“It’s so dark in the kitchen. It’s so dark that you might think it was night-time. And when it's dark like that you get to thinking things. . and so that's why.
Honore smiled at his wife and touched her with the brim of his hat.
"Of course,” he said, moying off. “When it’s dark like that. .”
Standing in the middle of the yard she watched him cross the road, and murmured with a sigh:
“Such a fine man. you'd never think he was forty-five. Plenty of men his age, you'd think they were old!. .”
Just as he finished whetting his scythe, Honore heard the sound of wheels on the road. His brother Ferdinand, driving his gig, appeared round the corner, two hundred yards from the Champ-Brule. The vet was flogging his horse, which was moving at a long trot. Putting down the scythe, Honore went to the edge of the road, muttering to himself:
“Driving an animal like that in this weather! What does he think he’s up tor”
He saw Ferdinand raise his hat to a group of harvesters and understood that the horse was being made to show off its paces, because the vet never acted on impulse but always for a reason, like the sensible man he was. Honore looked the approaching animal over with an expert eye. It was a dark bay, too heavily built for his taste.
“Ferdinand may be a vet,” he reflected with satisfaction, “but he'll never really know a good animal. That’s a sturdy horse, all right, but it isn’t the trotter you want between the shaft of a gig. And what about that bulge of stomach between its front legs?”
As the gig drew up he asked a little anxiously, since the vet rarely came to Claquebue on a week-day:
“Is anything the matter?”
“No, nothing,” said Ferdinand, getting out. “I have to pay a visit near here so I thought I might as well come this way. We shan’t be able to come over to-morrow, as it happens. It’ll have to be the Sunday after.”
He held out his hand, contrary to the tacit understanding whereby the brothers dispensed with all forms of friendly demonstration when they were alone together. Honore touched it with a negligent gesture. He had no doubt at all as to what the unaccustomed hand-shake portended: his brother was going to ask him for something. And seeing the realisation in his elder brother’s eye, Ferdinand perceived that he had made a bad start. He flushed slightly, and to cover his embarrassment inquired with an exaggerated solicitude after the children.
Honore replied briefly while he patted the horse’s neck. Clotilde and Gustave, the two little ones, were at school. They should be home by now, but they always dawdled on the way. Alexis was looking after the cows on the common; he would be back at school in the autumn. While she waited to get married, and she had plenty of time, Juliette was working in the fields like a man: it was very necessary, now that her brother was doing his military service.
“As for Ernest, he’s still at Epinal. You must read his last letter. He says his sergeant thinks a lot of him. I’m beginning to wonder whether he’s thinking of re-enlisting— Alphonse put so many ideas into his head. Have you heard anything from Alphonse?”
Ferdinand shook his head. He did not like to be reminded of this unworthy brother, and Honore was well aware of the fact.
“Poor Alphonse, he hasn’t had much luck. You won’t find a better-hearted man anywhere.”
Ferdinand pursed his lips, looking severe.
“Don’t you agree?” said Honore.
“Yes, of course,” said Ferdinand with an effort.
“I often think of poor old Alphonse. I wonder if he’s still at Lyons, and how many children he has now. It’s two years since we last heard from him.” Honore paused, and then went on with an unkind satisfaction: “But you know what he’s like. One of these days he’ll turn up without warning and plant himself and his whole family on you for a couple of months. It’ll be nice to see him again.”
Ferdinand, to whom this alarming possibility had not occurred, felt his cheeks grow red with anger while a savage light gleamed in his eyes. However, he refrained from making any derogatory remark about Alphonse, since this might prejudice the important discussion upon which he was about to embark with Honore, and which he had been meditating since the previous evening. After a slightly uncomfortable silence he asked after Philibert Messelon, the major of Claquebue.
“I haven’t had time to go and see him,” said Honore, “but I sent Juliette round yesterday evening. He’s not getting on at all well, worn-out as he is. You’d say he couldn’t last more than another couple of weeks. Well, he’s an old man, no getting away from it.”
“A pitv all the same,” said Ferdinand sighing. “He was a good man, Philibert, and he made a good mayor. .
But talking of that-”
Mistaking what he had in mind, Honore said:
“I’ve already told you I don’t want to be mayor or even deputy-mavor. It’s quite enough, being on the Council.” Ferdinand clicked his tongue, and his thin face with its thrusting chin became suddenly animated. He seemed to have been given the cue he wanted.
“You won’t let me finish. It’s a matter of choosing another candidate, and since you have so much influence. .”
Honore did indeed possess a certain influence both on the Municipal Council and in general throughout Claquebue. It gratified him to hear his brother say so, and he listened with a better grace.
“The other evening,” Ferdinand went on, “the Deputy came to dinner with us while he was waiting between trains. Valtier has been a friend to both you and me. He has done us services before now, and he’ll do us others.” “I don’t owe Valtier anything and I don’t want anything from him, but go on.”
“You can never be sure about that. Anyway at dinner the subject of Philibert Messelon came up, and Valtier gave me to understand that there’s someone he wants to make mayor when he goes. I need hardly say that he’s quite convinced that the man he has in mind will serve the best interests of the commune. Valtier is a man of the highest integrity, a fact which is generally acknowledged in Paris. I have no need to sing his praises. He-”
“Well, if his candidate is suitable. .” said Honore. Ferdinand uttered a slightly apologetic laugh.
“I’m afraid it’ll come as a bit of a shock to you, and I don’t mind admitting that I had a job to get used to the idea myself. The man he has in mind is Zephe Maloret.” Honore gave a long whistle, as though amazed by his brother’s temerity in even speaking the name. He glanced at him and said:
“You don’t even seem to be indignant!”
“Well, of course, at first sight-”
“The thing that really astonishes me is that Valtier should have picked on one of the worst reactionaries in the district — a priest-lover like Zephe! How did it happen?”
Ferdinand was not comfortable. He replied cautiously: “I don’t really know. . Well, what I mean is, it’s not easy to explain. As I’m sure you realise, the political background is exceptional. General Boulanger’s programme has served to reconcile a good many adversaries, and it can even be a link between apparently opposed parties. In a period of anarchy such as we’re living through at present, such a link is highly desirable. The facts of the situation
— h’m. . — lead one to the conclusion that-”
“Listen,” said Honore. “I don’t know anything about Boulanger’s programme or the facts of the situation or anything else; but I do know Claquebue, and I can tell you that if Zephe is made mayor you’ll be making fools of the Republic and the Republican Party, and you can’t get over it by talking about Boulanger!”
“To tell you the truth, I think Valtier may be on friendly terms with some member of the Maloret family. He said something about personal reasons. . ”