“It’s no use crying over spilt milk. If you’ve made a fool of yourself, I’m not going to scold you. And in any case it wasn’t your fault. It was just bad luck. No one could have foreseen that the letter would go astray like that. What did you say in it?”
“I said. . But I’m afraid to tell you. You’ll be furious.” “Rubbish. I know just how you feel. Let’s have the whole thing quietly, and we’ll think it over together.”
“Well, I wrote about politics, but that doesn’t matter… I wrote about our mother. . ”
“You don’t mean you said anything about-”
“Yes, I did. That’s just it. I–I went over the whole story from the beginning, from the moment when the Bavarian arrived. I — well, I said everything!”
And hereupon Honore brandished his fists over Ferdinand’s head, crying to Heaven that never in all his days had he had to deal with an animal of such stupendous, such abysmal, such crass and cretinous stupidity. This was what his blasted education had done for him: it had led him to notify the entire countryside that their mother had let herself be put on her back by a Prussian! If Ferdinand had as much difficulty in handling a pen as he had, it would never have entered his head to write a letter which was likely to poison their entire lives and that of their children. Honore then went on to call his brother a drivelling owl, a half-witted pen-pusher, a clod, a dolt, an oaf, an ass, a cuckold, a lout, a laughing-stock and a bloody white-collared imbecile, at the same time stamping up and down the shed beneath the astonished gaze of the cows, who were all craning their necks to follow his movements. Ferdinand kept pace with him, striving to restore a spirit of reason, but the insults came so thick and fast that he could not get a word in. It was the word “cuckold” that particularly stung him, and that he was most anxious to refute. Honore glared at him with threatening eyes.
“I said cuckold and I meant cuckold — you and me and the wfiole bloody family made to look like cuckolds by a gibbering ape of a half-baked ink-slinger who hadn’t the sense to keep his silly mouth shut about what I told him!. . What?. . No, I’m not going to listen! What the hell good did you think all those pages of scribbling were going to do? Did you think you were going to make me change my mind? And now do you know where your letter is? Maloret has it, Zephe Maloret! It was his kid who pinched it, just like Zephe himself would have done— they’re thieves and spies the whole boiling of ’em! The old man, the last one who died, was just the same, and so was his father before him. So now you can whistle for your bloody letter!”
Trembling with rage, Honore went and leaned against the manger between the placidly champing muzzles of two cows, and gradually calm was restored to him in meditation. It could scarcely be doubted that Zephe had the letter, or that he would try to make use of it. But thinking it over, and allowing for the worst, Honore sensibly concluded that after all mere talk could do him no great harm. Undoubtedly the whole of Claquebue would learn that the mother of the Haudouins had been to bed with a Bavarian; and it was the fact alone that would be remembered, not the extenuating circumstances. Honore did not deny that public opinion in the matter meant a great deal to him; but when all was said, it was a dead person who was primarily affected, and for him there was a great gull between the dead and the living. What was spoken aloud about the dead had less importance than what was merely thought about the living, far less. He reminded himself moreover that his career and livelihood did not depend upon the good name of the dead — it was different for Ferdinand — and that his purpose was simply to render it disinterested service. And finally, in the humiliation of knowing that the contents of the letter would go the rounds of Claquebue there was an especial solace to be found: his desire to be revenged on Zephe, so long deferred that he had ended by giving it up, was thereby awakened to new life. Henceforth his hatred would be secure: and at the thought he felt the lightness of heart of a patriot who learns that at last war has been declared.
Ferdinand, respectful of his brother’s meditations, tried to follow their course by studying his expression. But Honore was careful not to betray his rise in spirits. He had at once perceived the advantage which the situation gave him over his brother: an honourable advantage, due to the confidence Ferdinand had in him.
“Well?” demanded Honore.
“I don’t know what to say,” murmured Ferdinand in a voice of misery which seemed to come from his Sunday boots.
“Perhaps you’re really feeling rather pleased about it,” said Honore. “After all, you want Zephe to be mayor of Claquebue. He won’t need your help, after this, in keeping me quiet. He's got a better hold over me through vour letter than through all your arguments. I certainly shan't oppose him now; I shall be onlv too thankful if he keeps his mouth shut. But after he's been elected mayor he'll start coming to you for money — twenty, thirtv, fifty thousand. I daresay — perhaps even more. Well, that doesn't worry me, I haven't got any money. And when he's got all the money he can out of you he'll want the house; and when he's got the house.
Overwhelmed by this prospect of disaster, Ferdinand sank down again on the milking-stool and began to groan.
"Still, we mustn't lose our heads,’’ said Honore. "Perhaps, after all, Tintin.Maloret hasn't given his father the letter. Although I must sav I should be verv astonished."
“YVhv should he keep it?”
"Exactlv. If he took it you'd think it would be to giye it to Zephe; although with kids one can never be sure, they get queer ideas in their heads. For instance, I once caught Alexis throwing a five-sous piece into the river, and I could never find out why.”
Ferdinand shrugged his shoulders; to throw money into the river was simply idiotic.
“I hope you punished him.”
“Why should I? It was his own money.”
"You were wrong. The boy deserved to be punished. You allowed him to do it, but later on when you find him throwing money away right and left you'll be surprised. We’re always too lenient with them.”
And Ferdinand went on to say that if he ever caught Antoine doing anything of the kind he’d take steps to teach him the value of money; and in a sudden burst of ra^e which assuaged his anguish he began to abuse Antoine as thought he were already robbing him of all his possessions.
“A worthless young idler who doesn't even know the history of France! I could have nailed him proper this morning if I’d wanted to over the Peace of Westphalia. The bov's bone-lazy. Do you think I'm going to work my fingers to the bone iust for him to throw my money away? I’d stop his pocket-money for three months, and no dessert and no outings either! That’d teach him the value of money!”
“Good God, you earn enough for him to be as extravagant as he likes, when he’s old enough.”
“You’re on his side, naturally — never having been able to keep a halfpenny of your own money!” said Ferdinand furiously.
“I’ve done what it pleased me to do and a bit more. If that doesn’t suit you, I’m sorry.”
“No one has the right to do what they please when there are others dependent on them. You’d encourage a boy like Antoine to waste money, and you wouldn’t care in the least if later on he had to live on his brother’s savings.”
The hint implied by these words did not escape Honore.
“When it comes to counting on one’s brother-”
“I hardly think you have any reason to complain!” blurted out Ferdinand.