‘It’s too stupid!’ said Olympe to her husband one day. ‘He would put us in a cupboard one day if he could, to keep all the pleasure for himself… We’ll go down if you like. We’ll see what he says.’
Trouche had just returned from the office. He changed his collar and dusted off his shoes, wanting to create a good impression. Olympe put on a light-coloured dress. Then they boldly went down to the garden, walking slowly along past the tall box hedge, lingering in front of the flowers. As it happened, Abbé Faujas had his back to them, chatting with Monsieur Maffre on the step of the little gate to the Impasse. When he heard the sand crunch, the Trouches were already behind him, under the arbour. He turned round, stopped abruptly in mid-sentence, flabbergasted at seeing them there. Monsieur Maffre, who didn’t know them, looked at them in some curiosity.
‘Very nice weather, isn’t it, gentlemen?’ said Olympe, whose colour had drained at her brother’s look.
The priest abruptly drew the judge into the Impasse and hastily took leave of him.
‘He’s furious,’ whispered Olympe. ‘Too bad. We must brazen it out. If we go upstairs again he’ll think we are scared… I’ve had enough. You’ll see what I’m going to say to him.’
And she made Trouche sit on one of the chairs that Rose had brought out a few moments before. When the priest came back, he saw them calmly seated there. He bolted the small gate, glanced up to make sure that the leaves gave enough cover, then going closer and keeping his voice down, said:
‘You are forgetting what we agreed. You promised to stay in your rooms.’
‘It’s too hot up there,’ Olympe replied. ‘We’re not committing a crime by coming down to breathe in a bit of fresh air.’
The priest was about to get angry. But his sister, pale with the effort of opposing him, added in an odd sort of voice:
‘Don’t shout! There are people next door, they might think badly of you.’
The Trouches gave a little laugh. He looked at them and put his hand to his forehead in a silent and terrifying gesture.
‘Sit down,’ said Olympe. ‘You want us to explain ourselves, don’t you? Well, here goes… We are fed up with being shut in up there. You are living like a lord in this place; the house is yours, the garden is yours. So much the better, we are pleased to see everything is going so well for you. But that’s no reason to treat us like beggars. You have never even bothered to send me up a bunch of grapes. You gave us the ugliest room. You hide us away, you are ashamed of us, you shut us in as if we had the plague… This can’t go on, do you understand?’
‘I’m not master here,’ said Abbé Faujas. ‘You must speak to Monsieur Mouret if you want to turn the place upside down.’
The Trouches exchanged another smile.
‘We don’t question you about your affairs,’ Olympe continued. ‘We know what we know and enough said… All this proves that at heart you are unkind. Do you think that if we were in your place we shouldn’t tell you to take your share?’
‘So what do you want from me?’ the priest asked. ‘Do you imagine I have money to burn? You know what my room is like. My furniture is sparser than yours. I can’t very well give you the whole house, it doesn’t belong to me.’
Olympe shrugged. She silenced her husband who had started to speak, saying quietly:
‘Everyone makes what they can of their life. If you had millions you wouldn’t buy yourself so much as a bedside rug; you would spend your money on some stupid noble project. We like to be comfortable in our own place… You don’t mean to tell me that if you wanted the finest furniture in the house, and the linen and the food and everything, you couldn’t have it this very evening…? Well, a loyal brother, in that position, would already have thought of his relatives; he wouldn’t leave them to roll around in the dirt, like you do.’
Abbé Faujas looked long and hard at the Trouches. They were both tilting back and forth on their chairs.
‘You are ungrateful,’ he said after a silence. ‘I’ve already done a lot for you. If you have bread to eat today you owe it to me. For I still have your letters, Olympe, the letters where you begged me to save you from poverty and invite you to Plassans. Now you are here with me and your livelihood’s secure, you ask for more…’
‘Rubbish!’ Trouche interrupted him rudely. ‘If you got us over here it’s because you needed us. I am paid not to believe in the fine feelings of anybody… I was leaving my wife to do the talking just then, but women never get to the facts… In short, my friend, you are wrong to keep us caged in like faithful bulldogs that you only let out on days when danger threatens. We are bored, and in the end we shall do something silly. Let us have a bit of freedom, for heaven’s sake! Since the house doesn’t belong to you and you don’t care for life’s little luxuries, what’s it to you if we live the way we want to? We’re not going to eat them out of house and home, are we?’
