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 ate 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 would go out, prowl about the fields after
the fashion of a vagabond, hiding behind the barns
where he would sleep for an hour or two as if he were
afraid of being seen and then come back at the approach
of night.
But Celeste’s mind began to be occupied by graver
anxieties. The farm needed a man to look after
it and cultivate it. Somebody should be there
always to go through the fields, not a mere hired laborer,
but a regular farmer, a master who understood the
business and would take an interest in 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 help her out of her difficulties,
Victor Lecoq, the father of her child. He was
strong and understood farming; 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 her parents’ farm.
So one morning, seeing him passing along the road
with a cart of manure, 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 farm.”
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.
At last 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.”
“It’s settled, then, for next Sunday?”
“It’s settled for next Sunday”
“Well, good-morning, Victor.”
“Good-morning, Madame Houlbreque.”
PART III
This particular Sunday was the day of the village
festival, the annual festival in honor of the patron
saint, which in Normandy is called the assembly.
For the last eight days quaint-looking vehicles in
which live the families of strolling fair exhibitors,
lottery managers, keepers of shooting galleries and
other forms of amusement or exhibitors of curiosities
whom the peasants call “wonder-makers”
could be seen coming along the roads drawn slowly
by gray or sorrel horses.
