. It prevented him from going to Mass, but the cure excused him on the understanding that from time to time he would attend morning Mass during the week. So that was nothing to worry about, except that he missed an opportunity of paying his respects to his wife, who had been in the cemetery ten years. Still, she was dead, and so he did not allow this either to worry him unduly. He scarcely thought of her in these days. At the time of her illness it had hurt him to see her suffer, and when she had been carried out feet first by four bearers, he had felt it. And then he had forgotten. She was dead: she was dead. It is a thing that happens often enough, when you come to think of it, and there is nothing more ordinary. Deodat saw no reason to beat his head against the wall. There was nothing he could do about it. He was still there, still alive in his postman’s uniform; and he went on doing his job at a steady, postman’s stride until the time should come when he too would be carried feet first over the threshold. He awaited his turn and never thought about it at all, alive as he was and in no hurry.

Leaving the main road he turned along the lane lined with apple-trees which led to the house of Zephe Maloret. Mass was over long ago, but the men had not yet come home. Ana'is, Zephe’s wife, had left them behind. Deodat was glad to find her alone. When Ana'is was not in the company of her men she would laugh with him, and her big fair body and her handsome face in the ripeness of the forties were pleasant to look at. Deodat had no evil thoughts: since his wife’s death he had got on very well without women, modestly making such private arrangements as best suited him. They laughed together, she at the postman’s arrival and he at being the postman. When he entered a house it was customary for the people to laugh. They said, “Here’s the postman!” and he said, “Yes, here I am!” and they laughed because it was pleasant to see the arrival of a good postman.

“I’m bringing you some news,” he said to Anais.

He held out a letter on expensive paper addressed to “M. et Mme. Joseph Maloret, Claquebue par Valbuisson.”

“Why, it’s my Marguerite writing from Paris!” said Ana'is.

Deodat knew this already, having recognised the handwriting, but he did not want to betray the fact. It was more polite not to know.

“I’m glad she’s written to you,” he said. “It’s always nice to hear from one’s children.”

Anais took a pin out of her big bun of fair hair, and after opening the envelope glanced first at the bottom of the page.

“She says she’s arriving to-morrow evening! Last time she wrote she didn’t know, and now all of a sudden it’s to-morrow evening! Oh, Deodat, what a good postman you are!”

“Well, it’s just my job, you know,” said Deodat. “I do the best I can, but it isn’t me who writes the letters. . ”

But Anais was not listening to him. She was laughing because her daughter was coming to-morrow.

Deodat left the house also laughing. Halfway down the lane lined with apple-trees he murmured, “Her daughter’s coming to-morrow!” And then he went on. He had no more letters to deliver, not even a newspaper, but that was not a reason for not going on. He would complete his round, following the road that led to the woods, so as to let everyone know that the post had come and gone; and then he would turn back onto the main road and go home, after making a pause at the house of Honore Haudouin, as he customarily did on Sundays. .

After the interview between the two brothers in the stable, of which some echo had penetrated into the house, one might have expected the family gathering of the Haudouins to be eating their midday meal in a consternated silence. The reverse was the case. Never had that dining-room been rowdier or the laughter more ready. Uncle Honore alone was making as much noise as all the children put together, drinking his wine unwatered, talking at the top of his voice, laughing wholeheartedly and infectirg all the others with his high spirits. All except his brother Ferdinand, w^Tho wore the aspect of a distant relation who had been invited in order to avoid sitting down thirteen to table. This was not the usual state of affairs. As a rule it was Ferdinand who was listened to; and Honore himself would be impressed by such observations as, “I am a deist, like Victor Hugo,” or “I respect the convictions of others, and I expect mine to be respected.” In those circumstances the family gathering maintained a proper decorum. The women, not being interested in metaphysics, could watch over the behaviour of their children and exchange household hints and cooking recipes in the manner of respectable households. Each might glean what he could from the solemn pronouncements, even the children, it was to be hoped, deriving solid instruction for which, when they had reached years of wisdom, they would thank their Uncle Ferdinand.

