“It’s an outing which costs between twelve and thirteen francs,” he remarked to Helene. “If you count the price of the tickets and the things you’ve bought for Adelaide you can’t say there’s any saving.”
“Well, with five of us for lunch we couldn’t go empty-handed,” said Helene.
“Of course. I don’t grudge the pate and the sausage. I was simply working it out.”
They had their second-class compartment to themselves. There were never many travellers on that line, which had come into being through the clash of local and electoral interests (and was a source of sour memories to Ferdinand, who had failed in his attempt to get it to run through Claquebue, being thwarted by a nephew of the Minister, a large farmer in the district, who had steered it his own way at the cost of a detour of ten miles). The railway company had used up on it a store of old rails and rolling-stock which had suffered considerably during the 1870 war, so that the train swayed and leapt about like an animal with a limp. Even the passengers in the second-class coach were rocked and jerked and flung against one another, and forced to shout at the top of their voice to make themselves heard above the rattle of the wheels and the groaning of the ramshackle coaches.
Husband and wife and the two boys sat each in one corner of the compartment. Lucienne, sitting in the middle, kept to the edge of the seat and did not lean back for fear of dirtying her white dress. She looked at her white canvas boots, fastidiously wondering what the Demoiselles Hermeline would say if she were to come to school in the white open-work cotton stockings which she was wearing to-day for the first time — a surmise not far removed from the domain of practical possibilities, since Sunday stockings generally became week-day stockings in the end. There was a certain lack of modesty in the wearing of white open-work stockings which she must not fail to record in her written Conscience Scrutiny. On the other hand, in wearing them she was only obeying her mother, who had bought them for her. Should one eschew the sin of vanity by committing the sin of disobedience? Because it was by no means certain, had she uttered any protest, that her mother would have fallen in with her views. The dilemma might, however, be turned to profit, because Lucienne recalled that her Conscience Scrutiny book was not up to date. Between now and to-morrow evening she would have to find four or five sins wTorthv of recording: and this was a minimum, because who, without being guilty of the sin of pride, could claim to have sinned less than four or five times in a week? The youngest of the Demoiselles Hermeline, Mile. Bertrande, who took the first-year classes in Conscience Scrutiny, did not permit trifling misdemeanours, unworthy of comment, to be offered as real sins. Innocent though they might be in practice, her charges were expected to enter in their notebooks sins of sufficient substance to be used for their undoing, that is to say, to serve as object-lessons for the edification of the whole class. Being pressed for lack of material, Lucienne finally resolved that the stockings might be made into a double sin — first, the sin of having worn them, and secondly the sin of having been half-inclined to disobey her mother, who wanted her to wear them. The more she considered this method of presentation, the more it pleased her. There was every reason to hope that Mile. Bertrande, after meditating upon this pious conflict, would end by giving her the nine marks out of ten which were so hard of achievement in the sphere of “effective Christian virtue.” However, that still left three other sins to be conceived and committed within two days, and Lucienne, without going so far as actual premeditation, found herself wondering about the temptations which chance might obligingly set before her in the course of the present day, to help her bring her book up to date. Suddenly her father’s grating voice broke through the rattle of the train.
“Lucienne, you still haven’t told me if you’re capable of playing the harmonium.”
Rendered meditative by the noise and the rolling prospect of the cornfields, which filled his gaze, Ferdinand had conjured up a vision that was almost pure poetry. He had pictured Lucienne playing the harmonium in the church where he had attended his first communion, and the thought had greatly moved him. The scene had grown in his mind. With an admiring murmur the parishioners of Claquebue recognised the daughter of Ferdinand Hau-douin, one of themselves, who had made his way in the world; a good Republican, but a just man; one who, like a true Republican and patriot, was always to be relied upon when the honour of the country was at stake. And Ferdinand heard the music of the liturgy swelling above their respectful whispers on a note of pride. He heard it even though he was not there himself, because it was not for him to attend Mass; he was too good a vet for that. He was too good a Republican and too good a patriot, but none the less he sent his daughter to Mass, he sent her to the harmonium: and he did so because the hour was grave. The harmonium broke into a marching song, and the cure intoned the Mass of the Fatherland. Ferdinand felt his breast swell. Troops in mass formation were to be seen framed in the open doorway; their appearance was magnificent, nothing to worry about in that quarter. . The flapping of the flags caused a breeze to fan his empurpled brow. Leaping on the back of the Green Mare, which was nibbling the general’s black horse, he galloped out in front of the troops. In the church the congregation rose to their feet, and led by Lucienne made the rafters ring with their song of love for General Boulanger and their country. Zephe Alaloret was elected mayor by a huge majority, and Frederic, an exalted figure, loaded with decorations and wearing a triple gold chain across his chest, travelled first-class on all the railways of France, with a Government permit. .
Their father’s voice caused the children to start. Antoine, his heart overflowing with tenderness, had been dreaming of the eyes of the little Jasmin, whose exquisite softness caused a flower-garden to spring up miraculously on the drab leather seat and all life to glow with a soft radiance as far as the eye could see. He and Jasmin, and her eyes, were walking together in the meadows; he had flown out through the window of the train in response to her smile. When the vinegary voice broke in upon his Jasmin, Antoine gazed indignantly at his father, once again noting that he had a face like a horse, vulgar, obstinate, crafty, cruel, vicious, stupid, smug and bad-tempered. “Well, anyway, I don’t look like him. I may not be handsome, but I’m not a bit like him. And Jasmin smiled at me. . ” Frederic, who had been dreaming of university diplomas and bowler hats, turned his head towards his father, who repeated:
“Yes or no — can you manage the harmonium?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never tried,” answered Lucienne in a small voice that was swallowed up in the rattle of the train.
Mme. Haudouin came to her rescue.
“You can’t expect her to sit down at the harmonium and play it straight off. It’s a thing one has to get used to.”
Ferdinand made an impatient gesture. He had now set his heart on the harmonium.
“She can have lessons. Even if she does play a wrong note or two, no one will notice.”
Helene went on to say that she would find it dull at Claquebue, to which Ferdinand replied that no right-thinking child finds it dull in the place where her grandparents are interred.
“That’s so, isn’t it, Lucienne?”
“Yes, Father. I’ll put flowers on the graves of the dear departed.”
Ferdinand was delighted. Helene had only argued against the plan from consideration for her daughter, whose dislike for the life of Claquebue she well knew. Annoyed at finding her so acquiescent, she very nearly abandoned her to the dear departed, but was goaded by her husband’s undisguised satisfaction into continuing the argument.