The Earth

  That morning, there was such a heavy dew that the women's dresses became soaked at once. Fortunately the weather was superb and the sun dried them out. There had been no rain for the last three weeks and the grapes, which they had given up for lost because of the wet summer, had suddenly ripened and become sweet; and this was why the superb sunshine, very warm for the time of year, was making everyone cheerful as they shouted and grinned, cracking broad jokes which made the girls shriek with laughter.

  ‘That Coelina!’ exclaimed Flore to Bécu's wife, straightening up and looking at Macqueron's wife, in the neighbouring vineyard. ‘She was so proud of her Berthe because of her ladylike complexion! And now she's going all sallow and dreadfully dried up.’

  ‘Well, that's it,’ said Bécu's wife. That's what happens when girls don't get married off! They're very silly not to let her marry the wheelwright's son. ‘And what's more, from what they say, she's ruining herself with her bad habits!’

  She bent down and started cutting the bunches again. Then, waggling her behind:

  ‘That doesn't prevent the schoolmaster from sniffing around still.’

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Flore. ‘That Lequeu would pick up pennies from a cow-pat with his nose. And here he is, coming to help them, the cunning little so-and-so!’

  They stopped talking, for Victor, who had just returned from military service a fortnight ago, was emptying their baskets into Delphin's pannier; the latter had been hired by the old snake-in-the-grass Lengaigne for the duration of the grape harvest on the pretext that he was needed in the shop. And Delphin, who was attached to the soil like a young oak tree and had never left Rognes, was open-mouthed in amazement at the sight of Victor, jaunty and cynical and delighted at making such an impression on him. He had changed so much, with his moustaches and little goatee beard, his forage cap that he was still fond of wearing and his mocking manner, that nobody recognized him. But if the young fellow thought that Delphin envied him, he was much mistaken. Despite all Victor's tales of his garrison exploits, his fabricated accounts of wine, women and song, the peasant would shake his head, aghast in his heart of hearts, and not tempted in the least. Oh no, you'd lose so much if you had to leave your little niche! He had already twice refused a proposal from Nénesse to come and get rich in a restaurant in Chartres.

  ‘But, you old cripple, how about when you're called up?’

  ‘Called up? I'm going to draw the right number!’

  And Victor could get nothing more out of him, despite such scornful remarks as: ‘You coward, when you're built like a bridge!’ And as he talked, he continued to empty the baskets into his friend's pannier without the latter's showing any sign of strain. And then, jokingly, he pointed to Berthe and added, with a knowing look:

  ‘Well, has she got any since I've been away?’

  Delphin gave a guffaw because this phenomenon of the Macquerons' daughter was still the man source of amusement with the young men of the village.

  ‘Ah, I haven't had a peep. Perhaps it grew in the spring.’

  ‘Well, I shan't be watering it,’ concluded Victor, pulling a face. ‘You might as well get yourself a frog. And anyway, it can't be very healthy, you must catch cold there, unless you wear a wig.’

  At that, Delphin was so amused that the pannier nearly slipped off his back and as he went down and tipped it into the cask you could still hear him choking with laughter.

  In the Macquerons' vineyard, Berthe was still acting the young lady, using little scissors instead of a bill-hook, frightened of thorns and wasps and quite disconsolate because her fine shoes were soaked in dew and wouldn't dry. And she was reluctantly accepting the attentions of Lequeu, whom she loathed, because she was flattered at being courted by the only man of education in the village. Finally he took out his handkerchief to wipe her shoes. But their attention was drawn to an unexpected apparition:

  ‘Heavens above!’ exclaimed Berthe, under her breath. ‘What a dress! Someone told me she had come home yesterday at the same time as the priest.’

