“It’s nice in here.”
When she had reached the foot of the bed the white shirts moved at the other end of the room, moving slowly as she had done, and with pauses. They were separating, one approaching her and one moving towards the door; and still they continued to talk, still with the same low and steady voice. Juliette stood huddled in the corner of the room by the foot of the bed, watching the white shirt draw nearer. A small, plaintive sound passed through her lips, half-protest, half-invitation; but when the white shirt was within a foot of her she uttered a cry:
“Marguerite!”
Zephe, with his hand on the latch of the door, uttered a short laugh.
“Call Marguerite if you want to! Call her!”
Juliette called again—“Marguerite!”
The door opened and closed. Reaching out suddenly, Noel took her head in his hands, pulling her towards him by the hair and murmuring gross and tender words. She began at length to struggle, trying to thrust him away.
“Leave me alone! I don’t want… I swear I didn’t mean. .!”
She thought of Honore and the household that awaited her, and was overtaken by a burning sense of shame. Noel was pressing her down over the bed, an arm about her, a hand plucking at her skirt. With a convulsive effort she struggled partly free and hit him with all her strength in the face. For an instant he paused, taken by surprise; then in a fury he flung her on the bed. His hands passed over her. Juliette lay with her eyes closed, sobbing with shame and pleasure, prepared to accept defeat. And a voice sounded from outside, through the almost-closed shutters, seeming so near that it might have been in the room itself. “Good day to one and all! Here’s the postman!”
Noel drew back. Juliette jumped off the bed, and run-
ning to the window pulled the shutters wide. Zephe was standing on the other side of the yard, looking round with a heavy frown.
“Come in, Deodat!” cried Juliette. “Come in!”
And Deodat opened the door and came in, laughing because he was the postman. It was no accident that brought him there; it was his job. That morning he had set out for Valbuisson as usual, and he had come back with his steady postman’s stride and the letters bulging in his wallet. Between the Durs and the Corenpots he had stopped to piss in the hedge, without really wanting to, and those moments deserved to be recorded in letters of gold (suppose he had arrived too soon, and gone away again, or too late, instead of at the exact moment!). But he didn’t know about that; he didn’t know about anything; it was not his job. Good postmen never know; they piss in the hedge when the need arises, and that is all. And then he had called at the Berthiers’ and the Rusillons’, and then he had come along the lane flanked by apple-trees, just as he was supposed to do. That is how it is. The postman comes walking steadily in, saying good-day to all the world, and the girls are kept out of trouble, and all because the postman does his job.
Zephe and his son were decidedly aggrieved at the interruption, but he gazed at them serenely with his china-blue eyes.
“I’m late,” he said; “but that’s because the train was later than usual. I’ve a letter for Marguerite.”
As she straightened her clothes and tidied her hair Juliette looked at the big, round head that he wore on his shoulders just like everybody else: at the moment he had it bent over to the left while he peered intently into his wallet, ostensibly to see better, but in reality because he was a good man.
“Deodat, darling Deodat, what a wonderful postman you are!”
“I just do my job,” said Deodat modestly. “Isn’t Marguerite here? ”
Zephe, who had followed him into the kitchen, held out his hand for the letter.
“She’s dressing,” said Juliette. “I would like you to wait in the yard with me until she comes. Then you can give her her letter.”
“Just as you please, my dear. Well, good-day to you both. And good-day to Anai's.”
Juliette slammed the door on the Malorets and stood stretching in the sunshine.
“Deodat, I love you!”
“One has to be careful, my pet,” said Deodat.
“It wasn’t my fault — it wasn’t!”
“One has to be careful, that’s all I’m saying. Once when you were Only five years old — five, mark you! — you ran away from home, and I found you crying under the trees on the road to Valbuisson and took you with me on my round. My old woman would remember, if she was still alive. She gave you a pear. It came off the big tree we had at the corner of our house, do you remember? They were fine, big pears. The old woman was very fond of them.”
Marguerite came out of the house and kissed Juliette.
“I’ve a letter for you,” said Deodat.
After reading it Marguerite slipped the letter into her bodice, and the three of them went down the lane lined by apple-trees. When Deodat had left them Marguerite said:
“A pity he turned up just as that moment! You thought it would all be settled by this time, didn’t you?”
“You know quite well I didn’t really want to! You wouldn’t have arranged everything so carefully if you hadn’t known.”
“One never quite wants to — and thesn one’s glad when it has happened, if it isn’t our fault!”
“You speak for yourself!” said Juliette angrily.
“No, I’m speaking for you much more than for myself. I’m not so complicated. I know you’re trying to get me into bed with your father, and that’s why I’m going there, because I don’t mind. To say nothing of the fact that Honore will enjoy it too, and I don’t blame him!”
Juliette flushed crimson, and Marguerite went on acidly:
“Love can’t be much fun with a wife like his.”
“If you think the men are all like your lot, you’re mis-
taken! Father doesn’t care twopence about that sort of thing!”
“That remains to be seen. And if it’s true, why did you come to fetch me at one o’clock, when Valtier won’t be here till three?”
“It’s not three o’clock. It’s half-past one. I’ve done what Uncle Ferdinand told me to do.”
Marguerite pulled the letter out of her bodice.
“This is from Valtier. I’ll read you what he says. “My sweet little fury, — Your fat old Deputy won’t be able to be at Claquebue at three o’clock on Thursday, as we arranged. . ” Do you hear that? And he goes on to tell me to come back to Paris, because he’s been called back there unexpectedly. But he says three o’clock.”
“So you’ll be leaving to-morrow,” said Juliette, in considerable embarrassment.
“No, not to-morrow. I don’t like travelling on a Friday. I shall go on Saturday, and glad to get away from here. It’s not much fun, you know, our native village. A pretty girl doesn’t often get what she deserves, specially at harvest-time. You don’t like it much, do you?”
Juliette shrugged her shoulders.
“If your Deputy isn’t going to be here,” she said, “I don’t see why you’re coming with me now.”
“Well, now we’ve practically reached your house I wouldn’t want to turn back without saying hello to Honore.”
As they entered the yard Honore greeted them from the dining-room window, and Marguerite remarked to Juliette:
“I see he’s got a clean shirt on, too!”
Fifteen
Happy to think that his cheeks were newly shaven, Honore leaned out of the window and greeted Marguerite with a wide smile of welcome.
“The Deputy has written to say he isn’t coming,” announced Juliette in a voice trembling with anger, “but Marguerite wanted to come just the same. She’s as bad as Zephe — and that’s saying something!”