Summoning up her courage, she ventured:

‘Were you expecting someone today, my dear?’

‘Yes and no,’ he replied, beginning to walk up and down.

‘Have you perhaps rented out the second floor?’

‘I have indeed.’

And as there followed an embarrassed silence, he went on calmly:

‘This morning before I left for Les Tulettes I went up to Abbé Bourrette’s. He was very insistent and I’m afraid I agreed… I know you didn’t want me to. But, if you think about it, you are not being sensible, my dear. This second floor is no use to us. It’s in a state of disrepair. The fruit we’ve been keeping in the bedrooms has made it damp and caused the wallpaper to peel off… And while I think of it, don’t forget to move the fruit tomorrow: our tenant might arrive at any moment.’

‘But we were so happy on our own in the house!’ Marthe said in a small voice.

‘Nonsense!’ Mouret rejoined. ‘A priest won’t be in our way very much. He will live in his part of the house and we shall live in ours. Those hooded ravens always keep themselves to themselves, even if all they are drinking is a glass of water… You know there’s no love lost between them and me! Most of them are good-for-nothings… Well, what decided me to let it, is that I have indeed found a priest. We shan’t have to worry about the money where they are concerned, and we shan’t even hear him put his key in the lock.’

But Marthe was still very upset. She looked around at her happy household, the garden bathed in the light of the departing sun, the grey shadows darkening; she looked at her children, her sleepy contentment contained in this small corner of the earth.

‘And do you know who this priest is?’ she enquired.

‘No, but Abbé Bourrette has rented it in his name and that’s sufficient. Abbé Bourrette is a good fellow… I know that our tenant’s name is Faujas, Abbé Faujas, and that he comes from the diocese of Besançon.* He must have had some difference with his parish priest. They’ll have appointed him priest here in Saint-Saturnin.* Perhaps he knows our bishop, Monsignor Rousselot. Well anyway, that’s none of our business… I trust Abbé Bourrette in all this.’

Marthe, however, was not reassured. She held her ground against her husband, and that was a rare occurrence.

‘You are right,’ she said, after a short silence. ‘The abbé is a worthy man. But I remember that when he came to see the rooms he told me he didn’t know the person in whose name he was charged to find accommodation for rent. It’s one of those commissions that priests give one another, from one town to the next… I think you might have written to Besançon for more details to find out who it is you are intending to have in your house.’

Mouret refused to lose his temper; he laughed indulgently.

‘Well, I daresay it’s not the devil… Look at you trembling like that! I didn’t realize you were so superstitious. You surely don’t believe priests bring bad luck, as some say. It’s true they don’t bring good luck either. They are just the same as everyone else… Oh well, once the priest is here you’ll see whether I’m scared of his cassock or not!’

‘No, you know I’m not superstitious,’ Marthe replied softly. ‘But I’m very uneasy, that’s all.’

He stood facing her, interrupting her with a brusque gesture.

‘That’s enough, don’t you think?’ he said. ‘I’ve rented out the room, and let that be the end of it.’

And he added jokingly, in the tone of a bourgeois who believes he has clinched a good deal:

‘What’s certain is that I’ve let it for a hundred and fifty francs, and that’ll come into the household every year.’

Marthe had lowered her head, showing her displeasure only by a slight movement of the hands, and shutting her eyes very gently, as though to prevent the unshed tears from spilling over.

She cast a furtive look at her children who during the altercation she had just had with their father did not seem to be listening, no doubt because they were used to Mouret showing off his sardonic side in scenes like this.

‘You can come and eat now if you want to,’ grumbled Rose, going out on to the steps.

‘That’s good. Supper, children!’ Mouret cried gaily, apparently no longer in the slightest bad mood.

The family rose. But when Désirée, who had remained solemn until now, like the poor little innocent she was, saw the whole family get up, it seemed to rekindle her anxiety. She threw herself on her father, stammering:

‘Papa, one of my birds has flown away.’

‘A bird, my love? We’ll get it back.’

And he stroked her and became very affectionate with her. But she made him go and look at the cage as well. When he came back with his daughter, Marthe and his two sons were already in the dining room. The setting sun’s rays through the window showed off the pretty china plates, the children’s soup bowls, their tumblers, and the white tablecloth. The room was warm and quiet as the green hues in the garden faded into the darkness.

Marthe, comforted by this peaceful scene, was smilingly taking the lid off the soup tureen, when there was a noise in the hall.