  It was the Lengaignes' daughter, Suzanne, who had suddenly decided to show her face in her village after spending three riotous years in Paris. Having arrived the day before, she had slept late, letting her mother and brother go off to pick grapes and promising herself to join them later so as to sweep in amongst all the villagers at work and overwhelm them with the splendour of her Parisian toilette. And in fact, she did cause an extraordinary sensation, for she had put on a blue silk dress so deep in colour that the sky looked positively pale. In the transparent air she stood out in the strong sunlight amidst the greeny-yellow vine leaves and looked gorgeously opulent and triumphant. She at once started to talk and laugh very loudly, nibbling at bunches of grapes which she held up and lowered into her mouth, joking with Delphin and her brother Victor, who seemed very proud of her, amazing Bécu's wife and her mother who stood there, moist-eyed, with their arms hanging limp with admiration. Moreover, this admiration was shared by the grape-pickers from all the adjacent vineyards: work had stopped and everyone was watching her, barely recognizing her now that she had filled out and become so much prettier. She had been rather plain and was now a very attractive wench, doubtless because of the way she had framed her face in little blond curls. And their scrutiny turned to admiration and respect when they saw her in her expensive get-up, looking so plump, cheerful and prosperous.

  Coelina was standing tight-lipped, green with envy, between Berthe and Lequeu, and she could not refrain from commenting:

  ‘Isn't she posh! Flore goes about telling everybody that her daughter's got servants and carriages in Paris. It's probably quite true because you need a lot of money to deck yourself out like that.’

  ‘Well,’ said Lequeu, trying to be agreeable, ‘we all know how that sort of woman earns her money.’

  ‘What does it matter how they earn it?’ replied Coelina bitterly. ‘They've still got it.’

  But at that moment Suzanne caught sight of Berthe and, remembering her as one of the Daughters of Mary like herself, went up to speak to her in a very friendly way:

  ‘Good morning. I hope you're well?’

  And looking at her closely and seeing her unhealthy complexion, she preened herself, all peaches and cream, and said again, with a laugh:

  ‘I do hope you're well.’

  ‘Yes, thanks, very well,’ Berthe replied, embarrassed and outmatched.

  That day, victory belonged to the Lengaignes; for the Macquerons it was humiliating defeat. Beside herself, Coelina was comparing her skinny, sallow daughter, already wrinkled, with the fresh, pink, good-looking daughter of her neighbours. Was that fair? A lewd woman who went to bed with men night and day and never did a stroke! And a proper young girl who slept by herself and looked as worn out as if she'd had three pregnancies! No, there was no point in being a good girl, it just wasn't worth staying at home and living a decent life with your parents!

  In fact, Suzanne was feted by all the grape-pickers. She went over to hug children whom she had known as babies; she thrilled old men by recalling memories of their past. Once you've made your pile, you can do what you like, you're independent of everybody. And it proved she still had a good heart, not to look down on her family and come back and see her friends now she was rich.

  At eleven, everybody sat down and ate bread and cheese. It wasn't that people were hungry, because they'd been stuffing grapes ever since dawn and their gullets were coated in sugar and their paunches as swollen and round as barrels; and the grapes churning round inside were as good as a purge; even now, every minute a girl had to slip off behind a hedge. Of course, this caused great amusement, the men stood up and sent them on their way with shouts of ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ In a word everyone was cheerful and friendly; it was good, honest, healthy fun.

  And just as they were finishing the bread and cheese, Macqueron appeared on the road below with Father Madeline. Suzanne was immediately forgotten and all eyes turned towards the priest. To be honest, the first impression was
not very favourable: he was a real beanpole of a man and as dismal as an undertaker. All the same, he stopped to pay his compliments at every vineyard, with a friendly word for everyone, and in the end it was agreed that he was very polite and gentle, not a forceful man, in fact. They'd be able to get round him, at least, not like that awkward customer Father Godard. People began to snigger a little behind his back. He had reached the top of the slope and was standing looking at the immense flat grey expanse of Beauce with a feeling almost of fear and a desperate melancholy which filled his eyes with tears, large, clear eyes of a man bred in mountains and used to the narrow horizons and gorges of Auvergne.