But to-day was very different. Honore had revolutionised the sober Sunday occasion with a spirit of raucous and aggressive mirth. One might have supposed that he was delighted by the sinister affair of the stolen letter, which threatened the honour of the Haudouins. His warlike rejoicing at the forthcoming battle with Zephe Maloret lent a virile note to his laughter and his gaze. Chuckling and high-crested, he darted sardonic glances at his brother,

adopted an air of gallantry with his sister-in-law, joked with the children, laughed and bellowed like a political freebooter proclaiming a provisional government of wine, women and song. Uncle Ferdinand was acutely uncomfortable. This was behaviour such as he would never have tolerated had not the business of the letter compelled him to do so. Plainly it was not the moment for oracular pronouncements on the subject of politics or metaphysics. He prudently restrained himself, not venturing even to rebuke his son Antoine, who was demonstratively laughing at Uncle Honore’s jesting references to himself (but that account would be settled later: the last word had yet to be said on the subject of the Peace of Westphalia). Parents, reflected Uncle Ferdinand, were often greatly to be condemned. Honore’s example was not lost upon the children, who were behaving like ragamuffins, talking with their mouths full, breaking in on the conversation of their elders and perpetrating even greater enormities. Frederic, seated beside his cousin Juliette, had his left hand constantly under the table instead of keeping it in view beside his plate, as a well-mannered person should do. The others were behaving no better, and even Lucienne, such a good child as a rule, had committed enough crimes in half an hour to bring her Conscience Scrutiny book full-up-to-date. Ferdinand’s solitary remark upon all this had been instantly crushed by his brother.

“Let the kids amuse themselves. I like to see them happy and kicking up a row. If you ask me, yours are much too quiet; they don’t shout half loud enough. If you aren’t careful they’ll end up looking as dismal as their father!”

The children had burst into loud laughter, and Antoine had very nearly choked. It was licensed revolt, pure anarchv, and plainly things were bound to go from bad to worse. The worst, indeed, came near to happening. Gustave, who had already drawn his mother’s wrath upon himself by thrusting a chicken-wing into the pocket of his Sunday knickerbockers, tried to get the dog to drink a glass of wine and spilt half of it over his cousin Lucienne’s white frock. Gustave was promptly slapped, and the w’omen said all that the occasion called for; but Ferdi-

nand was so enraged that he could restrain himself no longer.

“What do you expect when the boy’s being openly encouraged by his father?”

“Do you mean I encouraged him to spill wine on the child’s dress?”

“I don’t say you actually encouraged him, but he felt he was being encouraged. You must admit that if you had been less lax with them the accident wouldn’t have happened.”

“I don’t admit anything of the kind. You say yourself it was an accident.”

“An accident which could easily have been foreseen.” “Why didn’t you foresee it?”

“I knew something of the sort was bound to happen.” “You did? It’s a pity you weren’t so far-sighted a few days ago — that letter of yours wouldn’t be in the hands of Zephe Maloret!”

The reminder, in the presence of the entire family, acutely mortified Ferdinand. His wife, seeing that the argument had taken a perilous turn, tried to smooth matters over by saying:

“It really isn’t anything. A little soap and water. .” Ferdinand, his cheeks still burning, gazed at the contents of his glass and said with sarcasm:

“Well, yes, this stuff won’t stain very much!”

He regretted the remark an instant later. Honore, who suspected Adelaide of watering the wine, understood at once what he meant and turned to her:

“Is that true, what Ferdinand says, that you’ve put water in it?”

Adelaide and Ferdinand protested simultaneously.

“So now I’m accused of putting water in the wine!”

“I never said anything of the kind!”

“You did say it!” thundered Honore. “You hinted at it. You didn’t say it straight out because you never say anything straight out, because you’ll always be the same blasted Jesuit going round looking as though you died for the Republic every morning before breakfast! It’s like your General Boulanger! What is he anyway? — nothing but a blasted unfrocked holier-than-thou with his boots full of rosaries! My God, if anyone puts water in my wine-”

“Honore, I assure you, you simply didn’t understand! I never said-”

“All right, so I’m too stupid to understand! I suppose the rest of you didn’t understand either?”

The question was intended rhetorically, and no reply was called for. But after a brief pause Antoine declared in a voice which shook slightly, because he knew that what he was about to say could not be expiated by a mere imposition of five hundred lines:

“Well, I thought that what father said meant that there was water in the wine!”

Ferdinand’s face became congested with fury, and Uncle Honore, perceiving the extent of his nephew’s self-sacrifice, and knowing the reprisals he invited, nobly refrained from pursuing his advantage. The dispute might have ended there had not Ferdinand, beside himself with rage at what he held to be his son’s treachery, launched a fresh attack.

