All right? Look forward to seeing you. It's not raining now.’

They left regretfully and the veterinary surgeon, as he climbed into his ramshackle old crock, said once again:

‘All for a cat that isn't worth the cost of the piece of rope to chuck it in the river! Ah well, I suppose if you're rich…’

‘If you earn your money through whores then you spend it likewise,’ sneered Jesus Christ.

But they all shook their heads in protest, even Buteau, whose face had gone pale with secret envy; and Delhomme said judiciously:

‘All the same, if you've succeeded in amassing a pension of twelve thousand francs a year, you can't have been idle or stupid either.’

Patoir whipped up his horse and the others went off down towards the Aigre along the paths that had been turned into streams of water. They had just reached the last seven-odd acres still left to divide when it started to rain again in torrents.

This time, however, they kept on with their task, famished though they were, but determined to finish. Only one disagreement delayed them: it was over the third plot, which was treeless, whereas the other two plots shared a little copse. Nevertheless, everything seemed to be settled and agreed. The surveyor promised to let the notary have his notes so that he could draw up the deeds; and they arranged to meet to draw lots the following Sunday at ten o'clock in their father's house.

As they were going back into Rognes, Jesus Christ suddenly swore:

‘You wait, you little brat. I'll give you something!’

Along the verge of the grassy track La Trouille was unhurriedly parading her geese under the driving rain. The gander was waddling along in front of the bedraggled and delighted flock and each time he turned his big yellow beak to the right, all the other big yellow beaks turned likewise. But the little girl took to her heels in fright up the hill, followed by the gaggle of geese, all of them with their long necks outstretched behind the outstretched neck of their gander.

Chapter 4

IT so happened that the following Sunday fell on November 1st, All Saints' Day; and nine o'clock was about to strike when Father Godard, the vicar of Bazoches-le-Doyen, who was in charge of the former parish of Rognes, emerged at the top of the slope leading down to the little bridge over the Aigre. Rognes now numbered only about 300 inhabitants – it had earlier been much larger – and it had not had a parish priest of its own for years; nor did it seem anxious to acquire one, since the parish council had housed the gamekeeper in the half-demolished presbytery.

So every Sunday Father Godard walked the one and a half miles between Bazoches-le-Doyen and Rognes. He was short and portly with a neck as red as a turkeycock and so thick that he had to hold his head backwards. He used to force himself to undertake this walk for his health's sake, but this Sunday he was panting with his mouth wide open in a frightening manner; the fat on his florid, apoplectic face had submerged his little grey eyes and pug-nose; and despite the livid, snow-laden sky and the early onset of cold weather after last week's rain, he was swinging his hat in his hand, his bare head covered only with a tangled greying thatch of ginger hair.

The road descended abruptly and on the left bank of the Aigre there were only a few houses before the stone bridge, a sort of suburb which the reverend father hurtled through at top speed. He glanced neither upstream nor downstream at the slow, clear-flowing river which meandered through the meadows between clumps of willows and poplars. The village began on the other bank, with house-fronts lining each side of the street while others clambered haphazardly up the hillside. Immediately beyond the bridge stood the town-hall and the school, housed in a former barn, whitewashed and provided with an extra floor. The priest hesitated for a moment and stuck his head into the empty front hall. Then he turned and seemed to be rapidly scrutinizing two drinking-shops opposite: one of them with a neat front window full of bottles and jars and a little yellow wooden sign above, on which you could read MACQUERON, GROCER, printed in green letters; on the other one, adorned merely with a holly branch, these words: TOBACCO: LENGAIGNE, sprawling in black letters on its rough-cast wall. And he had just made up his mind to take the little street between the two and go up the steep footpath leading to the square in front of the church when he caught sight of an old farmer and stopped.

‘Ah, it's you, Fouan… I'm in a hurry, I was wanting to come and see you. What do you think we can do? Your son Buteau can't possibly leave Lise in the condition she's in, getting bigger in front every day for everyone to see… She's a Daughter of Mary, it's scandalous, absolutely scandalous!’

The old man listened with an air of polite deference.

‘Yes, Father, but what on earth can I do if Buteau refuses to do anything about it? And we can't blame the lad really, it's no good getting married at his age when you haven't got a bean.’

‘But there's the child to think of!’

‘Yes, of course… But there isn't any child yet, is there? How can one know? That's the point, it's a bit discouraging to take on a child when you can't afford to pay for a shirt to put on its back!’

He was making the remarks with the sagacious air of an old man full of experience. Then in the same judicious tone, he added:

‘Anyway, perhaps something can be done… I'm sharing out my property, we'll be drawing lots later on, after Mass… So when Buteau has got his share, I hope he'll see his way to marrying his cousin.’

‘Splendid!’ said the priest. ‘That's good enough, I'll be relying on you, Fouan.’

But a peal from the bell interrupted him and he asked in consternation:

‘That's the second bell, isn't it?’

‘No, Father, its the third.’

‘Glory be! That's that oaf Bécu ringing the bell again without waiting for me!’

With an oath, he sped on his way up the path. At the top, he nearly had an attack; he was puffing and blowing like a grampus.

The bell went on tolling, disturbing the rooks who wheeled and cawed round the steeple of the fifteenth-century belfry which bore witness to Rognes's former glory. In front of the wide open door of the church a group of villagers were standing, including the publican Lengaigne, a freethinker, who was smoking his pipe; further along, beside the cemetery wall, Farmer Hourdequin, the mayor, a handsome man with an energetic cast of countenance, was chatting with his deputy, the grocer Macqueron; when the priest greeted them and passed on, they all followed him except Lengaigne, who pointedly turned his back, still sucking his pipe.

In the church to the right of the porch a man was hanging on to a bell-rope, tugging vigorously.

‘That's enough, Bécu,’ snapped the priest furiously. ‘I've told you times without number to wait for me before ringing the third bell.’

The bell-ringer, who was the gamekeeper, dropped back onto his feet, scared at his own disobedience. He was a little man of fifty with an old soldier's square weather-beaten face, grey moustache and goatee beard, as stiff-necked as if he were perpetually being choked by collars that were too tight for him. Already quite far gone in drink, he sprang to attention without venturing an excuse.

In any case, the priest was already on his way up the nave, casting an eye on the pews as he went. It was a small congregation. On the left he could see as yet only Delhomme, attending in his capacity of councillor. On the right, where the women sat, there were at most a dozen people he recognized: Coelina Macqueron, a wiry and high-handed woman; Flore Lengaigne, a stout, flabby, gentle matron, always complaining; Bécu's wife, lanky, swarthy and filthy. But what really angered him was the behaviour of the Daughters of Mary, in the front pew.