  Buteau's vineyard happened to be near by. Lise and Françoise were cutting the bunches and Jesus Christ, who had not failed to bring his father along with him, was already drunk with the grapes he had been stuffing while pretending to see to the emptying of the baskets into the panniers. They were fermenting so strongly inside him and blowing him up with so much gas that wind was coming out of every hole. And stimulated by the presence of a priest, he forgot himself.

  ‘You oaf!’ shouted Buteau. ‘Can't you wait till the priest has gone?’

  But Jesus Christ refused to be rebuked. He replied like someone who knows his manners, when required:

  ‘It wasn't meant for him, it was to please me.’

  Old Fouan had taken a seat on the ground, as he used to say; he was tired and happy because of the good weather and fine harvest. He was grinning to himself because La Grande, who had the neighbouring vineyard, had just come over to greet him; she, too, had started showing him consideration again, ever since she knew he had private means. Then she suddenly hurried away as she saw her grandson Hilarion greedily taking advantage of her absence to cram himself with grapes, and went after him with her stick: like a pig at its trough, wasting more than he was picking!

  ‘There's a woman who's going to give a lot of pleasure when she pegs out,’ Buteau said, sitting down beside his father for a second, to be agreeable. ‘What a way to treat an innocent young fellow like him, because he's as strong as an ox and just as stupid.’

  Then he went on to attack the Delhommes, who were working lower down, beside the road. They had the finest vineyard in the district, nearly five acres in one piece, and there were a good ten people working on it. Their vines were so well cultivated that the bunches were larger than those in any of their neighbours' fields, and they were so proud of them that they seemed to be keeping apart from the other grape-pickers, not even amused by the sudden gripes that were sending the girls scuttling away under the hedge. It would have been too exhausting to climb up and greet their father, no doubt, because they didn't seem to know he was there. That silly ass Delhomme, a real booby, so keen on good work and fair play, and that shrew Fanny, always making a fuss over the tiniest little fart, and expecting people to look up to her like a saint without ever recognizing the dirty tricks she was playing on other people.

  ‘The truth is, Father,’ Buteau went on, ‘that I'm fond of you whereas my brother and sister aren't. You know I still can't get over the fact that we parted over such footling things.’

  And he put the blame onto Françoise, whose head had been turned by Jean. But she had calmed down now. If she started up again, he was going to cool her off in the duck-pond.

  ‘Look, Father, just think it over. Why not come back to us?’

  Fouan prudently said nothing. He had been expecting this offer which his younger son was at last making, and he was anxious not to say either yes or no, because you could never tell. Then Buteau went on, after making sure that his brother was at the other end of the vineyard:

  ‘Aren't I right? You don't really belong in that place with that blackguard Jesus Christ. One of these fine mornings, you'll probably find yourself getting your throat cut. And look, I'll give you your board and lodging and I'll still pay your pension!’

  The old man blinked in amazement. But as he still said nothing, his son increased the stakes:

  ‘And little luxuries, coffee, a drop of spirits, two penn'orth of tobacco, any little extra you want!’

  This was too much of a good thing. Fouan was scared. True, things were not going too well at Jesus Christ's. But suppose the same fuss started again at the Buteaus'?

  He merely said: ‘We'll have to see,’ and stood up to put an end to the conversation.

  They went on picking until nightfall. The carts kept continually taking away the full casks and bringing them back empty. In the vineyards, now bathed in the golden sunset, the baskets and panniers sped to and fro under the vast rose-pink sky, amidst the growing intoxication of shifting so much grape. And Berthe was taken short and did not even have time to disappear: her mother and Lequeu had to stand in front to hide her while she evacuated among the vine stakes. She was seen from the next vineyard and Victor and Delphin offered to take her some paper; but Flore and Bécu's wife refused to let them because there are certain limits beyond which decent folk don't go. Finally, everyone went home. The Delhommes led the way, La Grande made Hilarion pull her cart alongside the horse, the Lengaignes and the Macquerons were fraternizing, forgetting their rivalry in the maudlin state of the semi-inebriated.

