Poor Hilarion, with his bandy legs and twisted hare-lip, was quite harmless, despite his age – he was twenty-four – and such a blockhead that nobody would offer him a job. So she had to work for him, which meant working herself to death, for her devoted affection to her invalid brother, her determination in ministering to his needs, and her deep tenderness were as great as any mother's.

As he listened, Father Godard's heavy perspiring face took on an expression of beatific goodness; charity lent beauty to his angry little eyes and sorrow touched his large mouth with grace. This peevish old man, always in a state of violent indignation, had a passionate love for the poor and destitute and he gave them all he had – his money, his underlinen, even his very clothes. In the whole province of Beauce you would not find a priest with a rustier looking cassock or one more darned.

He fumbled uneasily in his pockets and slipped Palmyre a five-franc piece.

‘Here you are, but put it away quickly, it's all I've got… And I must speak to La Grande again, since she's so hard-hearted.’ And this time, he was able to make his escape. Fortunately, since he was quite out of breath, as he was climbing up the slope on the other side of the Aigre the butcher of his parish, on his way home, picked him up in his cart; and he went jolting along over the edge of the plain, his hat bouncing up and down against the livid light of the sky.

Meanwhile the square in front of the church had emptied and Fouan and Rose had gone back home where Grosbois was already waiting for them. Shortly before ten o'clock Delhomme and Jesus Christ arrived – but they waited in vain for Buteau until twelve o'clock; he was always incalculable and never on time. It was presumed that he had been held up, perhaps over lunch. At first, they thought of going ahead without him, then, secretly afraid of his cantankerousness, it was decided that they should wait and not draw lots until two o'clock, after lunch. Grosbois accepted the Fouans' offer of a slice of bacon and a glass of wine; he then finished off the bottle and started on another one, drunk again, as was his habit.

At two o'clock there was still no sign of Buteau. So entering into the festive spirit of the village on this Sunday holiday, Jesus Christ went off to take a peep into Macqueron's drinking-shop; and he was successful, because the door was suddenly flung open, and Bécu appeared:

‘Come on in, you useless man, let me buy you a drink.’

He was still as stiff as a ramrod; in fact the more he drank the more dignified he became. As an old soldier and a drunk himself, he had a secret affection and fellow-feeling for the poacher; but when he was on duty and wearing his official armband, he avoided recognizing him; as he was always likely to catch him red-handed, he was torn between his duty and his feelings. In the pub, once he was drunk, he treated him to a drink like a brother.

‘A drop of wine, eh? And if the Arabs keep buggering us about, we'll chop their ears off!’

They sat down at a table and started playing cards; and one bottle followed the other.

Macqueron, with his big face and big moustache, was sitting slumped in a corner twiddling his thumbs. Ever since he had made some money by speculating in the new vineyards at Montigny, which produced a reasonable table wine, he had been overcome by laziness and spent his time shooting and fishing and giving himself superior airs; at the same time he had remained a very dirty man and dressed like a tramp, while his daughter Berthe flounced around in silk dresses. If his wife had been prepared to listen to him, they would have shut up shop, the tavern as well as the store; because as his vanity increased he began nursing secret ambitions of which he himself was as yet scarcely aware; she, however, was a skinflint of the first water and, although he never did a hand's turn himself, he was glad for her to continue serving her jugs of wine in the happy knowledge that it would annoy his neighbour Lengaigne, the tobacconist who also sold drinks. Theirs was a long-standing feud, dormant but always ready to flare up.

However, they had been at peace for some weeks now and it so happened that at this moment Lengaigne came in with his son Victor, a tall, awkward lad who was shortly going to draw lots to decide if he would be called up for military service. The father, a very lanky, dour man with a tiny owl-like head perched on broad bony shoulders, farmed a little land while his wife weighed out the tobacco and fetched wine from the cellar. His importance lay in the fact that he was the village barber, a trade which he had learnt during his military service and one which he exercised in his shop, surrounded by his customers, or in their homes, if they so wished.

‘Well now,’ he said to Macqueron, as soon as he was through the doorway, ‘are we going to have that shave today?’

‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Macqueron. ‘Yes, I'd asked you to come round. All right, let's do it at once, if you don't mind.’

He took an old shaving-mug down from its hook and fetched some soap and hot water while the other man started sharpening his long cutlass of a razor on a strap fastened to its case. But a shrill shout came from the adjacent grocery shop. It was Coelina:

‘Look here, you two!’ she cried. ‘You're not going to make your mess all over the tables, are you?… I don't want hairs in my glasses!’

This was an allusion to the cleanliness of the tavern next door, where she claimed that you ate more hairs than you drank good wine.

‘Get on with your salt and pepper and leave us alone!’ retorted Macqueron, irritated at this outburst in front of his customers.

Jesus Christ and Bécu both grinned. That would put her in her place! So they ordered another litre of wine, which she brought without a word, inwardly raging. They were shuffling the cards and then slamming them down as though exchanging punches: ‘Trumps! And trumps to you, too!’

Lengaigne had already soaped his customer's face and was holding him by the nose when Lequeu, the village schoolmaster, pushed open the door.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen!’

He remained silently warming his back in front of the stove while young Victor stood behind the card players, absorbed in their game.

‘By the way,’ said Macqueron, taking advantage of a moment when Lengaigne was wiping some froth off his shoulders, ‘just before Mass earlier on, Monsieur Hourdequin brought up the question of the road again. We really ought to make up our minds about something!’

This was the famous direct road from Rognes to Châteaudun which was going to save some five miles, since traffic was now forced to go via Cloyes. The new route would naturally be of great advantage to the farm, and in order to persuade the local council the mayor was relying on the help of his deputy, who was also looking for an early decision. The proposal was, in fact, to link the road up to the lower one, thus making it easier for vehicles to drive up to the church, which at the moment was accessible only by goat tracks. The line of this link road simply followed the narrow alley between the two taverns, widening it by taking advantage of the slope; and as the grocer's property would be opened up, since it would be alongside the new street, its value would be very considerably increased.

‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘apparently the government is waiting for us to vote on it before it can offer us any financial aid. You're in favour, aren't you?’

Lengaigne was a local councillor but he had not even a small piece of garden at the back of his property. He replied:

‘A fat lot I care! What good's your road to me?’

And as he tackled the second cheek, scraping away at the skin as if using a grater, he launched into an attack on the farm.