This infamous babble assailed Honore’s ears as he arrived; but keeping perfectly calm he pulled up at the open window, jumped from his seat into the kitchen, ran to the dresser in search of the funnel which was used in the making of blood-sausage, and putting his mouth to it as though it were a megaphone shouted twice at the top of his voice:
“Nom de Dieu de nom de Dieu de bordel de merde!” —or as it might be, “Damn and blast the whole bloody lot of you!”
The Clericals, taken by surprise, seemed to hear the great voice of the Republic and were afraid. Zephe Maloret was the first to recover. Resolved to do battle he climbed onto the midden, but Honore beat him to it by being the first to shout:
“Vive la France!”
“Vive l’Alsace-Lorraine!” retorted Zephe.
Honore bit his lips at not having thought of this.
“Vive l’Armee!”
“Vive l’Armee!”
“I said it first!”
“No, I did!”
So then Honore cunningly set a trap for his adversary. “Vive la Patrie!” he cried.
“Vive la Patrie!” answered Zephe.
“Vive le Drapeau!”
“Vive le Drapeau!”
“Down with Germany!”
“Down with Germany!”
“Down with England!”
“Down with England!”
“Down with the tonsures!”
“Down with the tonsures!” repeated Zephe before he could stop himself.
A wild burst of laughter shook the house and a tile fell on the head of the Dur family who began to bleed at the nose. Honore was laughing like twenty men through his blood-sausage megaphone when a cry of anguish and terror sounded from the death-chamber:
“Philibert has moved! He winked his eye!”
Letting the funnel fall to the kitchen floor Honore ran to the room, crying exultantly:
“I knew it! I was ready to bet he wasn’t dead! I knew it!”
But on the instant he lost all the advantage he had gained over Zephe. A dead man who returns to life is bound somewhat to disappoint his public. Not only the Clericals but the Messelons themselves were disinclined to admit that the old man was still alive, and for family reasons, nearly all excellent.
“He’s dead,” affirmed the oldest of the Messelon boys, still dabbing his eyes. “He must be. My handkerchief’s soaked!”
“He’s dead, he’s dead!” cried the other Messelons and all the Clericals.
“Of course he’s dead,” said Zephe getting down from the midden. “For one thing, he has a majority against him.”
“He winked, I tell you!” roared Honore. “They saw him wink!”
“We don’t want to start an argument,” said the oldest Messelon. “He’s dead and there it is.”
“Of course he’s dead!”
Honore could not make himself heard above the clamour and was sorry he had left the funnel behind. Juliette and her cousin, Antoine, had got out of the carriage to shout in his support, but theirs were the voices of minors, having little carrying-power. Fortunately Alexis and Ernest, together with a party of the best of Claquebue’s Republicans, having heard the summons of the funnel came running up to restore the balance. Being reassured on this count, Honore pushed his way to Philibert’s bedside; but
Ferdinand got there at the same moment and said after prodding the corpse:
“He’s cold and stiff — dead as a doornail. You can see for yourself. When I tickle him with my toothpick he doesn’t even smile!”
The Messelons were overtaken by a wave of rejoicing that spread all through the kitchen and into the yard. Honore took advantage of their exuberance to make a sign to Berthier, Corenpot and other tried Republicans to gather closely round him. Then he leaned over the corpse, took its hand and whispered in its ear:
“Philibert, you’ve played a dirty trick on me, but never mind. I’ll make it thirty-five sous a day instead of twenty-five.”
The corpse did not move.
“Forty-five,” said Honore.
He thought he felt a pressure of Philibert’s hand, but so slight that he could not be sure.
“Fifty-five. .”
There was no response, and then he said in a fury:
“This is my last word, Philibert — three francs, five sous! There’s no one in the village who gets as much as that a day!”
And then the trusted Republicans saw a smile on Honore’s lips while he continued to whisper in the dead man’s ear, but no longer in anger.
Out in the yard Zephe Maloret was holding his audience spellbound with his tale of St. Joseph’s beard, how it had grown five centimetres during the night.
“It was fifteen centimetres yesterday evening and now it’s twenty. I measured it. You can go and see for yourselves. Five centimetres it has grown, and there’s been nothing like it in Claquebue since the birth of the Green Mare, which we all know was the work of the Devil himself!”
In the face of this prodigy, denoting so clearly Heaven’s active participation in the affairs of the Commune, who could any longer doubt? The Clericals cheered for St. Joseph and also for Zephe, whose election as mayor seemed now assured. There were even Republicans who began to reconsider their position, and Honore, as though his courage naa raiiea nun, aia no more man remanc in a subdued voice that St. Joseph was the patron saint of cuckolds. Moving near to Juliette he signed to her to follow him into the garden, and there said:
“While I keep Uncle Ferdinand amused, jump onto the landau and drive it down the road till you pick up Guste Berthier. He knows what to do.”
“But Aunt Helene and Lucienne are still sitting in the landau.”
“Never mind, take them with you. Put them down at the cemetery and wait there with them till Berthier comes back.”
In order not to be seen leaving the garden with her father, Juliette made a detour along a path. As she passed a row of beans she heard a stifled laugh and came upon her cousin Frederic seated on a pile of cut grass with his arm round Marguerite Maloret’s neck.
“I like your little cousin,” said Zephe’s daughter. “He has a nice soft skin.”
With eyes blazing and cheeks scarlet Juliette stood gazing down at the laughing, mocking pair. She made no reply to Marguerite, but seizing Frederic by the arm she dragged him to his feet, smacked his face twice and pushed him along the path in front of her. When he tried to struggle loose she hung on with both arms round him and bit him, lingering at the tender flesh at the nape of his neck.
“I can do what I like,” protested Frederic. “It’s none of vour business, and I like her better than you.”
“A slut!” said Juliette with tight lips. “I’ll pay her out!” “She’s rounder than you!”
“Do you want your ears boxed again?”
“And anyway she wanted to!”
“Go on!” said Juliette. “Hurry up!”
They reached the yard, which still resounded with the merits of St. Joseph. Juliette pushed her cousin into the landau, and taking her place on the driver’s seat drove the carriage out onto the road.
“I’m taking you to the cemetery,” she explained to Aunt Helene. “I thought you’d like to say a prayer at the graves of our dead.”
She pulled up alongside Guste Berthier, who got up beside her and took the reins. They talked together in low voices until they reached the cemetery, where she got out with her aunt and cousins.
“I’m going on to the Mairiesaid Guste Berthier. “I’ll pick you up on my way back.”
While Aunt Helene said a prayer at the graves of her parents-in-law, and Frederic and Lucienne measured St. Joseph’s beard, Juliette stood contemplating the defunct Malorets, who had three tombs together at the edge of the path, a short distance from those of the Haudouins.