Complete Works of Emile Zola (927 page)

The 1922 French film adaptation

PART I

CHAPTER I

That morning Jean, with a seed-bag of blue linen tied round his waist, held its mouth open with his left hand, while with his right, at every three steps, he drew forth a handful of corn, and flung it broadcast. The rich soil clung to his heavy shoes, which left holes in the ground, as his body lurched regularly from side to side; and each time he threw you saw, amid the over-flying yellow seed, the gleam of two red stripes on the sleeve of the old regimental jacket he was wearing out. He strode forward in solitary state; and behind him, to bury the grain, there slowly came a harrow, to which were harnessed two horses, driven by a waggoner, who cracked his whip over their ears in long, regular sweeps.

The patch of ground, scarcely an acre and a quarter in ex­tent, was of such little importance that Monsieur Hourdequin, the master of La Borderie, had not cared to send the drill-plough, which was in use elsewhere. Jean, then journeying due north over the field, had the farm-buildings exactly in front of him, a mile and a quarter off. On reaching the end of the furrow, he raised his eyes with a vacant look as he paused for a moment to take breath.

Before him were the low farm walls, and a patch of old slate, isolated on the outskirts of the plain of La Beauce, which stretched towards Chartres. Under a dull, late October sky lay ten leagues of arable land, where, at that time of year, great ploughed squares of bare, rich, yellow soil alternated with green expanses of lucern and clover; there was here not a slope, not a tree; the plain extended into the dim distance, curving down beyond the horizon, which was level as at sea. Westward, a small wood just edged the sky with a band of russet. In the centre a road — the road from Châteaudun to Orléans — of chalk-like whiteness, stretched four leagues straight ahead, displaying as it went a geometrical row of telegraph-posts. Nothing else but three or four wooden mills on log foundations, with their sails at rest; some villages forming islets of stone; and a distant steeple emerging from a depres­sion in the landscape, the church itself being hidden among the gentle undulations of the wheat-fields.

Jean turned and lurched back again due south, his left hand holding the seed-bag, and his right slashing the air with an unbroken sheet of grain. He now had in front of him, quite near, and cutting trench-like through the plain, the narrow valley of the Aigre, beyond which the district of La Beauce resumed its unconfined course on to Orléans. Meadows and shady places could only be inferred from a range of tall poplars, the yellow­ish tops of which rose out of the dell, looking, as they just cleared the edge, like short bushes. Of the little village of Rognes, built upon the declivity, a few roofs only were in view, near the church, which raised on high its grey stone steeple, the dwelling-place of ancient families of ravens. And eastward, beyond the valley of the Loir, — where Cloyes, the chief town of the canton,* nestled at two leagues’ distance, — the far-off hills of Le Perche were visible, tinged with violet in the slate-grey light. There the old Dunois, now become the arrondissement of Châteaudun, lay between Le Perche and La Beauce, on the very frontier of the latter, at a spot which has obtained the name of Beauce the “Lousy,” the soil there being less fertile. When Jean got to the end of the field, he stopped again, and glanced down along the stream of the Aigre, rippling bright and clear through the meadows, side by side with the road to Cloyes, which on that Saturday was furrowed by the carts of peasants going to market; then he turned up again.

And still, with the same step, with the same gesture, he set out north and returned south, wrapped in a living dust-cloud of seed; while, behind him the whip cracked and the harrow buried the germs, at the same quiet, contemplative rate. Heavy rains had retarded the autumn sowing; the season’s manuring had been done in August, and the deep-lying fallows, duly cleared of weeds, had long been ready for a fresh yield of corn, after the clover and oats of the triennial rotation. Now the farmers were urged on by fear of coming frost, which threatened after the storms. The weather had suddenly turned cold and gloomy: there was no breath of wind, and but a dull light was distributed over all this ocean of land. Seed was being sown on all sides; there was a sower to the left, three hundred yards away; another farther off to the right; others, and yet others, lost to sight in the receding vista of the level fields. They formed little black silhouettes, mere strokes which became slimmer and slimmer, till they vanished in the distance. All made the same gesture, as they strewed the seed, which the mind’s eye still saw encircling them, as with a wave of life. It was like a quiver passing over the plain, even into the dim distance, where the scattered sowers could no longer be seen.

