The boys at an early age were possessed of an almost insatiable curiosity concerning everything which might gratify their sexual instincts. They were an ardent, chattering, restless flock, as unashamed in their pursuits as the young pastoral gods whose activities were untrammelled by the compulsions of hard living. They formed a band of pleasure to which each made his separate contribution— an ingenious contrivance, an obscene jest, a scrap of knowledge garnered in the family circle. They experimented among themselves, measured their potentialities and were no less roughly candid in their handling of any girl who fell into their clutches, debating and commenting upon their discoveries in the forthright language they heard upon the lips of the men. The girls took no part in these diversions, except when they were the victims, merely observing them at a distance, their curiosity being off-set by a somewhat precocious sense of religious duty. The figure of the cure had for them all the prestige which women ordinarily accord to the priest and the doctor. He was well aware of his influence over the feminine half of Claquebue, and had been known to confess that had there been no women in the village he might perhaps have made saints but would certainly not have made good Catholics.
The boys’ eroticism was by no means only verbal or mimed. The field of their curiosity was almost boundless, extending far beyond family traditions, embracing all the perversities and limited only inasmuch as a certain vagueness in their conceptions kept them in some degree sundered from reality. During the summer months the children were required to stay away from school in order to watch over the flocks, and they did not fail to profit by this sunny spell of freedom and leisure. The girls not infrequently allowed themselves to be got at by the boys’ eager persuasions, and yielded without really wanting to, more from indolence and for lack of anything better to do than from any real desire. It was rare for such encounters to take place in strict privacy: as a rule there were interested spectators: and the garde champetre, the watchdog over property and good manners, when he chanced to come upon these pastoral festivities, was not disposed to treat them as a matter for serious concern. The only truly bad behaviour is that which assails property or diminishes its value, and these juvenile antics had no such consequence: they were privileged experiments conducted in the closed world of childhood, and so to speak purely academic. The garde might rebuke the offenders, but in general it was only the boys who let the sheep and cattle stray whom he reported to their parents. The apparent injustice might be regarded as a reward for the good shepherds, who thus learned that in a well-conducted world everything is on the side of those who respect the property of others. And in cases where the garde did mention the matter to the parents, they did not appear to be unduly disturbed by the report of their child’s depraved instincts. The sinner would be made to tremble for five minutes while his father thundered out his grief and astonishment that any child of his should be so ill-conducted, and while his mother considered sending him to confession within the week: but by the next morning the family would have been overtaken by a comfortable amnesia, and the shepherd would be sent out into the meadows as usual, regardless of the temptations that there awaited him.
It was not uncommon for the boys who were most active in these frolics to cherish in their hearts a shy love as pure and fragile as a bubble blown in paradise, a romantic yearning having nothing to do with the delights of the flesh. Later on, having arrived at man’s estate and learnt the trick of confounding all things, they were apt to laugh coarsely at that vanished grace: but the best among them recalled it with tenderness.
Honore Haudouin’s children joined without restraint in the uninhibited gambols of their age. Their father saw no reason to object, but rejoiced rather in their hunger for love and life and envied them a freedom which he himself had lost, being confined within the bonds of family custom. “It won’t last,” he reflected with melan-cholv. “The time will come soon enough when they’ll be ashamed of enjoying themselves when there’s work to be done.”
Alexis, at the age of thirteen, denied himself no pleasure suggested to him by his lively imagination, and was greatly admired by his companions for his boldness and ingenuity and his readiness of speech. He did almost everything he said, and talked about the things he did with a wealth of detail, a precision and a richness of imagery which caused his conversation to be much in demand. His eyes were always alert, his hands ready to seize the opportunity, and he had a laughingly persuasive way with the girls. He was more often caught by the garde champetre than any of the other boys. “You little devil! That’s the third time this summer! I shall tell Honore if you don't watch out!” But as a rule it was an empty threat. There was an especial charm in Alexis, a grace and liveliness which won indulgence for his misdemeanours. Even at that early age he was becoming conscious of the mystery and the contradictions of womanhood. His conquests were not really so numerous, despite his gifts. The fact that a little girl had once let him have his way with her did not mean that she would do so the next time: enduring unions are a matter for grown-ups: children have more pride, and consider, in any case, that it is sufficient to belong to their parents. Thus it was owing as much to necessity as to curiosity or opportunity, that on one occasion Alexis was caught with a boy his own age. Feeling that this time things had gone a little too far, the garde reported him.
“I’m sorry to have to say it, Honore, but that lad of yours is getting beyond himself.”
Honore frowned slightly as he listened to the story.
“Tiresome of him. I wish those kids would find some other way of amusing themselves. Still, it’s only while they’re young.”
“I thought I’d better tell you. .
“You were quite right. It was good of you to take the trouble. Don’t worry, I’ll give him a sound hiding directly he gets home.”
But that evening Alexis did not come home, and his mother grew anxious as night fell. Honore guessed that he was staying away from fear of the wrath to come, and was himself afraid. “One never knows with children,” he reflected. “They cry as easily as they laugh, and there’s no knowing what they may do.” He set out for the water-meadows. Dusk was spreading over the countryside and he grew more and more alarmed. He thought of his son’s terror, all by himself in some corner of the darkness, or perhaps prowling up and down the river bank. He took off his sabots in order to run faster. Reaching the communal pasture he could at first see nothing. Night had almost fallen, and a mist rolled out from the river over the plain. Suddenly their dog, subdued and mistrustful, appeared out of the darkness and sniffed at him. Honore was afraid to call lest there should be no reply. At length he came upon the cows lying in a line on the damp grass, as though they were in the cowshed. Alexis was huddled against one of them for warmth. He watched his father’s approach, at once comforted and apprehensive. Honore took him in his arms, holding him tightly to his heart, which was still pounding front the exertion of running and because of his fear.