THE FOUR GOSPELS (Les Quatre Évangiles). Эмиль Золя
“And so it’s here that the table is to be set,” said Gervais; “I shall have to see that the lawn is mowed then.”
On her side Claire inquired what number of people there would be at table and how she had better place them. Then, Gervais having called to Frederic to bring a scythe, the three of them went on discussing the arrangements. After Rose’s death, Frederic, her betrothed, had continued working beside Gervais, becoming his most active and intelligent comrade and helper. For some months, too, Marianne and Mathieu had noticed that he was revolving around Claire, as though, since he had lost the elder girl, he were willing to content himself with the younger one, who was far less beautiful no doubt, but withal a good and sturdy housewife. This had at first saddened the parents. Was it possible to forget their dear daughter? Then, however, they felt moved, for the thought came to them that the family ties would be drawn yet closer, that the young fellow’s heart would not roam in search of love elsewhere, but would remain with them. So closing their eyes to what went on, they smiled, for in Frederic, when Claire should be old enough to marry, Gervais would find the brother-in-law and partner that he needed.
The question of the table had just been settled when a sudden invasion burst through the tall grass around the oak tree; skirts flew about, and loose hair waved in the sunshine.
“Oh!” cried Louise, “there are no roses.”
“No,” repeated Madeleine, “not a single white rose.”
“And,” added Marguerite, “we have inspected all the bushes. There are no white roses, only red ones.”
Thirteen, eleven, and nine, such were their respective ages. Louise, plump and gay, already looked a little woman; Madeleine, slim and pretty, spent hours at her piano, her eyes full of dreaminess; Marguerite, whose nose was rather too large and whose lips were thick, had beautiful golden hair. She would pick up little birds at winter time and warm them with her hands. And the three of, them, after scouring the back garden, where flowers mingled with vegetables, had now rushed up in despair at their vain search. No white roses for a wedding! That was the end of everything! What could they offer to the bride? And what could they set upon the table?
Behind the three girls, however, appeared Gregoire, with jeering mien, and his hands in his pockets. At fifteen he was very malicious, the most turbulent, worrying member of the family, a lad inclined to the most diabolical devices. His pointed nose and his thin lips denoted also his adventurous spirit, his will power, and his skill in effecting his object. And, apparently much amused by his sisters’ disappointment, he forgot himself and exclaimed, by way of teasing them: “Why, I know where there are some white roses, and fine ones, too.”
“Where is that?” asked Mathieu.
“Why, at the mill, near the wheel, in the little enclosure. There are three big bushes which are quite white, with roses as big as cabbages.”
Then he flushed and became confused, for his father was eyeing him severely.
“What! do you still prowl round the mill?” said Mathieu. “I had forbidden you to do so. As you know that there are white roses in the enclosure you must have gone in, eh?”
“No; I looked over the wall.”
“You climbed up the wall, that’s the finishing touch! So you want to land me in trouble with those Lepailleurs, who are decidedly very foolish and very malicious people. There is really a devil in you, my boy.”
That which Gregoire left unsaid was that he repaired to the enclosure in order that he might there join Therese, the miller’s fair-haired daughter with the droll, laughing face, who was also a terribly adventurous damsel for her thirteen years. True, their meetings were but childish play, but at the end of the enclosure, under the apple trees, there was a delightful nook where one could laugh and chat and amuse oneself at one’s ease.
“Well, just listen to me,” Mathieu resumed. “I won’t have you going to play with Therese again. She is a pretty little girl, no doubt. But that house is not a place for you to go to. It seems that they fight one another there now.”
This was a fact. When that young scamp Antonin had recovered his health, he had been tormented by a longing to return to Paris, and had done all he could with that object, in view of resuming a life of idleness and dissipation. Lepailleur, greatly irritated at having been duped by his son, had at first violently opposed his plans. But what could he do in the country with that idle fellow, whom he himself had taught to hate the earth and to sneer at the old rotting mill. Besides, he now had his wife against him. She was ever admiring her son’s learning, and so stubborn was her faith in him that she was convinced that he would this time secure a good position in the capital. Thus the father had been obliged to give way, and Antonin was now finally wrecking his life while filling some petty employment at a merchant’s in the Rue du Mail. But, on the other hand, the quarrelling increased in the home, particularly whenever Lepailleur suspected his wife of robbing him in order to send money to that big lazybones, their son. From the bridge over the Yeuse on certain days one could hear oaths and blows flying about. And here again was family life destroyed, strength wasted, and happiness spoilt.
Carried off by perfect anger, Mathieu continued: “To think of it; people who had everything needful to be happy! How can one be so stupid? How can one seek wretchedness for oneself with such obstinacy? As for that idea of theirs of an only son, and their vanity in wanting to make a gentleman of him, ah! well, they have succeeded finely! They must be extremely pleased to-day! It is just like Lepailleur’s hatred of the earth, his old-fashioned system of cultivation, his obstinacy in leaving his bit of moorland barren and refusing to sell it to me, no doubt by way of protesting against our success! Can you imagine anything so stupid? And it’s just like his mill; all folly and idleness he stands still, looking at it fall into ruins. He at least had a reason for that in former times; he used to say that as the region had almost renounced corn-growing, the peasants did not bring him enough grain to set his millstones working. But nowadays when, thanks to us, corn overflows on all sides, surely he ought to have pulled down his old wheel and have replaced it by a good engine. Ah! if I were in his place I would already have a new and bigger mill there, making all use of the water of the Yeuse, and connecting it with Janville railway station by a line of rails, which would not cost so much to lay down.”
Gregoire stood listening, well pleased that the storm should fall on another than himself. And Marianne, seeing that her three daughters were still greatly grieved at having no white roses, consoled them, saying: “Well, for the table tomorrow morning you must gather those which are the lightest in color — the pale pink ones; they will do very well.”
Thereupon Mathieu, calming down, made the children laugh, by adding gayly: “Gather the red ones too, the reddest you find. They will symbolize the blood of life!”
Marianne and Charlotte were still lingering there talking of all the preparations, when other little feet came tripping through the grass. Nicolas, quite proud of his seven years, was leading his niece Berthe, a big girl of six. They agreed very well together. That day they had remained indoors playing at “fathers and mothers” near the cradle occupied by Benjamin and Guillaume, whom they called their babies. But all at once the infants had awoke, clamoring for nourishment. And Nicolas and Berthe, quite alarmed, had thereupon run off to fetch the two mothers.
“Mamma!” called Nicolas, “Benjamin’s asking for you. He’s thirsty.”
“Mamma, mamma!” repeated Berthe, “Guillaume’s thirsty. Come quick, he’s in a hurry.”
Marianne and Charlotte laughed. True enough, the morrow’s wedding had made them forget their pets; and so they hastily returned to the house.
On the following day those happy nuptials were celebrated in affectionate intimacy. There were but one-and-twenty at table under the oak tree in the middle of the lawn, which, girt with elms and hornbeams, seemed like a hall of verdure. The whole family was present: first those of the farm, then Denis the bridegroom, next Ambroise and his wife Andree, who had brought their little Leonce with them. And apart from the family proper, there were only the few invited relatives, Beauchene and Constance, Seguin and Valentine,