Leaving the main road he turned along the lane lined with apple-trees which led to the house of Zephe Maloret. Mass was over long ago, but the men had not yet come home. Ana'is, Zephe’s wife, had left them behind. Deodat was glad to find her alone. When Ana'is was not in the company of her men she would laugh with him, and her big fair body and her handsome face in the ripeness of the forties were pleasant to look at. Deodat had no evil thoughts: since his wife’s death he had got on very well without women, modestly making such private arrangements as best suited him. They laughed together, she at the postman’s arrival and he at being the postman. When he entered a house it was customary for the people to laugh. They said, “Here’s the postman!” and he said, “Yes, here I am!” and they laughed because it was pleasant to see the arrival of a good postman.
“I’m bringing you some news,” he said to Anais.
He held out a letter on expensive paper addressed to “M. et Mme. Joseph Maloret, Claquebue par Valbuisson.”
“Why, it’s my Marguerite writing from Paris!” said Ana'is.
Deodat knew this already, having recognised the handwriting, but he did not want to betray the fact. It was more polite not to know.
“I’m glad she’s written to you,” he said. “It’s always nice to hear from one’s children.”
Anais took a pin out of her big bun of fair hair, and after opening the envelope glanced first at the bottom of the page.
“She says she’s arriving to-morrow evening! Last time she wrote she didn’t know, and now all of a sudden it’s to-morrow evening! Oh, Deodat, what a good postman you are!”
“Well, it’s just my job, you know,” said Deodat. “I do the best I can, but it isn’t me who writes the letters. . ”
But Anais was not listening to him. She was laughing because her daughter was coming to-morrow.
Deodat left the house also laughing. Halfway down the lane lined with apple-trees he murmured, “Her daughter’s coming to-morrow!” And then he went on. He had no more letters to deliver, not even a newspaper, but that was not a reason for not going on. He would complete his round, following the road that led to the woods, so as to let everyone know that the post had come and gone; and then he would turn back onto the main road and go home, after making a pause at the house of Honore Haudouin, as he customarily did on Sundays. .
After the interview between the two brothers in the stable, of which some echo had penetrated into the house, one might have expected the family gathering of the Haudouins to be eating their midday meal in a consternated silence. The reverse was the case. Never had that dining-room been rowdier or the laughter more ready. Uncle Honore alone was making as much noise as all the children put together, drinking his wine unwatered, talking at the top of his voice, laughing wholeheartedly and infectirg all the others with his high spirits. All except his brother Ferdinand, wTho wore the aspect of a distant relation who had been invited in order to avoid sitting down thirteen to table. This was not the usual state of affairs. As a rule it was Ferdinand who was listened to; and Honore himself would be impressed by such observations as, “I am a deist, like Victor Hugo,” or “I respect the convictions of others, and I expect mine to be respected.” In those circumstances the family gathering maintained a proper decorum. The women, not being interested in metaphysics, could watch over the behaviour of their children and exchange household hints and cooking recipes in the manner of respectable households. Each might glean what he could from the solemn pronouncements, even the children, it was to be hoped, deriving solid instruction for which, when they had reached years of wisdom, they would thank their Uncle Ferdinand.
But to-day was very different. Honore had revolutionised the sober Sunday occasion with a spirit of raucous and aggressive mirth. One might have supposed that he was delighted by the sinister affair of the stolen letter, which threatened the honour of the Haudouins. His warlike rejoicing at the forthcoming battle with Zephe Maloret lent a virile note to his laughter and his gaze. Chuckling and high-crested, he darted sardonic glances at his brother,
adopted an air of gallantry with his sister-in-law, joked with the children, laughed and bellowed like a political freebooter proclaiming a provisional government of wine, women and song. Uncle Ferdinand was acutely uncomfortable. This was behaviour such as he would never have tolerated had not the business of the letter compelled him to do so. Plainly it was not the moment for oracular pronouncements on the subject of politics or metaphysics. He prudently restrained himself, not venturing even to rebuke his son Antoine, who was demonstratively laughing at Uncle Honore’s jesting references to himself (but that account would be settled later: the last word had yet to be said on the subject of the Peace of Westphalia). Parents, reflected Uncle Ferdinand, were often greatly to be condemned. Honore’s example was not lost upon the children, who were behaving like ragamuffins, talking with their mouths full, breaking in on the conversation of their elders and perpetrating even greater enormities. Frederic, seated beside his cousin Juliette, had his left hand constantly under the table instead of keeping it in view beside his plate, as a well-mannered person should do. The others were behaving no better, and even Lucienne, such a good child as a rule, had committed enough crimes in half an hour to bring her Conscience Scrutiny book full-up-to-date. Ferdinand’s solitary remark upon all this had been instantly crushed by his brother.
“Let the kids amuse themselves. I like to see them happy and kicking up a row. If you ask me, yours are much too quiet; they don’t shout half loud enough. If you aren’t careful they’ll end up looking as dismal as their father!”
The children had burst into loud laughter, and Antoine had very nearly choked. It was licensed revolt, pure anarchv, and plainly things were bound to go from bad to worse. The worst, indeed, came near to happening. Gustave, who had already drawn his mother’s wrath upon himself by thrusting a chicken-wing into the pocket of his Sunday knickerbockers, tried to get the dog to drink a glass of wine and spilt half of it over his cousin Lucienne’s white frock. Gustave was promptly slapped, and the w’omen said all that the occasion called for; but Ferdi-
nand was so enraged that he could restrain himself no longer.
“What do you expect when the boy’s being openly encouraged by his father?”
“Do you mean I encouraged him to spill wine on the child’s dress?”
“I don’t say you actually encouraged him, but he felt he was being encouraged. You must admit that if you had been less lax with them the accident wouldn’t have happened.”
“I don’t admit anything of the kind. You say yourself it was an accident.”
“An accident which could easily have been foreseen.” “Why didn’t you foresee it?”
“I knew something of the sort was bound to happen.” “You did? It’s a pity you weren’t so far-sighted a few days ago — that letter of yours wouldn’t be in the hands of Zephe Maloret!”
The reminder, in the presence of the entire family, acutely mortified Ferdinand. His wife, seeing that the argument had taken a perilous turn, tried to smooth matters over by saying:
“It really isn’t anything. A little soap and water. .” Ferdinand, his cheeks still burning, gazed at the contents of his glass and said with sarcasm:
“Well, yes, this stuff won’t stain very much!”
He regretted the remark an instant later. Honore, who suspected Adelaide of watering the wine, understood at once what he meant and turned to her:
“Is that true, what Ferdinand says, that you’ve put water in it?”
Adelaide and Ferdinand protested simultaneously.
“So now I’m accused of putting water in the wine!”