Olympe went on: ‘That’s right. Always under lock and key like that we shall go mad… We’ll treat you nicely. You know my husband is only waiting for a sign… Do whatever you want, you can count on us, but we want our fair share… Is that agreed?’
Abbé Faujas had bowed his head, and remained silent for a moment. Then, getting to his feet, he said, avoiding a direct answer:
‘Listen, if you ever get in my way, I swear to you I’ll send you back to die in a corner on a pallet of straw.’
And he went upstairs again, leaving them under the arbour. From that moment on the Trouches went down into the garden almost every day. But they exercised some discretion, avoiding the times when the priest was chatting with people from the neighbours’ gardens.
A week later Olympe complained so much about the room they occupied that Marthe obligingly offered her Serge’s which was free. The Trouches kept both rooms. They slept in the young man’s former bedroom, from which in any case not one stick of furniture had been removed, and made a sort of living room out of the other—Rose had found an old velvet couch up in the loft for them. Olympe, delighted, ordered a pink robe for herself from the best dressmaker in Plassans.
Mouret, forgetting that Marthe had asked him if he would let them borrow Serge’s room, was astonished to find it occupied by the Trouches. He went up to get a knife that the young man must have left at the back of a drawer. At that very moment Trouche was using the knife to shave a pear stick that he had just cut in the garden. Mouret apologized and went back downstairs.
CHAPTER 14
DURING the grand procession of Corpus Christi, in the Place de la Sous-Préfecture, when Monsignor Rousselot came down the steps of the magnificent altar of repose that Madame Condamin had had erected outside the very door of the large town house where she lived, it was noticed with surprise that the prelate abruptly turned his back upon Abbé Faujas.
‘Goodness!’ exclaimed Madame Rougon, who was at the window in her drawing room. ‘Can they have had some disagreement?’
‘Oh, hadn’t you heard?’ Madame Paloque answered, leaning over next to the older woman. ‘They’ve been talking about it since yesterday. Abbé Fenil has been restored to favour.’
Monsieur de Condamin, who was standing behind these ladies, started to laugh. He had escaped from his own house, saying it ‘stank of sanctity’.
‘Oh well,’ he muttered, ‘if you believe stories like that!… The bishop is a weathercock who turns one way or the other as soon as either Faujas or Fenil blows on him. Today it’s one, tomorrow the other. They have quarrelled and made it up more than ten times. You’ll see that in another two or three days it will be Faujas who is the favourite.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Madame Paloque added. ‘This time it’s serious… It seems that Abbé Faujas has caused Monsignor a considerable amount of unpleasantness. He has apparently preached sermons in the past which greatly displeased Rome. I can’t give you any details myself. But I know that Monsignor has had letters from Rome blaming him, and telling him to watch his step… They are claiming that Abbé Faujas is a political agent.’
r /> ‘Who’s claiming that?’ asked Madame Rougon, closing her eyes as if she were following the procession which stretched out along the Rue de la Banne.
‘That’s what they are saying, I don’t know any more than that,’ said the judge’s wife with an air of indifference.
And she withdrew, maintaining that it must be possible to have a better view from the window next door. Monsieur de Condamin took her place next to Madame Rougon, whispering in her ear:
‘I’ve already seen her go into Abbé Fenil’s house twice. She’s definitely plotting something with him… Abbé Faujas must have stepped on this snake in the grass and she’s looking to bite him… If she were not so ugly I should do her the service of warning her that her husband will never be president.’
‘Why? I don’t follow you,’ the old lady replied disingenuously.
Monsieur de Condamin gave her a quizzical look; then began to laugh.
The last two gendarmes in the procession had just vanished round the end of the Cours Sauvaire. Then the few people that Madame Rougon had invited to come and see the blessing of the altar, went back into the drawing room, and chatted awhile about the graciousness of Monsignor, the new banners of the congregations, especially those of the young girls from the Work of the Virgin, which had been remarked upon as they went by. The ladies did not stop talking and the name of Abbé Faujas, praised to the skies, was on everybody’s lips.
‘He is undeniably a saint,’ Madame Paloque laughed to Madame Condamin, who had gone over to sit next to her.
Then, bending down:
‘I wasn’t able to speak freely in front of her mother, but people are talking rather too much about Abbé Faujas and Madame Mouret. Those wicked rumours must have reached the ears of Monsignor.’
Monsieur de Condamin’s only reply was:
‘Madame Mouret is a charming woman, very desirable still, in spite of her forty years.’
‘Oh, very charming,’ murmured Madame Paloque, her face turning a bilious green.
‘Extremely,’ insisted the forestry commissioner. ‘She is at the age of great passions and great happiness… You women are very bad judges of one another.’
And he left the drawing room, delighted by Madame Paloque’s suppressed rage. Indeed the whole town was obsessively interested in the struggle going on between Abbé Faujas and Abbé Fenil to win over Monsignor Rousselot. It was an hourly combat, like the attacks by mistresses fighting over an old man’s attention. The bishop gave a shrewd smile; he had achieved a sort of balance between these opposing wills, setting them one against the other, enjoying the sight of them taking turns to be laid low, ready always, for the sake of peace and quiet, to accept the attentions of the one who proved the stronger. As for the tittle-tattle relayed to him about his favourites, he treated it with great indulgence; he knew they were each capable of accusing the other of murder.
‘Look, my child,’ he said to Abbé Surin, when in confidential mode, ‘they are one as bad as the other… I believe Paris will win and Rome will be beaten; but I am not completely sure of it and I’m letting them destroy each other in the meantime. When one has put paid to the other we shan’t be in any doubt… Come, read me Horace’s third Ode: there is a line in it I believe I haven’t translated accurately.’
On the Tuesday following the procession, the weather was splendid. Laughter floated over the Rastoils’ garden and the garden of the sub-prefecture. On both sides there were a lot of people under the trees. In the Mourets’ garden Abbé Faujas was reading his breviary as usual, walking slowly along by the tall box hedge. For the past several days he had kept the gate of the Impasse shut; he seemed to be hiding from the neighbours, playing hard to get. Perhaps he had noticed a certain cooling-off after his last quarrel with Monsignor and as a result of the despicable tales that his enemies were spreading about him.
Towards five o’clock as the sun was going down, Abbé Surin suggested a game of shuttlecock to the Rastoil girls. He was an expert. In spite of being nearly thirty, Angéline and Aurélie adored playing games; their mother would have had them both wear short skirts if she had dared. When the maid had brought the rackets, Abbé Surin, looking for a place to play in the garden, which was lit with the last rays of the sun, had an idea which was met with enthusiasm by the two young ladies.
‘Why don’t we play in the Impasse des Chevillottes?’ he suggested. ‘We’d be in the shade of the chestnut trees and we should have a lot more space.’
They went out, and the most delightful game in the world began. The two young ladies played first. It was Angéline who was the first to miss. Abbé Surin took his turn after her and managed his racket with a skill and reach that was really masterly. He had tucked up his soutane between his legs and leaped backwards, forwards, sideways, scooping up the shuttlecock from just above the ground, returning it with a backhand at a surprising height, sending it straight as a bullet or making it describe elegant curves, with perfect scientific judgement. Usually he preferred playing against bad players who hit it here, there, and everywhere with no sense of rhythm, as he said, and obliged him to deploy the full agility of his game. Mademoiselle Aurélie played with some force. She uttered a cry like a swallow at each stroke of her racket, doubling up with laughter when the shuttlecock landed right on the young priest’s nose. Then she pulled herself together and waited for his return, or jumped back a little, and there was a crumpling thud on her skirts when he played a prank on her and hit harder. In the end the shuttlecock came to land in her hair and she almost fell over backwards, which they all three found very jolly. It was Angéline’s turn. In the Mourets’ garden, every time Abbé Faujas raised his eyes from his breviary he saw the white shuttlecock flying above the wall like a great butterfly.