  The exchange of compliments between Father Madeline and Suzanne had been particularly noticed: seeing her better dressed, he no doubt took her for a lady, so that they walked along side by side, he very attentive, she behaving as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth and asking him what time Mass would be on Sunday. Behind them came Jesus Christ who, priest-hater that he was, started getting up to his disgusting antics again, with drunken ribaldry. Every five steps he would lift his leg and let off. Suzanne, the hussy, had to bite her lips to prevent herself from laughing, while the priest pretended not to hear; and so they solemnly continued to exchange pious remarks to this musical accompaniment as they brought up the rear of the cavalcade of grape-pickers.

  As they finally reached Rognes, Buteau and Fouan, feeling ashamed of Jesus Christ, tried to make him keep quiet. But he still kept going, insisting that the priest would be very wrong to take offence.

  ‘For Christ's sake, I keep on telling you, it's not meant for anyone else, it's just for me!’

  The following week, there was Buteau's invitation to taste his new wine. The Charles, Fouan, Jesus Christ and four or five other people were to come at seven o'clock to eat a leg of mutton, nuts and cheese, a proper meal. During the day, Buteau had put his wine in cask, six barrels which he had filled from the tap of the vat. But some neighbours were not so far advanced: one of them, still picking his grapes, had been treading them since morning, stark-naked; another one, armed with a stick, was watching the fermentation and pushing the head down into the seething must; a third, who had a press, was squeezing the skins and stalks and depositing them in a steaming pile in his yard. And it was the same in every house, reeking vats, streaming presses, casks overflowing and all over Rognes the fumes of wine filled every corner and the smell alone was enough to make you drunk.

  That day, just as he was leaving the Castle, Fouan had a premonition and took his bonds out of the saucepan of lentils. He might just as well secrete them about his person because he thought he had seen Jesus Christ and La Trouille gazing upwards into the air with a funny look in their eyes. All three set off early and arrived at the Buteaus' at the same time as the Charles.

  It was a full moon, so large and clear that it was almost as bright as day, and as he went into the yard, Fouan noticed Gideon the donkey with his nose stuck into a little tub. He was not surprised to see him wandering loose because the crafty animal could easily open latches with his mouth; but he was intrigued by the tub, so he went over and recognized it as being from the cellar where it had been left full of wine from the press while the casks were being filled. And that damned donkey was emptying it!

  ‘Buteau, come here! Your donkey's up to something!’

  Buteau appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘He's dru
nk the lot!’

  Amidst all the hubbub, Gideon was calmly going on draining the last drop. He had probably been drinking away like this for the last quarter of an hour, because the little tub held a good twenty litres. He had drunk the lot and his belly was as round as a goatskin and tight as a drum, and when he raised his head, wine poured out of his nose, a drunkard's nose, for a red streak under the eyes showed how far he had stuck his nose in.

  ‘Ah, the thief!’ yelled Buteau, rushing up. ‘He's up to his tricks again. He's worse than a waggonload of monkeys.’

  When he was being rebuked for his bad habits, Gideon usually stuck his ears out at an angle and showed complete indifference. This time, dazed and losing all respect, he positively leered and waggled his rump to express unrepentant pleasure at his debauchery; and when his master gave him a push, he stumbled and Fouan had to prop him up with his shoulder to prevent him from falling.

  ‘But the blasted animal's blind drunk!’

  ‘Real sozzled, you might say,’ said Jesus Christ, gazing at him with an admiringly fraternal eye. ‘A whole tub at one go, what a thirst!’

  Buteau, however, was not particularly amused and neither were Lise and Françoise, who, hearing the noise, came hurrying up. First of all, there was the loss of the wine, and worse than the loss was the embarrassment caused by such bad behaviour on the part of their donkey in front of the Charles, who were pursing their lips in disapproval, because of Élodie. And the final discomfiture was that Suzanne and Berthe happened to be walking past and met Father Madeline; and all three stood waiting to see what would happen. A real nuisance, it was, with all these grand folk watching with their eyes popping out!

  ‘Give him a push, Father,’ whispered Buteau. ‘Let's get him into the stable quickly.’