Jean was coining down for the last time when he perceived, approaching from Rognes, a large red and white cow, the halter of which was held by a young girl, almost a child. The little peasant-girl and the animal were coming along the path which skirted the valley at the top of the plateau; and, with his back turned to them, he had gone up and finished the field, when a sound of running, mingled with stifled cries, made him look round, just as he was untying his seed-bag to depart It was the cow running away, galloping over a field of lucern, and followed by the girl, who was exhausting her strength in trying to keep it back. Fearing an accident, he shouted:

“Leave go; why don’t thee?”

But she did nothing of the kind, only panting and abusing her cow in angry, frightened tones.

“Coliche! Would you, then, Coliche? Ah, you foul brute! Ah, you cursed beast!”

So far, running and leaping to the full extent of her little legs, she had managed to follow. But she stumbled, fell once, then rose only to fall again farther on; and from that point, the animal growing frantic, she was dragged along. Then she began to shriek, while her body left a furrow in the lucern.

“Leave go, in God’s name!” Jean continued shouting. “Leave go, why don’t thee?”

He shouted thus mechanically, out of fright; for he also had started running, grasping, at length, the situation. The rope had evidently got entangled round her waist, and was being more closely twined at each fresh effort. Fortunately he took a short cut across a ploughed field, and made for the cow with such speed that the frightened and perplexed animal stopped dead. Jean was already undoing the rope, and seating the girl upon the grass.

“Thou hast broken nothing?” he asked.

No; she had not so much as swooned. She stood up, felt herself all over, and coolly lifted her petticoats up to her thighs, to look at her knees, which smarted. Meanwhile, she was still so breathless that she could not speak.

“See, it’s there it hurts me,” she said at last. “All the same, I’m alive and kicking; there’s nothing the matter. Oh! I was frightened. Over on the road there I was a regular jelly!”

And, examining the circle of red on her strained wrist, she moistened it with spittle and applied her lips to it; then, com­forted and restored, she added with a deep sigh:

“She’s not vicious, Coliche. Only since yesterday she has plagued us to death, because she’s in heat. I’m taking her to the bull at La Borderie.”

“At La Borderie?” repeated Jean. “That’s capital; I’m going back there; I’ll go with thee.”

He still used the second person singular, treating her as a little urchin, so slight was she for her fourteen years of age. She, raising her chin, looked seriously at the big, ruddy, crop-haired, full-faced, regular-featured young fellow, whose twenty-nine years made him in her eyes an old man.

“Hullo! I know you. You are Corporal, the carpenter who stopped as farm-hand with Monsieur Hourdequin.”

Hearing the nickname, which the peasants had given him, the young fellow smiled; and he contemplated her in turn, sur­prised to find her almost a woman so soon, with her little bust firm and taking shape, her oval face, her deep, black eyes; and full lips, fresh and rosy as ripening fruit. She was clad in a grey skirt and black woollen bodice; on her head there was a round cap; and she had a very dark skin, scorched and burnished by the sun.

“Why, thou’rt old Mouche’s youngest!” cried he. “I didn’t call thee to mind. Isn’t that so? Thy sister was keeping company with Buteau last spring, when he worked with me at La Borderie?”

She replied simply:

“Yes, I’m Françoise. My sister Lise went with cousin Buteau, and is now six months with child. He’s bolted; he’s down Orgères way, at the farm of La Chamade.”

“That’s it,” concluded Jean; “I have seen them together.”

And they remained an instant mute, face to face; he smiling at having one evening surprised the two lovers behind a mill, she still sucking her bruised wrist, as if the moisture of her lips allayed its smarting; whilst, in an adjoining field, the cow quietly plucked tufts of lucern. The waggoner and the harrow had gone off by a roundabout way, to reach the road.

Two ravens, which kept wheeling round and round the steeple, were heard to caw. The three notes of the angelus rang through the still air.

“Hullo! Twelve o’clock already!” cried Jean. “Let’s make haste!”

Then, noticing La Coliche in the field: “Eh, but thy cow is doing damage! Suppose any one saw her! Wait a bit, I’ll make it lively for her!”

