“Old pig,” said Juliette, to Grandfather Maloret, “so now you’re in hell, and serve you right! Now you know what happens when you behave like a dirty old man with your own daughters! I expect you’re sorry now, but it’s too late!”
The old man was too abashed to say anything, lying there with six feet of earth on his stomach. Juliette passed on to his sister, Tine Maloret, who lay beside him.
“You’re just the same as Zephe’s daughter, but don’t worry, she’ll end up like you have. She’ll end up in hell, and you will have shown her the way!”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” said Tine, sighing. “You know how people talk.”
“You mean it isn’t true, all the things they say you got up to? But what about your two sons — and that process-server? Well?. .”
The last was a son of Zephe who had died at the age of five. One could lay no heavy sins to his account. He had a tiny grave, unadorned except for a cross and a heart in white enamel bearing the inscription: “He is in Heaven.” Juliette merely remarked coldly:
“In Heaven? I wonder!”
She then prayed to God to keep all dead members of the Maloret family in the hottest corner of hell. As for the living ones, she would take care of them.
Just as Aunt Helene was getting back into the carriage the cure came out of the presbytery on his way to the Messelons’. She offered him a seat in the landau which he accepted, fearing lest he should be late for Mass.
“I’ve put a parcel under the seat,” said Berthier, “if you wouldn’t mind watching out for it.”
It was a large parcel, carefully wrapped, with no sparing of newspaper or string.
“I’ll take it on my knees,” said the cure. “I’ll look after it.”
As they went along he asked Mme. Haudouin after her husband’s health and her children’s progress at school. Lucienne told him that she had been top in Conscience Scrutiny, but he congratulated her without much warmth. He disapproved of Mile. Bertrande’s zeal, considering it wrong that spiritual matters should be treated as though they were botany. A great clamour was to be heard as they approached Philibert’s house. The Clerical Party were now cheering St. Joseph and General Boulanger.
The cure began to growr concerned. His arrival abated the commotion, and the Dur family at once informed him of the miracle of St. Joseph’s beard. He heard the news without enthusiasm. He was no revolutionary and he had a horror of miracles. However, he could not humiliate the Durs in the presence of the Republicans by issuing a formal denial.
“St. Joseph has great powers,” he said, “but he has a reputation for being sparing in their use. One should, in any case, always approach these matters with the utmost caution. Before making any positive claims on his behalf I would recommend waiting until his beard is below his waist.”
The Messelons had come out to greet him, sighing and mopping their eyes.
“Well anyway, Monsieur le Cure, we can’t expect him to give us back our dead.”
“That would call for a very great saint, my children— a very great saint indeed.”
The cure got out of the carriage and went into the house, still with the parcel in his hands. In the death-chamber Berthier took it from him, and taking off the wrappings displayed a plaster bust of the Republic. The cure could not restrain a gesture of annoyance. Passing to the bedside, Berthier held the bust to the dead man’s face for a chilly kiss. A murmur of astonishment and reproof went up from the spectators, but Honore, putting his lips to the blood-sausage megaphone, which he had fetched from the kitchen, cried in a ringing voice:
“The Republic does not forget her true friends! And now you’re going to see her wake old Philibert up again!” And it was so. At the Republic’s third kiss the old man’s eyelids quivered and he raised his head from the pillow. A solemn and splendid song rose from the throats of the Republicans. It was the Marseillaise. The women burst into tears, and the Rousselier family, until that moment among the most stalwart supporters of reaction, joined in the refrain.
When the rejoicings had subsided a little, questions were showered upon Philibert.
“What’s it like being dead?”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“What did you think about?”
The old man seemed a little dazed by the experience. He waited for the noise to die down and said in a piping voice:
“I found myself in Paradise at about eight o’clock this morning, and fifty years younger, as you’d expect. It’s a very nice place, with a nice climate and plenty of amusements. Your wine costs you almost nothing, and it’s the same with food. God was very friendly and not a bit standoffish like they try to make out. “Seeing you’ve just arrived, Philibert,” He said, “I’ll stroll round with you for a bit.” Just being friendly, you see, just to show me the sights. So off we went, both of us talking and me feeling no different than if it had been Dur or Corenpot or anyone else, which shows you the way he knows how to put people at their ease. But to tell you the truth, there weren’t so very many people in Paradise, and that’s what surprised me most of all. I shouldn’t think there was more than twenty all told from these parts. There were a few Berthiers and Haudouins and Corenpots and Coutants and one or two others, but — it’s a funny thing — there weren’t any of the ones I’d been expecting to meet there. ‘Well, that’s funny!’ I said to God. ‘I don’t see old Dur here!’. . ‘He’s in hell, my child.’… ‘I don’t see old
Mother Rossingneux either.’. . ‘She’s in hell too’. . ‘And what about the three Boeuf girls?’. . ‘They’re all in hell.’… It was the same no matter who I asked after, and in the end I understood why. The fact is that in these days the only people who go to Heaven are the ones with progressive opinions. You’ll say that’s a bit hard on some people, and I’m sorry about it myself, but when you come to think it over you can’t help seeing it’s right. After all, if you’ve spent your whole life fighting against the Republic, which is the mother of us all, you can hardly expect-”
“Monstrous!” cried the cure. “Outrageous! This is a put-up job!”
But his efforts to deny the miracle were drowned by Honore with his megaphone. Amid tremendous uproar the Republic militant acclaimed the Republic triumphant, and fourteen families, their eyes opened, renounced their reactionary beliefs.
While a numerous public congratulated Philibert upon his resurrection, Ferdinand, with sagging limbs and a dry throat, was in a state of acute anguish. While he seconded the cries of “Vive la Republique” with wincing nods of his head, he was gazing in despairing apology at Zephe Maloret. He attempted to raise the name of General Boulanger, but his tongue betrayed him, and he only stammered:
“Vive Saint Joseph!”
Seeing and hearing which, Honore picked him up under his arm and dumped him in the landau. But Ferdinand’s calvary' was not yet at an end. As the carriage returned to Honore’s house, packed to bursting-point with the two families, Juliette took it upon herself to scold her brother Ernest for the lamentable lack of gallantry and enterprise whereby he might have secured the downfall of the Maloret family.
“You’re leaving for Epinal to-night, and y'ou haven’t done a thing about getting back that letter! And all the time I’m sure Marguerite’s got it hidden in her stay's!”
“Really Juliette!” protested Ferdinand. “How can y'ou talk like that in front of the children?”
“The children!” said Juliette with scorn. “You ask