The Conquest of Plassans (La Conquête de Plassans). Emile Zola
you tired?' asked Octave, looking at his father's boots, which were white with dust.
'Yes, indeed, a little,' Mouret replied, without, however, saying anything more about the long journey which he had just made on foot.
Then in the middle of the garden he caught sight of a spade and a rake, which the children had forgotten there.
'Why are the tools not put away?' he cried. 'I have spoken about it a hundred times. If it should come on to rain they would be completely rusted and spoilt.'
He said no more on the subject, but stepped down into the garden, picked up the spade and rake himself, and put them carefully away inside the little conservatory. As he came up to the terrace again his eyes searched every corner of the walks to see if things were tidy there.
'Are you learning your lessons?' he asked, as he passed Serge, who was still poring over his book.
'No, father,' the boy replied; 'this is a book that Abbé Bourrette has lent me. It is an account of the missions in China.'
Mouret stopped short in front of his wife.
'By the way,' said he, 'has anyone been here?'
'No, no one, my dear,' replied Marthe with an appearance of surprise.
He seemed on the point of saying something further, but appeared to change his mind, and continued pacing up and down in silence. Then, going to the steps, he cried out:
'Well, Rose, what about this dinner of yours which is getting burnt to cinders?'
'Oh, indeed! there is nothing ready for you now!' shouted the cook in an angry voice from the other end of the passage. 'Everything is cold. You will have to wait, sir.'
Mouret smiled in silence and winked with his left eye, as he glanced at his wife and children. He seemed to be very much amused by Rose's anger. Then he occupied himself in examining his neighbour's fruit-trees.
'It is surprising what splendid pears Monsieur Rastoil has got this year,' he remarked.
Marthe, who had appeared a little uneasy for the last few minutes, seemed as though she wanted to say something. At last she made up her mind to speak, and timidly inquired:
'Were you expecting someone to-day, my dear?'
'Yes and no,' he replied, beginning to pace the terrace again.
'Perhaps you have let the second floor?'
'Yes, indeed, I have let it.'
Then, as the silence became a little embarrassing, he added, in his quiet way:
'This morning, before starting for Les Tulettes, I went up to see Abbé Bourrette. He was very pressing, and so I agreed to his proposal. I know it won't please you; but, if you will only think the matter over for a little, you will see that you are wrong, my dear. The second floor was of no use to us, and it was only going to ruin. The fruit that we store in the rooms there brings on dampness which makes the paper fall from the walls. By the way, now that I think of it, don't forget to remove the fruit the first thing to-morrow. Our tenant may arrive at any moment.'
'We were so free and comfortable, all alone in our own house,' Marthe ventured to say, in a low tone.
'Oh, well!' replied Mouret, 'we shan't find a priest in our way. He will keep to himself, and we shall keep to ourselves. Those black-gowned gentlemen hide themselves when they want to swallow even a glass of water. You know that I'm not very partial to them myself. A set of lazybones for the most part! And yet what chiefly decided me to let the floor was that I had found a priest for a tenant. One is quite sure of one's money with them, and they are so quiet that one can't even hear them go in and out.'
Marthe still appeared distressed. She looked round her at the happy home basking in the sun's farewell, at the garden which was now growing greyer with shadows, and at her three children. And she thought of all the happiness which this little spot held for her.
'And do you know anything about this priest?'she asked.
'No; but Abbé Bourrette has taken the floor in his own name, and that is quite sufficient. Abbé Bourrette is an honourable man. I know that our tenant is called Faujas, Abbé Faujas, and that he comes from the diocese of Besançon. He didn't get on very well with his vicar there, and so he has been appointed curate here at Saint-Saturnin's. Perhaps he knows our bishop, Monseigneur Rousselot. But all this is no business of ours, you know; and it is to Abbé Bourrette that I am trusting in the whole matter.'
Marthe, however, did not seem to share her husband's confidence, but continued to stand out against him, a thing which seldom happened.
'You are right,' she said, after a moment's silence, 'Abbé Bourrette is a worthy man. But I recollect that when he came to look at the rooms he told me that he did not know the name of the person on whose behalf he was commissioned to rent them. It was one of those commissions which are undertaken by priests in one town for those in another. I really think that you ought to write to Besançon and make some inquiries as to what sort of a person it is that you are about to introduce into your house.'
Mouret was anxious to avoid losing his temper; he smiled complacently.
'Well, it isn't the devil, anyhow. Why, you're trembling all over! I didn't think you were so superstitious. You surely don't believe that priests bring ill luck, as folks say. Neither, of course, do they bring good luck. They are just like other men. But, when we get this Abbé here, you'll see if I'm afraid of his cassock!'
'No, I'm not superstitious; you know that quite well,' replied Marthe. 'I only feel unhappy about it, that's all.'
He took his stand in front of her, and interrupted her with a sharp motion of his hand.
'There! there! that will do,' said he. 'I have let the rooms; don't let us say anything more about the matter.'
Then, in the bantering tones of a bourgeois who thinks he has done a good stroke of business, he added:
'At any rate one thing is certain, and that is that I am to get a hundred and fifty francs rent; and we shall have those additional hundred and fifty francs to spend on the house every year.'
Marthe bent her head and made no further protestations except by vaguely swinging her hands and gently closing her eyes as though to prevent the escape of the tears which were already swelling beneath her eyelids. Then she cast a furtive glance at her children, who had not appeared to hear anything of her discussion with their father. They were, indeed, accustomed to scenes of this sort in which Mouret, with his bantering nature, delighted to indulge.
'You can come in now, if you would like something to eat,' said Rose in her crabby voice, as she came to the steps.
'Ah, that's right! Come along, children, to your soup!' cried Mouret gaily, without appearing to retain any trace of temper.
The whole family rose. But Désirée's grief seemed to revive at the sight of everyone stirring. She threw her arms round her father's neck and stammered:
'Oh, papa, one of my birds has flown away!'
'One of your birds, my dear? Well, we'll catch it again.'
Then he began to caress and fondle her, but she insisted that he, also, should go and look at the cage. When he brought her back again Marthe and her two sons were already in the dining-room. The rays of the setting sun, streaming in through the window, lighted up the porcelain plates, the children's plated mugs, and the white cloth. The room was warm and peaceful with its green background of garden.
But just as Marthe, upon whom the tranquillity of the scene had had a soothing effect, was smilingly removing the cover from the soup-tureen, a noise was heard in the passage.
Then Rose rushed into the room with a scared look and stammered:
'Monsieur l'Abbé Faujas has come!'
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