“Now you see what you’ve done? You’ve turned my own son against me! It didn’t take much doing. He’s only too ready to back you up, just as he would his Uncle Alphonse! The Alphonses in this family are always ready to join together when there’s a chance of doing me down — jealous and ungrateful, the whole lot of you — money-spenders, woman-chasers, cheats, liars-”

“You’d better be quiet,” said Honore, still keeping himself in hand.

“Why should I be quiet? I don’t owe anyone anything. Not a halfpenny!”

“It’s a pity vou think so, because some of your money came to you pretty easily!”

“What do you mean by that? I charge five francs a consultation. I earn my living by my work.”

“Except when you get the Pugets sold up by going in with-”

“That’s not true! You’re lying!”

Honore had risen to his feet. His sister-in-law took him by the arm, seeking to calm him, but he ignored her.

“You dare tell me I’m lying — you thief — you swindler!…”

Ferdinand was also on his feet. They glared at one another across the table with a ferocity that terrified the entire family.

“I have nothing with which to reproach myself,” said Ferdinand in a strangled voice.

“And no one has anything to reproach me with,” said Honore.

“No one?” said Ferdinand shrilly. “Not even Adelaide, on Fair-days, when you used to go off to finish the afternoon you-know-where? ”

Adelaide wanted to say that she did not care, but Honore silenced her.

“Don’t bother to answer him. I’m going to sling him out.”

He had to go round the table to get at his brother. But as he took the first step, Deodat, the postman, came across the yard, steadily, with his head on his shoulders and his hand on his leather wallet. They saw him touch the smooth stone rim as he passed by the well. The two brothers reseated themselves, each feeling that he had had a lucky escape.

“Come in!” called Honore. “I was just thinking we hadn’t seen the postman yet. Come in and sit down.”

“And so you’re a family party, all of you together!” said Deodat.

“That’s right! We’re all here!” said Ferdinand in the voice of a man radiant with happiness.

“It’s like I often say. The Haudouins, I say, they have a real, proper family party nearly every Sunday!”

“Of course we do,” said Honore. “It’s nice to be all together.”

He said it in perfect good faith. He was saying what was true — true for a good man, true for a good postman.

“There’s no greater pleasure when a family gets on well together,” said Ferdinand. “And it reminds us of the days when our father was alive.”

“Ah, he was a good man, your father. I remember one day at Valbuisson. . Well, it’s twenty years ago now, before the railway was built and before I ever thought of being a postman. I remember. . Let’s see, how old would I have been then? Round about thirty or thirty-two, I suppose. I remember that at the last house in the area — not the Rouquets’ house, because that was built later, and anyway the Rouquets didn’t come to Valbuisson till seventy-five, which was the year my father-in-law’s house was burnt down. . No, the last house was the Viards’. I don’t know if you remember them, the Viards? There were two sons, I think. Yes, that’s right, two sons, and the elder got into the Gendarmerie. It’s not a bad thing to be in for a young fellow with a head on his shoulders, but it’s like with us postmen, you’ve got to know what you’re doing. .

At this point Deodat lapsed into embarrassment, recalling the lost letter. Seeing his discomfort, Honore helped him out.

“And you met our father in Valbuisson?”

“Yes, I met him. It was the Fair, I remember. Quite a small fair, mark you. The Valbuisson Fair never amounted to much. It must have been about eleven o’clock, and your father was coming away. You know what he was like. He wasn’t the sort of man to hang about the cafes once he’d finished his business, although, mind you, I’m not saying he didn’t know how to get along with people, and a good eye for animals, whether buying or selling. . Well, for example, I remember one time seeing him buy a heifer. Quite an ordinary heifer she was, not a bad-looking animal but nothing out of the way; and he paid over the money, however much it was, the way I might spend a couple of sous on tobacco, and a quarter of an hour later he sold her again for thirty-two francs profit, not more than fifteen yards from the place where he bought her! I saw him do it!”

Banging his fist on the table, Deodat thrust his cap to the back of his head, while the Haudouins felt their bosoms swell with pride and reverence for the departed. Most of them had solid reasons for thinking of the old man with scorn or dislike, and made no bones about it; but when they talked of him in the family circle, or in the presence of strangers, he came to assume a positively Biblical aspect of wisdom and benevolence. Even Antoine,

who struggled against emotions of this order, was not wholly unmoved. Honore wagged his head and murmured: “Yes, he was a man who deserved to be well thought of.” Deodat made a gesture as though to say that he found the commendation far from adequate.