“Nay, let be,” said Françoise, stopping him. “The plot is ours. Our folk own the whole bank as far as Rognes. We reach from here up to yonder; the next to that is uncle Fouan’s; then comes aunt Grande’s.”

While indicating the patches she had led the cow back into the path. And not till then, when she again held her, fearlessly, by the rope, did she think of thanking the young fellow.

“Anyhow, I owe you a pretty debt of gratitude! Thanks, you know, thanks, very much!”

They had started walking along the narrow road which skirted the valley before cutting through the fields. The final peal of the angelus had just died away, the ravens alone kept on cawing. They trudged on behind the cow tugging at her rope, neither of the two conversing, for they had relapsed into the silence of rustics who travel for leagues, side by side, without exchanging a word. On their right their glance fell on a drill-plough, the horses of which turned close by them; the ploughman bade them good-day, and they answered him in the same sober tone. Down on their left, along the road to Cloyes, carts continued to file by, the market not opening till one o’clock. These vehicles jolted heavily along on their two wheels, like jumping insects, so diminished in the distance as to leave merely the white specks of the women’s caps distinguishable.

“There’s uncle Fouan and aunt Rose over there, on their way to the notary’s,” said Françoise, gazing at a conveyance the size of a nutshell, which sped along nearly a mile off.

She had a sailor’s eye, the long sight of those bred in the country, trained in details, and capable of identifying man or beast even when they were but little moving specks afar off.

“Oh, yes; I’ve been told so,” resumed Jean. “So it’s settled that the old man divides his property among his daughter and two sons?”

“It’s settled. They’ve all agreed to meet to-day at Monsieur Baillehache’s.”

She again watched the cart in its course, and then resumed:

“We don’t care one way or the other; it won’t make us any fatter or thinner. Only, on account of Buteau, sister thinks he’ll marry her, perhaps, when he gets his share. He says one can’t start housekeeping on nothing.”

Jean laughed.

“Me and Buteau were pals, hang him! Oh, he don’t think twice about telling girls lies! And he must have ‘em, by hook or by crook; he gets at ‘em by foul means, if they won’t by fair.”

“He’s a pig, that’s flat!” declared Françoise, peremptorily. “People have no business to play dirty tricks like that, putting their cousins in the family-way and then leaving ‘em in the lurch.”

But suddenly, in a fit of rage, she exclaimed:

“You wait, Coliche! I’ll make you dance! There she is at it again; she’s mad, the brute, when she gets that way.”

She had violently jerked the cow back. At that spot the road left the edge of the plateau, and the cart disappeared from view, while they both continued their walk on the level, now hav­ing in front of them, and on either side, only the endless expanse of arable land. Between the fallows and the artificial meadows the path ran flat and bushless, terminating at the farm, which you might have thought within reach of the hand, but which kept receding under the ashen-grey sky. They had relapsed into silence again, no longer opening their mouths, as if im­pressed by the contemplative gloominess of La Beauce, so sad and yet so fruitful.

When they arrived, the large square yard of La Borderie, shut in on three sides by cow-sheds, sheep-cots, and barns, was deserted. But there immediately appeared upon the kitchen door-step a short, bold, pretty-looking young woman.

“How’s this, Jean, you’re not eating this morning?”

“I’m just going to, Madame Jacqueline.”

Since the daughter of Cognet, the Rognes road-labourer, — La Cognette, as they called her when she washed up the farm dishes at twelve years of age — had been raised to the honours of servant-mistress, she despotically required that every one should treat her as a lady.

“Oh, it is you, Françoise,” she resumed. “You’ve come for the bull. Well, you must wait. The neatherd is at Cloyes with Monsieur Hourdequin. But he’ll be back; he ought to be here now.”

And as Jean was making for the kitchen, she took him round the waist and fondled him smilingly, regardless of spectators, hungering, as it were, for love, and not satisfied with having the master.

Françoise, left alone, waited patiently, sitting on a stone bench in front of the manure-pit, which took up a third of the yard. She was listlessly watching a group of fowls, pecking and warming their feet in the broad low layer of manure, which in the cold air began to steam with a slight bluish vapour. At the end of half-an-hour, when Jean reappeared, finishing a slice of bread and butter, she had not stirred. He sat down near her, and as the cow fidgeted, lashed its tail and lowed, he finally said: