“I never said anything of the kind!”
“You did say it!” thundered Honore. “You hinted at it. You didn’t say it straight out because you never say anything straight out, because you’ll always be the same blasted Jesuit going round looking as though you died for the Republic every morning before breakfast! It’s like your General Boulanger! What is he anyway? — nothing but a blasted unfrocked holier-than-thou with his boots full of rosaries! My God, if anyone puts water in my wine-”
“Honore, I assure you, you simply didn’t understand! I never said-”
“All right, so I’m too stupid to understand! I suppose the rest of you didn’t understand either?”
The question was intended rhetorically, and no reply was called for. But after a brief pause Antoine declared in a voice which shook slightly, because he knew that what he was about to say could not be expiated by a mere imposition of five hundred lines:
“Well, I thought that what father said meant that there was water in the wine!”
Ferdinand’s face became congested with fury, and Uncle Honore, perceiving the extent of his nephew’s self-sacrifice, and knowing the reprisals he invited, nobly refrained from pursuing his advantage. The dispute might have ended there had not Ferdinand, beside himself with rage at what he held to be his son’s treachery, launched a fresh attack.
“Now you see what you’ve done? You’ve turned my own son against me! It didn’t take much doing. He’s only too ready to back you up, just as he would his Uncle Alphonse! The Alphonses in this family are always ready to join together when there’s a chance of doing me down — jealous and ungrateful, the whole lot of you — money-spenders, woman-chasers, cheats, liars-”
“You’d better be quiet,” said Honore, still keeping himself in hand.
“Why should I be quiet? I don’t owe anyone anything. Not a halfpenny!”
“It’s a pity vou think so, because some of your money came to you pretty easily!”
“What do you mean by that? I charge five francs a consultation. I earn my living by my work.”
“Except when you get the Pugets sold up by going in with-”
“That’s not true! You’re lying!”
Honore had risen to his feet. His sister-in-law took him by the arm, seeking to calm him, but he ignored her.
“You dare tell me I’m lying — you thief — you swindler!…”
Ferdinand was also on his feet. They glared at one another across the table with a ferocity that terrified the entire family.
“I have nothing with which to reproach myself,” said Ferdinand in a strangled voice.
“And no one has anything to reproach me with,” said Honore.
“No one?” said Ferdinand shrilly. “Not even Adelaide, on Fair-days, when you used to go off to finish the afternoon you-know-where? ”
Adelaide wanted to say that she did not care, but Honore silenced her.
“Don’t bother to answer him. I’m going to sling him out.”
He had to go round the table to get at his brother. But as he took the first step, Deodat, the postman, came across the yard, steadily, with his head on his shoulders and his hand on his leather wallet. They saw him touch the smooth stone rim as he passed by the well. The two brothers reseated themselves, each feeling that he had had a lucky escape.
“Come in!” called Honore. “I was just thinking we hadn’t seen the postman yet. Come in and sit down.”
“And so you’re a family party, all of you together!” said Deodat.
“That’s right! We’re all here!” said Ferdinand in the voice of a man radiant with happiness.
“It’s like I often say. The Haudouins, I say, they have a real, proper family party nearly every Sunday!”
“Of course we do,” said Honore. “It’s nice to be all together.”
He said it in perfect good faith. He was saying what was true — true for a good man, true for a good postman.
“There’s no greater pleasure when a family gets on well together,” said Ferdinand. “And it reminds us of the days when our father was alive.”
“Ah, he was a good man, your father. I remember one day at Valbuisson. . Well, it’s twenty years ago now, before the railway was built and before I ever thought of being a postman. I remember. . Let’s see, how old would I have been then? Round about thirty or thirty-two, I suppose. I remember that at the last house in the area — not the Rouquets’ house, because that was built later, and anyway the Rouquets didn’t come to Valbuisson till seventy-five, which was the year my father-in-law’s house was burnt down. . No, the last house was the Viards’. I don’t know if you remember them, the Viards? There were two sons, I think. Yes, that’s right, two sons, and the elder got into the Gendarmerie. It’s not a bad thing to be in for a young fellow with a head on his shoulders, but it’s like with us postmen, you’ve got to know what you’re doing. .
At this point Deodat lapsed into embarrassment, recalling the lost letter. Seeing his discomfort, Honore helped him out.
“And you met our father in Valbuisson?”
“Yes, I met him. It was the Fair, I remember. Quite a small fair, mark you. The Valbuisson Fair never amounted to much. It must have been about eleven o’clock, and your father was coming away. You know what he was like. He wasn’t the sort of man to hang about the cafes once he’d finished his business, although, mind you, I’m not saying he didn’t know how to get along with people, and a good eye for animals, whether buying or selling. . Well, for example, I remember one time seeing him buy a heifer. Quite an ordinary heifer she was, not a bad-looking animal but nothing out of the way; and he paid over the money, however much it was, the way I might spend a couple of sous on tobacco, and a quarter of an hour later he sold her again for thirty-two francs profit, not more than fifteen yards from the place where he bought her! I saw him do it!”
Banging his fist on the table, Deodat thrust his cap to the back of his head, while the Haudouins felt their bosoms swell with pride and reverence for the departed. Most of them had solid reasons for thinking of the old man with scorn or dislike, and made no bones about it; but when they talked of him in the family circle, or in the presence of strangers, he came to assume a positively Biblical aspect of wisdom and benevolence. Even Antoine,
who struggled against emotions of this order, was not wholly unmoved. Honore wagged his head and murmured: “Yes, he was a man who deserved to be well thought of.” Deodat made a gesture as though to say that he found the commendation far from adequate.
“I should say he did deserve it! You had to know him the way I did!. . Well, he was coming away from the Fair and I was going there, I don’t remember exactly what for… Yes, I do! I was going to. . no. No, that wasn’t it. . Well, anyway, there I was, on my way to Valbuisson, and just as I was passing the Viards’ house I saw Jules Haudouin coming towards me with that way he had of looking as though he wasn’t in the slightest hurry, although he’d be walking fast enough to cover four miles in an hour. He didn’t see me at first, thinking of something else as usual; he always had his head full of ideas. . ‘You’re on your way back, Jules?’ I said to him. . ‘Good day to you, Deodat,’ he says. ‘You know what I did? I forgot my umbrella!’”
Deodat smiled in affectionate homage and concluded: “He had forgotten his umbrella.”
Honore and Ferdinand, now completely reconciled, gazed at each other misty-eyed. It wras as though the umbrella were lying on the table between them. They could positively see it. His green umbrella. It was a good umbrella, the only one he had ever had, the family umbrella, the umbrella of union and concord. The very thought of it, the very mention of the word, caused a warmth of goodwill to rise in their bosoms. They would have given much to have it still with them, that umbrella (and if the old man had tried to get out of the tomb they’d have driven him back with whacks on the head). They were the two brothers, the two sons of the umbrella. Honore reproached himself with having been a little hard on Ferdinand, and Ferdinand reflected, “I have to take mv brother as he is. I would not have him otherwise.”