“I should say he did deserve it! You had to know him the way I did!. . Well, he was coming away from the Fair and I was going there, I don’t remember exactly what for… Yes, I do! I was going to. . no. No, that wasn’t it. . Well, anyway, there I was, on my way to Valbuisson, and just as I was passing the Viards’ house I saw Jules Haudouin coming towards me with that way he had of looking as though he wasn’t in the slightest hurry, although he’d be walking fast enough to cover four miles in an hour. He didn’t see me at first, thinking of something else as usual; he always had his head full of ideas. . ‘You’re on your way back, Jules?’ I said to him. . ‘Good day to you, Deodat,’ he says. ‘You know what I did? I forgot my umbrella!’”

Deodat smiled in affectionate homage and concluded: “He had forgotten his umbrella.”

Honore and Ferdinand, now completely reconciled, gazed at each other misty-eyed. It w^ras as though the umbrella were lying on the table between them. They could positively see it. His green umbrella. It was a good umbrella, the only one he had ever had, the family umbrella, the umbrella of union and concord. The very thought of it, the very mention of the word, caused a warmth of goodwill to rise in their bosoms. They would have given much to have it still with them, that umbrella (and if the old man had tried to get out of the tomb they’d have driven him back with whacks on the head). They were the two brothers, the two sons of the umbrella. Honore reproached himself with having been a little hard on Ferdinand, and Ferdinand reflected, “I have to take mv brother as he is. I would not have him otherwise.”

The rest of the family were all conscious of the better feeling that now prevailed, although they were a little disappointed by the postman’s story, particularly the younger ones, who had hoped for a more dramatic climax. For example, Gustave reflected, a mad bull might have come rushing out of the Viards’ farmyard, and grandfather might have grabbed it by the tail and after swinging it a few times round his head flung it right into the Chat-Bleu pond. At a pinch something even less remarkable would have done. Alexis was not content to leave it at the umbrella.

“What happened then, Deodat?”

The question troubled Deodat. Interpreting their meditations, he feared to have been perhaps a trifle inadequate.

“Well, as to whether he had left his umbrella at the Fair or at home,” he said, “I’m afraid that’s something I can't tell you.”

“He must have left it at home,” said Ferdinand.

Deodat took a draught of wine and asked him his opinion of a three-months-old fowl that refused to eat except under the legs of the pigs and had the curious foible that it limped after four o’clock in the afternoon. He had a fowl like that.

“One of the vicious sort,” said Ferdinand. “You have to be careful on account of the chicks. I remember a case. .”

The conversation grew suddenly lively. A number of tales were told of vicious hens. Frederic profited by the general preoccupation to lav his hand on his cousin’s thigh. Juliette glanced at him with soft bright eyes, a warmth pervaded him and he blushed happily. The hubbub of voices, the clatter of knives and forks, all the tumult of well-being that rises up from a table where the consumption of good food does not hinder conversation, went a little to their heads. They both laughed, and Frederic murmured:

“As soon as we’ve finished the duck I’m going into the barn.”

Juliette gave a little nod to show that she had understood. Ferdinand suspected nothing. He v'as almost happy, because his wife and his sister-in-law were now exchanging cooking recipes:

“You grease the bottom of the pan thoroughly and put it over a slow fire and baste it every half-hour. . ”

“I make a garlic stuffing. .

“Not garlic. Adelaide broke off to join in the chicken conversation. “We had a hen with a beak that overlapped like scissors, so it couldn’t pick up corn. . I think a chestnut stuffing’s better than garlic. .

Clotilde remained silent amid the rowdiness, frowning to herself. Gustave, seeing that no one was paying him any attention, seized the bottle of wine and filled his tumbler to the brim. He was refilling it, having emptied it at a draught, when Lucienne informed her father.

“Daddy, Gustave has just drunk a whole glassful of wine!”

“It’s not true!” squealed Gustave. “Liar! Bitch! Pig! It’s a dirty lie!”

And he burst out laughing because the wine was bubbling up into his head. His hilarity caused them all to look at him. His lips were red, and he was still clutching the bottle with both hands.

“Very stupid of him,” said Ferdinand. “All that wine’s enough to make the child thoroughly ill.”

Honore looked at his son and was perturbed at the sight of ffis crimson cheeks.

“Perhaps I’d better make him sick it up,” he said.

