Her son’s got both of them.’

‘So is she going to sleep on the floor?’

‘In the corner, like a dog. She threw a mattress down on the floor in the other bedroom, saying she would sleep there, sounder than in Paradise. I couldn’t persuade her to do anything else more decent. She claims she’s never cold and her head is too hard to mind the tiles… I gave them water and sugar like Madame said and that was that… All the same, they’re queer folk.’

Rose finished serving dinner. The Mourets let the meal go on some time that evening. They chatted for a long while about the new tenants. The arrival of these two strangers was a big event in their usual well-ordered routine. They spoke of it as they might a disaster, adding the tiny details which invariably help to pass the long evenings in the country. Mouret in particular enjoyed small-town tittle-tattle. At dessert, elbows on the table, in the warmth of the dining room, he repeated for the tenth time, with the satisfied expression of a contented man:

‘Besançon’s not done Plassans any favours, sending him… Did you see the back of his soutane when he turned round?… It would greatly surprise me if he had the churchwomen running after him. He’s too badly turned out; penitents like their priests to look smart.’

‘He has a pleasant enough voice,’ said the indulgent Marthe.

‘Not when he’s angry,’ Mouret replied. ‘Didn’t you hear him get cross when he discovered the apartment wasn’t furnished? He’s a rough-mannered man. You can bet he won’t waste time in the confessionals. I am curious to know how he’s going to go about getting furniture tomorrow. As long as he pays up at least. Well anyway, I can always get hold of Abbé Bourrette—he’s the only contact I have.’

The family was not very religious. The children also made fun of the priest and his mother. Octave imitated the old lady craning her neck to peer into every corner of the room, which made Désirée laugh.

The more serious Serge stuck up for ‘those poor people’. As a rule, unless he was going to play piquet,* Mouret got his candlestick at exactly ten o’clock, and went to bed; but that evening at eleven he was still not ready to turn in. Désirée had finally fallen asleep with her head in Marthe’s lap. The two boys had gone up to their room. Mouret was still chatting away alone with his wife.

‘How old do you think he is?’ he enquired abruptly.

‘Who?’ said Marthe who was also beginning to feel sleepy.

‘The priest of course! What do you think? Between forty and forty-five? He’s a fine-looking fellow. What a shame he wears a soutane! He would have made a famous carabineer.’

Then after a silence, talking to himself and continuing to voice the thoughts that were causing him such deliberations:

‘They arrived on the six forty-five train. So they only had time to call at the Abbé Bourrette’s before coming here… I bet they haven’t had anything to eat. That’s for sure. We should have seen them go out to the hotel… Oh yes, I should dearly like to know where they could have eaten.’

Rose, who for a while had been moving back and forth to the dining room, waiting for her employers to go to bed before locking the doors and windows, said:

‘I know where they ate.’

And when Mouret quickly turned round, she added:

‘Yes, I went back up to see if they needed anything. I didn’t hear any noise and didn’t dare knock; I spied through the keyhole.’

‘But that’s very wicked,’ Marthe interrupted severely. ‘You know perfectly well that I don’t like you doing that.’

‘Leave her alone!’ cried Mouret, who in other circumstances would have lost his temper with the inquisitive servant. ‘You looked through the keyhole?’

‘Yes, Monsieur, it was for a good reason.’

‘Of course. So what were they doing?’

‘Well, Monsieur, they were eating… I saw them eating off one corner of the truckle bed.