He fought again for breath, and then said soberly: “Don’t worry about the house, you can always move in here. Where there’s room for a dozen there’s room for twenty. Your boys can sleep with ours, and the girls can go in together. You’d work for us, naturally.”
“Yes,” said Honore. “But it would be better to keep things as they are. And if people know I’ve had to leave our house I shan’t have the same standing in the village when it comes to dealing with Zephe. If only you could manage to hang on a bit longer-”
“It's no use counting on me," said Messelon apologetically. “And anyway there’s nothing more I can do.” “Just a month. That’d give me a chance to look round.”
“It’s too much, Honore. When a man’s only got three days of life left it isn’t reasonable to ask him to drag it out for a month. Besides, an invalid costs money.”
“I don't mind paying for the extra time. It’s not as though your food-”
“Yes, but there’s medicine, and the time people have to spend looking after me.”
“I'll pay for all that. You don’t want Zephe to be mayor of Claquebue, do you?”
“Well, look — three weeks. That’s the most I can manage.”
“All right — but starting to-morrow afternoon?”
“Very well. But it’s understood you’ll pay the chemist and twentv-five sous a day?”
Honore promised. And smiling at the thought that he was still earning his living, the old man caused his flicker of life to shrink till it was no more than a pin’s-head in the darkness, so that it might last another three weeks from to-morrow afternoon, Sunday.
Five
Ferdinand Haudouin seated himself at his desk, reached for a sheet of headed writing-paper, and paused for a moment, with his eyes raised to the Green Mare, to consider his letter. He wanted it to be at once firm, affectionate, tactful and persuasive. The effort of reflection caused a flush to appear on his cheekbones, his forehead became wrinkled and he tugged at the ends of his scanty moustache. Finally he drew a breath and wrote with scarcely a pause:
My dear Honore—
The black horse was taken with colic at the beginning of the week, and it will be some time before it can be harnessed to the landau. The bay is only used to the gig; it is still young and high-spirited, and has not learnt to adapt itself. If I put it in the landau it would try to go at its usual pace and would risk straining itself. So on Sunday morning we shall go by train to Valbuisson, where Mainehal, who owes me some money, will meet us and take us to Claquebue. He will come for us in the evening, in time for the six-thirty train.
The children will enjoy spending the day with their cousins, and my wife is looking forward to seeing Adelaide. It is always delightful to see the family united; our dear father often said that good feeling between brothers and sisters was as good as an investment in State securities. And that reminds me that we parted on Saturday with words that were perhaps a little harsh. I have given much thought to that painful story, which you should have told me sooner, and I have come to certain conclusions which I cannot risk putting in a letter. We will talk it all over on Sunday at our leisure and in a calm frame of mind. But there is no reason why I should not at once urge you to be on your guard against a certain hot-headedness which, when one comes to consider it, can only be justified in short-sighed terms. Because you will be bound to agree with me that there are two separate matters involved in this affair. On the one hand, there is the duty of giving Claquebue a mayor who suits the necessities of the moment; and on the other hand there is your legitimate grudge against Z- (you know who I mean). Your bitterness is no greater than my own; you know very well how sensitive I am on the subject of everything affecting the family, and that I am ready to make any sacrifice for the sake of our good name. But before the family — I would even go so far as to say, before my political convictions — I do not hesitate to place our country. In doing so I am only following the example and instruction of our dear old father, who was not afraid, in the interests of the country and despite his long-standing devotion to the Empire, to rally his fellow-citizens to the cause of the new Republic. There could be no better moment than the present for recalling that high lesson in patriotism: we cannot allow ourselves to be swayed by personal feelings at a time when France, too long deprived of the vigilance of General Boulanger at the Ministry of War, finds herself once again exposed to the craft provocations of the Germans. I have been told in confidence by people in a position to know that within two years, perhaps in one year, we shall be at war. That is why it is so necessary for the country to unite itself in the face of danger, so far as union with the reactionaries is practicable, it goes without saying. An understanding of this kind, which at present would only be possible in the name of General Boulanger, is naturally a delicate thing to bring about. There are very few men in Claquebue, for example, whose standing and character inspire confidence in both parties. Among the Republicans I can see no one except yourself and Maxime Trousquet. But you don’t want to be mayor, and I think you are wise, because by associating yourself too closely with a general whose future is still uncertain you would risk compromising the name of Haudouin throughout the district. As for Maxime, I do not doubt either his capacity or his devotion, but I must say frankly that I do not think we can overlook the fact that he cannot read or write.
As for the Clericals, you know them as well as I do, and most of them have shown themselves too extreme to be acceptable to the Republicans. I can only think of one who might bridge the gap. During recent Council meetings we have seen him do his utmost to bring the two parties together in the matter of wooding-rights.
That man, as you must agree, is no other than Z-
(you know who I mean). In my opinion, to pave the way for his entry into the Mairie would be the act of a patriot and a loyal Republican.
And I also think, without wishing in any way to under-rate the unhappy consequences of his imprudence, that we may perhaps be wrong in persisting in the grudge we bear him, possibly without ever having considered the matter very calmly. That he had a share in the responsibility for the danger into which you fell (to some extent owing to your own rashness) I fully agree, although we must not forget that he was taken by surprise. But that part of the business is a matter between you and him, and does not concern me; I will therefore only venture to appeal to your generosity to give him the benefit of the doubt. There remains the painful accident which befell our mother and which was the apparent consequence of Z’s indiscretion. You will understand why I say “apparent” if you will consider the circumstances in which our mother found herself when she was forced to undergo that terrible ordeal.
When the Bavarian sergeant came round the corner with his detachment, and saw an isolated, almost deserted house, with a single woman leaning out of the window, is it not reasonable to suppose that his vile resolution was already almost formed? You said to me yourself the other day that the Bavarians are brutes who keep up their warlike fury with murder and pillage, and above all with rape. I need only remind you, among other instances, of Louise Boeuf, who had to endure the assaults of eleven of the swine. It seems certain, then, that the presence of a sharpshooter in the house merely served the sergeant as a handy pretext; a pretext which saved him from having to use force, and which enabled him to deal with the matter alone, without the help of his twelve or fifteen ruffians. Had it not been for that pretext I think with horror of what might have been the plight of our dear mother. The whole thing remains revolting, of course, but after all she onlv vielded to one man, and he was a sergeant. In fact, we cannot even be sure that he was not an officer. And then, our mother was no longer young, and there are affronts which a woman past the age of fifty feels less acutely than one in the flower of her youth.