When they met anyone it was Honore who talked of Epinal and life in barracks, he who had never so much as seen the place, as though he were the one who had just come back; and it was Ernest who talked of the corn-harvest and the worry it had given them because of the mildness of the winter. They stole a fragment of the other’s life and preoccupations, the corn, the barracks, as though it were a game between them; and the men they passed on the road, Berthier or Corenpot, Dur or Rous-selier, tugged at their moustaches, thinking:
“So Honore’s on his way home with his eldest son!”
And the two walked on, happy to be together in the familiar landscape and on the way home. And people called to them (those in the distance, for whom they had no time to wait):
“So you’ve got your son with you!”
“That’s right,” Honore called back, loud enough for all the world to hear. “He’s just arrived from Epinal.” And he turned, beaming, to Ernest and said: “That was Ber-thier.” (Or Corenpot, or Roussclier.)
Presently they saw Zephe Maloret’s daughter walking along a pathway fifty yards from the road. She turned her head towards them, with her bosom in silhouette.
“Out for a walk?” called Honore.
“I’m on my way home,” said Marguerite smiling. “And you’re going home with Ernest?”
“He’s back from Epinal on leave, and we’re hurrying to get in by dinner-time because his mother’s waiting for him, as you can imagine. . ”
“Well it’s true, she’s pretty, all right,” said Ernest when they had lost sight of her.
When they reached the house he did not respond to the family greetings quite as warmly as might have been expected, after so long an absence. Directly the meal was over he got up and took his cap off Gustave’s head.
“I shall be back in an hour.” he said. “I’ll come and find you in the fields.”
“You don’t have to worry about us,” said Honore. “You know what I told you.”
After the boy had gone he shrugged his shoulders.
“He’s off to see Germaine Vinard. In a hurry, wasn’t he?”
“They were friendly before he went into the army,” said Adelaide.
“You can’t have anything against her!” said Juliette, flaring up suddenly.
“Who said I had?” demanded Honore.
“I thought perhaps her grandfather might have quarrelled with our grandfather forty years ago over a game of skittles! That’s all it takes to prevent a marriage!”
She laughed bitterly and he gave her a glance filled with reproach; but she only laughed more loudly, and he flushed and cried, leaning across the table:
“For God’s sake marry your young cub! If you want my consent, you’ve got it! You can do what you like! Go on — marry him!”
Juliette was silent, her eyes now distressed; but carried away by his wrath Honore repeated the challenge:
“\ou're perfectly free. Get married as soon as you like, the sooner the better!”
He regretted the words the moment he had uttered them. Juliette's chin went up.
“Thank you. \\ ell, I'll marry him as soon as we possibly can, the very moment he's readv!”
“And who are you going to marry?” demanded Adelaide. “I hope I'm to be told before the wedding-day!” Honore gazed fixedly at his daughter, still hoping that the name would not be spoken, and that this scene would have no sequel. But Juliette answered, carefully articulating every syllable:
“I’m going to marry Noel Maloret.”
Alexis ran out of the kitchen swearing. Adelaide, her arms hanging limply at her sides, stared at Juliette as though she had taken leave of her senses. She uttered no word of reproach, but quietly removed her apron and said as she went towards the door:
“I’m going to have a word with the Malorets.”
Honore did not move. After a minute he called, “Adelaide!” She had already crossed the yard, and he saw her through the window vanishing down the road beneath the middav sun. He followed, with Gustave and Blackie behind him. Juliette remained in the kitchen with Clotilde. She heaved a sigh, and Clotilde, raising her head, said in a low voice:
“Are they cross with you, too?”
“No, silly, they aren’t really cross with anyone. They’re cross because of the letter, and so am I. If it hadn’t been for that everything xvould be all right.”
Suddenly Juliette felt hot tears falling on her hands, and saw Clotilde’s shoulders shaken with sobs. She questioned her gentlv, taking her in her arms. For a little while the child clung to her without answering, and then she stood up, taking Juliette’s hand. Juliette let herself be led as though they were playing a game. Clotilde took her into the dining-room, bolted the door behind them and led her to the chimney-piece. Juliette was growing intrigued. She watched her sister stand on tip-toe, lift off the glass cover protecting the clock and slip her fingers beneath its pedestal, which bore two imposing bronze gilt figures representing Agriculture and Industry in some sort of ballet dress.
“Here you are,” said Clotilde, holding out a letter.
Juliette guessed instantly that it was the missing letter, even before she recognised her uncle’s handwriting. It had been opened. She got it out and read: “My dear Honore — The black horse was taken with colic at the beginning of the week. .
When she had read it all she stood uncertainly, holding it between two fingers. Her face was flushed. At length she said in a low voice to Clotilde:
“Put it back where it was and don’t say a word to anyone.”
As they left the room together Clotilde nudged her with her elbow:
“Did you read the part about Grandmother and the Prussian?. .”
When Juliette joined her father, who after fetching Adelaide back was now harnessing the oxen, he said with a glance of mingled anger and tenderness, “Obstinate little devil!” Juliette stood still.
“You’ve given your consent,” she said, “but I’ve been thinking. I wouldn’t want to seem to be marrying Noel just to get that letter back We’ll leave things as they are until you’ve got it back yourself. . ”
At three o’clock Ernest appeared in the field where they were harvesting. He had just left Germaine, and he found her more desirable than Marguerite Maloret. She was a thick-set girl, short in the legs but warm and full-fleshed; in her number nine shoes she would stand sturdily erect through all the winds that blew and do him loyal service,
“What do you think you’re up to?” cried Honore, “You’re not supposed to be here! Go and put your uniform on again!”
“Not supposed to be here? Just you look at those sheaves, how loose they are! The room they’ll take up, you won’t get the stuff away in six cart-loads, not counting that they’ll fall apart when you pitch them and it’ll all have to be raked up. This isn’t a job for Alexis!”
Ernest set to work trussing, while Alexis laid the loose swathes ready on the binders and Honore, helped by Adelaide and Juliette, loaded them in a workmanlike fashion on the cart. The work went at a good pace, and he was filled with pride in his son: a real worker, his son: he put aside the soldier’s trimmings and came along to the field and whacked into it harder than anyone!
“Now watch,” said Ernest to Alexis. “It isn’t strength you need to make a good sheaf. The thing is, once you’ve got it in position, not to let it slacken off when you’re tying it. If you try to pull on the binder, instead of twisting it at once, the straw swells out again and you’ve had your trouble for nothing. Look. A sharp push with your knee — and twist!”
At a moment when the boys were working near the cart, Zephe’s daughter passed along the track leading to the Raicart wood. She was clad in pink muslin and bore over her shoulder a sunshade matching it in colour. Putting down her fork, Adelaide murmured furiously: