The dispute was over a bird which had flown out of the hedge. No one had had a chance to see it properly, Tintin Maloret no more than anyone else, but he insisted that it was a lark, and in a tone of voice that had caused displeasure. Jude, the oldest of the Messelons, had said calmly: “Well, if you ask me, it was a crayfish.”
This, of course, was sarcasm: no one has ever seen a crayfish flying out of a hedge. It annoyed Tintin, who demanded:
“Well, if it wasn’t a lark, what was it? ”
Gustave Haudouin said that it was a tit, and the three Messelons agreed with him. Tintin Maloret laughed coarsely and said that they must have had their eyes full of dung to take it for a tit. Not wishing to leave him victorious in the argument, Jude said:
“It’s just like a Clerical, not knowing the difference between a tit and a lark.”
And this had changed the nature of the whole squabble. Narcisse Rugnon, Aline Dur, Tintin Maloret, Leon Boeuf and Nestor Rousselier at once joined forces against the tit, while the three Messelons and the two Haudouins vigorously supported it. By the time Deodat appeared on the scene they had quite forgotten the original subject of the argument. They were calling each other slimy beetles, fat turds, bitches, bastards, knock-kneed Clericals and bosseyed Republicans. The appearance of the postman might have allayed their fury, but Jude Messelon dragged him into it.
“You see that lot over there? They’re calling us names because we vote for the Republic!”
Deodat was at first at a loss. He had never been an ardent politician, knowing nothing whatever about politics, However, he sought to establish a simple line of reasoning. Since he was the Government’s postman, he was the Republic’s postman: therefore he was a Republican.
“One ought to be for the Republic,” he said. “The Republicans-”
But Tintin Maloret interrupted him, observing that their sow had farrowed fourteen Republicans only last week, and tapping himself on an unmentionable part of his anatomy he suggested to the postman that a pair of spectacles in this place might improve his clarity of vision. Astonishment and righteous wrath reduced Deodat first to open-mouthed silence. Meanwhile the insults were starting to fly again. Overtaken by a sudden inspiration, Nestor Rousselier began to sing, and the rest of the lark-party joined in:
“Republican mob, you’ll lose your job — so stuff your pamphlets down your gob!. .”
And at this Deodat suddenly forgot that he was a postman. The mists of battle mounted to his head, a baleful light shone from his gentle, china-blue eyes, and he forgot. He forgot the road along which one walks steadily like a steady man, a true postman of God and the Government. The wallet hanging at his hip ceased to be a postman’s bag and became a schoolboy’s satchel bulging with his arithmetic book, his Scripture and his reader. And now the dew on the hedges, the dog-rose, the scent of the acacias, filled his eyes and his nostrils. Seeing Clotilde Haudouin tugging at the plaits of Aline Dur, and Tintin spitting in the faces of the Messelons, he forgot his age. He forgot everything. Had he raised a hand to his grey moustache he would have remembered. But he heard the thud of blows, the cries of defiance, the squeals, the slaps. A song of battle rose up from the ranks of the Republicans, and flinging himself into the ?nelee, which he dominated with his greater height, he joined in the refrain, bellowing more loudly than any of the other children while he buffeted the Malorets:
“Clerical rabble, all prayers and babble! Fling ’em into the ditch and let them scrabble!”
Buffeted from in front and booted from behind, Tintin Maloret retreated with his supporters. The song of reaction was silenced, while that of the other side achieved such volume as to frighten the last tits out of the hedge. “Clerical rabble, all prayers and babble. .” Deodat, quite out of breath, raised himself up to his full height, seeming a giant by the side of his schoolfellows. His loud laugh of happiness and triumph caused the ends of the big grey moustache to quiver. Jude laughed with him and said:
“My word, Deodat, you’re a mighty fine postman, for a postman!”
And at this Deodat came back from the wars as abruptly as he had set out. His schoolboy’s satchel had opened during the skirmish, and some of the letters had fallen onto the road. Deodat, Deodat, my true heart, this is what happens! One listens to the songs, and one forgets that one is a postman!. .
“There’s one missing!”
Deodat counted the letters again, he felt his pockets, he even looked in his cap.
“Perhaps it fell into the hedge,” suggested Jude Mes-selon.
The children explored the hedge and the ditch. The other party had re-formed a hundred yards down the road, and were once again singing, “Stuff your pamphlets down your gob!” But Deodat took no notice. He had no thought for anything now except his letter, which was more dear to him than any of the other letters, because it was lost. It was his very best letter. He was thinking of how he would have walked on along the road (steadily, like a steady man, like a postman who knows he is a postman) to deliver it to Honore Haudouin. Honore would have said, “Well, Deodat, so you’ve finished your round,” and he would have answered, “That’s right, I’ve finished my round,” and then they would have chatted of one thing and another, and. . Jude Messelon, who had been crawling on all fours along the ditch, stood up suddenly as an idea occurred to him.
“It’s Tintin Alaloret who took the letter! I remember now. He bent down, and just as I gave him a kick on the head he put something in his pocket.”
Clotilde Haudouin then said that she had seen it too.
“You couldn’t have seen,” said Jude. “You were flat on your face after Aline had tripped you up.”
“Well, I did see!”
Clotilde frowned, and being convicted of untruth her face grew pale, and rage made her nostrils quiver. She said coldly:
“Down with the Republicans! ”
Deodat had dashed off in pursuit of Tintin. He was positively running, the good postman. Because of a song that had taken his ear by surprise, because of the scent of acacias that had crept into his nose, there he was running along the road, running on the legs that belonged to the Government, instead of walking like a postman, not too fast and not too slow.
“Tintin! Wait a minute, my dear!”
The Tintin party had taken to the paths over the fields. Deodat could hear laughter, already grown distant, and snatches of song, “Stuff your pamphlets down your gob. . ” Now quite out of breath he leaned against the trunk of a cherry-tree, without even reflecting that the rough bark might damage his uniform. He had lost a letter and was greatly troubled.
“What’s the matter, Deodat?”
Juliette Haudouin leaned with one hand against the cherry-tree and smiled at him.
“You get prettier every day, Juliette! I’ve lost a letter for your father, and they say Tintin Maloret may have taken it.”