The farmers felt they were never given enough respect, especially since the Viscount was made Mayor… The old farmer who had been Mayor before him had been warm and friendly to everyone; he might have been greedy, vulgar, harsh and insulting to his constituents… he got away with it! Yet they reproached the Viscount de Montmort for being haughty. What did they expect? For him to stand up when they came into the Mayor's office? To see them to the door or something? They couldn't bear any hint of superiority, anyone wealthier or anyone who came from a better family. No matter what people said, the Germans had good qualities. They were a disciplined race, docile, thought Madame de Montmort as she listened, almost with pleasure, to the rhythmical footsteps fading away, the harsh voices shouting Achtung in the distance. It must be very nice to own a lot of property in Germany, whereas here…
She was consumed by anxiety. It was getting darker and she was about to go back into the house when she saw-or thought she saw-a shadowy figure moving along the wall. Head down, it disappeared into the vegetable garden. Finally, she was going to catch one of these thieves. She quivered with pleasure. It was typical of her not to be afraid. Amaury was always worried about confrontations, but not she. Danger aroused the huntress in her. She hid behind some trees and followed the shadowy figure, holding the pair of shoes she had found hidden in the moss at the foot of the wall (the thief was walking in his socks to make less noise). She worked her way round so that he ran straight into her as he was coming out of the vegetable garden. He jumped back and tried to run away, but she shouted at him contemptuously, "I've got your shoes, my friend. The police will soon find out whose they are."
The man stopped and started walking towards her; it was Benoît Sabarie. They stood staring at each other without saying a word.
"Well, that's a fine thing to do," the Viscountess said finally, her voice trembling with hatred.
She despised him. Of all the farmers, he was the most insolent, the most stubborn; whether it was about the hay, the livestock, the fences, everything and nothing, the château and the farm waged silent, interminable guerrilla warfare against each other.
"Well!" she said indignantly. "Now I know who the thief is and I'm going to tell the Mayor immediately. You'll live to regret this!"
"Tell me, do I talk to you like that, do I? Take your plants," said Benoît, throwing them down on the ground where they lay scattered in the moonlight. "Didn't we offer to pay for them? Do you think we don't have enough money to buy them? But every time we ask you for a favour-not that it would cost you anything-no! You'd rather see us starve to death!"
"Thief, thief, thief!" the Viscountess kept shrieking as he talked. "The Mayor…"
"I don't give a damn about the Mayor! Go and get him then. I'll say it to his face."
"How dare you speak to me like that!"
"Because we've all had enough around here, if you want to know the truth! You have everything and you keep everything! Your wood, your fruit, your fish, your game, your hens, you wouldn't sell any of it, you wouldn't give any of it away for all the money in the world. Your husband the Mayor makes fancy speeches about helping one another and the rest of it. You must be bloody joking! Your château's crammed full of stuff, from the cellar to the attic, everyone knows that, they've seen. Are we asking for charity? No! But that's exactly what bothers you, isn't it? You'd be happy to do it as charity because you like humiliating poor people, but when it comes to doing a favour, as equals-'I'm paying for what I take '-you're off like a shot. Why wouldn't you sell me your plants?"
"That's my business and this is my house, I believe, you insolent…"
"That corn wasn't even for me, I swear! I'd rather die than ask people like you for anything. It was for Louise, 'cause her husband's a prisoner and I wanted to help her out. I help people!"
"By stealing?"
"Well, what else are we supposed to do? You're heartless and stingy with it! What else are we supposed to do?" he repeated furiously. "And I'm not the only one to help myself here. Everything you refuse to give away without a good reason, everything you keep out of pure spite, we're going to take. And it's not over yet. Just wait until autumn! Your husband the Mayor will be hunting with the Germans…"
"That's not true! That's a lie! He's never gone hunting with the Germans."
She stamped her foot angrily, wild with rage. Again that stupid slander! The Germans did invite them both to one of their hunts last winter, it was true. They had declined, but they couldn't refuse to attend the dinner in the evening. Whether they liked it or not, they had to follow the government's orders. And besides, these German officers were cultured men, after all! What separates or unites people is not their language, their laws, their customs, their principles, but the way they hold their knife and fork.
"When it's autumn," Benoît continued, "he'll be hunting with the Germans, but I'll be back, I will, back to your grounds and I won't care if it's rabbits or foxes I get. You can have your groundsmen, your gamekeepers and your dogs chase after me as much as you want; they won't be as clever as Benoît Sabarie! They've been running after me plenty all winter without catching me!"
"I won't go and get the groundsman or the gamekeepers, I'll get the Germans. They scare you, don't they? You can show off all you like, but when you see a German uniform, you keep your head down."
"Listen, I've seen them Boches up close, I have, in Belgium and at the Somme. I'm not like your husband. Where was he during the war? In an office, where he could treat everyone like shit."
"You vulgar little man!"
"In Chalon-sur-Saône, that's where he was, your husband, from September 'til the day the Germans arrived. Then he cleared off. That's his idea of war."
"You are… you are repulsive. Get out of here or I'll scream. Get out of here or I'll call them!"
"That's it, call the Boches. You must be really glad they're here, eh? They're like the police, they watch your property. You'd better pray to the Good Lord that they stay a long time because the day they leave…"
He left his sentence unfinished. Quickly grabbing his shoes, the evidence, from her hands, he put them on, climbed over the wall and disappeared. Almost immediately she heard the sound of German footsteps getting closer.
"Oh, I really hope they caught him. I really hope they've killed him," the Viscountess said to herself as she ran towards the château. "What a man! What a species! What vile people! That's what Bolshevism is, exactly that. My God, what has happened to everyone? When Papa was alive, if you caught a poacher in the woods he'd cry and beg for forgiveness. Naturally he'd be forgiven. Papa, who was goodness personified, would shout, make a scene, then give him a glass of wine in the kitchen. I saw that happen more than once when I was a child. But then the farmers were poor. Since they've got money, it's as if all their worst instincts have resurfaced. 'The château's crammed full of stuff, from the cellar to the attic,'" she repeated furiously. "Well! And what about his house? They're richer than we are. What exactly do they want? It's envy. They're being eaten up by base feelings. That Sabarie is dangerous. He bragged about how he came to hunt here. So he's kept his rifle. He's capable of anything. If he gets up to mischief, if he kills a German, the entire region will be held responsible and especially the Mayor. It's people like him that cause all our problems. It's my duty to denounce him. I'll make Amaury see reason, and… if I have to, I'll go to German Headquarters myself. He prowls the woods at night, in complete breach of the rules, with a weapon-he's had it!"