And his life went on as in the past. Nothing
was changed, except that his son, Cesaire, slept in
the cemetery.
What could he, an old man, do? He could work
no longer; he was now good for nothing except to swallow
the soup prepared by his daughter-in-law. And
he did swallow it in silence, morning and evening,
watching with an eye of rage, the little boy also
taking soup, right opposite him, at the other side
of the table. Then he went out, prowled about
the fields in the fashion of a vagabond, went hiding
behind the barns, where he slept for an hour or two,
as if he were afraid of being seen, and then he came
back at the approach of night.
But Celeste’s mind began to be occupied by graver
anxieties. The grounds needed a man to look after
them and work them. Somebody should be there
always to go through the fields, not a mere hired laborer,
but a big cultivator, a master, who would know the
business and have the care of the farm. A lone
woman could not manage the farming, watch the price
of corn, and direct the sale and purchase of cattle.
Then ideas came into her head, simple practical ideas,
which she had turned over in her head at night.
She could not marry again before the end of the year,
and it was necessary at once to take care of pressing
interests, immediate interests.
Only one man could extricate her from embarrassment,
Victor Lecoq, the father of her child. He was
strong and well acquainted with farming business;
with a little money in his pocket, he would make an
excellent cultivator. She was aware of his skill,
having known him while he was working on his parents’
farm.
So, one morning, seeing him passing along the road
with a cart of dung, she went out to meet him.
When he perceived her, he drew up his horses and she
said to him, as if she had met him the night before:
“Good morrow, Victor—are you quite
well, the same as ever?”
He replied:
“I’m quite well, the same as ever—and
how are you?”
“Oh, I’d be all right, only that I’m
alone in the house, which bothers me on account of
the grounds.”
Then they remained chatting for a long time, leaning
against the wheel of the heavy cart. The man
every now and then lifted up his cap to scratch his
forehead, and began thinking, while she, with flushed
cheeks, went on talking warmly, told him about her
views, her plans, her projects for the future.
In the end, he said, in a low tone:
“Yes, it can be done.”
She opened her hand like a countryman clinching a
bargain, and asked:
“Is it agreed?”
He pressed her outstretched hand.
“’Tis agreed.”
“’Tis fixed, then, for Sunday next?”
“’Tis fixed for Sunday next.”
“Well, good morning, Victor.”
“Good morning, Madame Houlbreque.”
This Sunday was the day of the village festival, the
annual festival in honor of the patron saint, which
in Normandy is called the assembly.