‘Monsieur le Curé, are you there?’ cried Angéline, coming to knock on the little gate. Our shuttlecock has come over into your garden.’
The priest picked up the shuttlecock which had fallen at his feet, and decided to open the gate.
‘Oh, thank you, Monsieur le Curé,’ said Aurélie, who was already holding the racket. ‘It’s so typical of Angéline to play a stroke like that… The other day Papa was watching us and she sent him a similar one that hit him so hard on his ear he was deaf till the following day.’
Laughter broke out once more. Abbé Surin, his cheeks rosy as a girl’s, was wiping his forehead delicately, dabbing it with a fine handkerchief. He threw back his blond hair behind his ears; his eyes shone, his body was supple, and he used his racket to fan himself. In the passion of his pleasure his rabat had turned over slightly.
‘Monsieur le Curé,’ he said, getting into position again, ‘you can be umpire.’
Abbé Faujas, his breviary under his arm and smiling in a paternal way, remained standing halfway through the little gate. Meanwhile through the open porte cochère of the sub-prefecture, the priest must have caught sight of Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies sitting in front of the pool, surrounded by his friends. But he didn’t turn his head; he kept the score, complimenting Abbé Surin and consoling the Rastoil girls.
‘You know, Péqueur,’ Monsieur de Condamin came over to whisper pleasantly in the sub-prefect’s ear. ‘You are wrong not to invite the little priest to your parties. He gets on a treat with the ladies, he must waltz like a dream.’
But Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies, in lively conversation with Monsieur Delangre, appeared not to have heard. He went on, addressing himself to the mayor:
‘Really, my friend, I cannot see the qualities in him that you mention. On the contrary, Abbé Faujas is a very risky friend to have. His past is extremely dubious, there are certain rumours about him going round… I don’t see why I should go down on my knees to that priest, especially since the Plassans clergy are against us… In the first place, there wouldn’t be any point.’
Monsieur Delangre and Monsieur de Condamin, who had exchanged a look, satisfied themselves with a nod, instead of answering.
‘No point whatsoever,’ went on the sub-pr
efect. ‘You don’t need to be so mysterious about it. You may know that I’ve written to Paris. I was extremely anxious; I wanted to get it clear about Faujas, whom you seem to be treating as though he’s a prince in disguise. Well, do you know, I’ve got my answer? They told me they didn’t know him, that they had nothing they could tell me, and in any case I should be very careful not to get mixed up in the affairs of the clergy… They are already fairly dissatisfied in Paris since that fool of a Lagrifoul got in. I am being prudent, you understand.’
The mayor exchanged another look with the forestry commissioner. He went so far as to shrug his shoulders slightly at the impeccable moustache of Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies.
‘Listen to me,’ he said after a silence. ‘You want to be prefect, don’t you?’
The sub-prefect smiled as he tilted back on his chair.
‘Then go over without more ado and shake Abbé Faujas by the hand. He’s waiting for you there, watching the shuttlecock game.’
Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies said nothing, taken aback, not grasping his meaning. He looked up at Monsieur de Condamin, and asked, with a touch of anxiety:
‘Is that your opinion too?’
‘Certainly. Go and shake his hand,’ answered the forestry commissioner.
Then he added with a touch of irony:
‘Ask my wife—you trust her implicitly.’
Madame de Condamin appeared. She was wearing a ravishing grey-and-pink outfit. When mention was made of the priest she said lightly to the sub-prefect:
‘You are wrong to be irreligious, you know. We scarcely see you in church even on ceremonial occasions. That is such a shame. I really must convert you. What do you expect people to think of the government you represent if you are not on good terms with the Almighty?… Please leave us, gentlemen; I am going to confess Monsieur Péqueur.’