“Well, that never did anyone any harm,” said Deodat. “There’s nothing like it for cleaning out the stomach.”

Honore took him out into the yard and put a finger down his throat. The sound of choking, followed by the splashing tide of deliverance, reached them clearly in the dining-room.

“That’s done it,” said Deodat.

He was glad it had been accomplished so easily. You never know, he pointed out; some people find it very difficult, they try and try and can’t manage. Helene had turned slightly pale, and Frederic, deciding to go without the duck, got up hastily, but not without nudging Juliette to indicate that he was going to the barn.

She joined him there a minute later, closing the door quietly behind her, and laid a hand on his shoulder. She was taller than Frederic; he had to raise his head to kiss her lips. She stayed motionless, seeming indifferent to his ardour, and he grew shy. His hand fumbled with her breast, and feeling the nipple in his palm he clasped it tightly. Juliette seemed not even to notice. He tried to draw her towards the end of the barn, but feeling her resistance was afraid to be too open in his purpose. He sought to gain ground by stealth, and had manoeuvred her over several yards when Juliette suddenly put her arms round him, drawing his body hard against her own and pressing her cheek to his. She murmured with her lips to his ear:

“I wish you were Noel Maloret! I wish vou were Noel!”

Acutely humiliated, Frederic tried to break away and flung back his head. But she clasped him still more tightly, and fiercely drew back his mouth to hers.

“Be Noel, Frederic! Be Noel!.

He still struggled, out of pride, but with her mouth on his, his resolution gave way and he yielded.

“All right,” he said in a voice of fury and impatience, “I'm Noel, if you like.”

“Noel?” repeated Juliette.

With a sudden display of strength she bent him backwards, and for a moment stared down at his upturned face with wild eyes. Then she smiled and thrust him gently away from her.

“I’m being stupid. I'm sorry. We’d better go back.”

Frederic, his arms hanging at his sides, sought to say something wounding and burst into tears. Juliette fished the handkerchief out of the pocket of his shorts and dabbed his eyes.

“Don't cry, darling. I didn't mean to hurt you. I said it without thinking. I won’t do it again.”

He cried more bitterly. Juliette put her arm round his neck, led him to the end of the barn, and sitting with him on the sheayes of corn nursed him and stroked his cheeks. She talked to him softly.

“Don't cry, darling Frederic. I love you too, you know I do. You can kiss me and touch me as much as you like.

. . Don't cry! We’ve got to go back. We shall have Uncle Ferdinand coming after us! You'll kiss me some more this afternoon, won’t you?”

Frederic was trying to smile. As she started to get up he restrained her.

“Is it true that you love that boy, Noel?”

“I don’t know. I just said it without thinking. Honestly

I wasn’t thinking. I don’t know what got into me all of a sudden. . ”

When Frederic returned to the dining-room and seated himself again beside Juliette, Ferdinand, by a striking omission, neglected to glance at his watch in order to see how long he had been away. He was leaning across the table, tugging at his chin and stammering:

“What? What?. . You’re sure?. .”

Deodat, who had just let fall the bombshell, was making ready to depart. Standing behind his chair he replied less placidly:

“I tell you Anals opened the letter in front of me. The girl’s coming home to-morrow.”

“Well, it’s not so surprising,” said Honore in a lazy voice. “She hasn’t been back to see her parents since she went to Paris.”

“Zephe told me once that she scarcely ever gets a day off, particularly since she’s been working in a shop.” “Working in a shop, is she?” said Adelaide with a high note of sarcasm in her voice. “I can guess what she serves the customers!”

“What do you know about it?” protested Honore.

“One doesn’t need any inside information to know that the Maloret girls have always been sluts!”

“There’s no reason why you should go saying. .” Directly Deodat had left the house Ferdinand began to wring his hands. Why had Valtier not warned him? What was going on behind his back? Didn’t it seem to them surprising that the girl should be arriving three days after Zephe had intercepted the letter?. .

Honore shrugged his shoulders, finding all this merely tiresome. So far as he was concerned, he was more pleased than otherwise at the prospective arrival of Marguerite Maloret, although he did not quite know why. He simply felt that his campaign against Zephe Maloret would be the livelier in consequence. Reflecting upon all the opportunities for revenge which he had neglected, he began to feel that he had done so in a spirit of economy, in order to save them up for something bigger and better. And he thought happily of all his children, four of them round the table, without counting Ernest, who was doing his military service at Epinal.