These rich townsfolk nowadays were even worse than the old aristocrats: when the share-out took place, they kept the lot, they made the laws to suit themselves and their wealth came at the expense of the wretched plight of the poor! The others were listening embarrassed, yet secretly pleased at his daring words: the age-old and invincible hatred of the land-worker for his landlord.

‘It's a good job we're amongst friends,’ muttered Macqueron, casting an uneasy glance towards the schoolmaster. ‘As for me, I'm a supporter of the government. And our deputy, Monsieur de Chédeville, who's said to be a friend of the Emperor.’

At this Lengaigne brandished his razor wildly in the air:

‘And that's another fine one, old Chédeville… Shouldn't a wealthy man like him, who owns more than twelve hundred acres round Orgères way, make a present of your road to the parish instead of trying to squeeze the money out of us? The old devil…’

But the grocer, by now terrified at such talk, protested:

‘That's not true, he's a very decent sort and he's not a snob… But for him you'd never have got your tobacco shop. What, would you have to say if he took it away from you?’

Lengaigne suddenly calmed down and started scraping away at his client's chin again. He had gone too far and was losing his temper; his wife was right when she said that his ideas would get him into trouble. And at that moment Bécu and Jesus Christ started to quarrel. The former tended to become argumentative and nasty in his cups whereas the latter, although a rogue when sober, became more and more mawkish with every glass of wine, like a soft-hearted, good-humoured but drunken apostle. There was also their basic disagreement over politics: the poacher was a republican, a Red as people used to say, who boasted that he had made the women dance to his tune in Cloyes in 1848; the gamekeeper was a rabid Bonapartist who adored the Emperor, whom he claimed to know personally.

‘I swear it's true! We once ate a herring salad together. And afterwards he said: Mum's the word, I'm the Emperor… I recognized him because of his picture on the five-franc pieces.’

‘A likely story!… And he's still a swine who beats his wife and never showed any affection for his mother!’

‘Shut up, for Christ's sake, or I'll give you a punch on the nose!’

They had to remove the bottle which Bécu was brandishing from his grasp, whilst Jesus Christ, with tears in his eyes, sat waiting for the blow with a smile of resignation on his face. Then they made it up and started playing again… ‘Trumps and trumps again and I trump the whole lot!’

Macqueron, disturbed by the schoolmaster's pretence of indifference, finally asked him:

‘Monsieur Lequeu, what's your view about the road?’

Lequeu, who was warming his bloodless hands against the stovepipe, gave a sour smile to indicate that his superior position prevented him from speaking frankly.

‘I'm not saying anything; it's none of my business.’

At this moment Macqueron went over, dipped his face in a basin of water and, as he dried himself, spluttered:

‘Well, listen to me, I'm prepared to do something… Yes, for Christ's sake, if they vote in favour of the road, I'll give my land for nothing!’

The others were dumbfounded by this statement. Even Jesus Christ and Bécu, drunk as they were, looked up. There was a sudden hush; people were looking at him as if he had suddenly taken leave of his senses, while he, excited by the effect he had produced, although his hands were trembling, now he had committed himself, added:

‘There'll be a good half an acre… Strike me blind if I don't, cross my heart.’

Lengaigne went off with his son Victor, exasperated and upset at his neighbour's generosity: he wouldn't really miss the land, he'd already rooked everybody pretty thoroughly! Despite the cold, Macqueron took down his gun from the wall and went out to see if he would come across the rabbit which he'd seen the day before at the bottom of his vineyard. There remained only Lequeu, who used to spend all his Sundays there (although he never had a drink), and the two fanatical card players, their heads bent over their cards. Hours went by; other peasants came in and went out again.

At about five o'clock, the door was pushed roughly open and Buteau appeared, followed by Jean. As soon as he caught sight of Jesus Christ, he exclaimed:

‘I'd've bet anything… Are you trying to have us on? We've been waiting for you.’

But Jesus Christ, drooling at the mouth, replied with a chuckle:

‘No, you old humbug, I've been waiting for you… You've been keeping us waiting ever since this morning.’

Buteau had looked in at La Borderie where Jacqueline, whom he had been tumbling in the hay ever since the age of fifteen, had invited him to stay and have a meal with Jean. Farmer Hourdequin had stayed in Cloyes for lunch after Mass and they had gone on drinking and guzzling until late afternoon, so that the two young men, now inseparable, had only just arrived.

Meanwhile Bécu kept bawling that he would pay for the five litres of wine but the game must go on; whilst Jesus Christ, maudlin and bleary-eyed, hauling himself with difficulty out of his chair, followed his brother.

‘Wait here,’ Buteau said to Jean, ‘and come and pick me up in half an hour's time. Remember that you're having supper with me at my father's.’

When the two brothers went into the Fouans' house, everyone was already gathered in the room. Their father was standing up with a hangdog expression on his face. Their mother was sitting knitting mechanically at the table in the middle of the room. Opposite her, Grosbois had eaten and drunk so much that he had dozed off, his eyes half closed; while Fanny and Delhomme were sitting on a couple of low chairs near by, patiently waiting. And, in this smoke-blackened room with its shabby old furniture and the few kitchen utensils worn thin by constant scouring, there was the unusual sight of a blank sheet of paper and pen lying on the table beside the surveyor's hat, a hat of monumental proportions, once black but now a rusty brown, which its owner had carried about with him, come rain, come shine, for the last ten years. Night was falling and in the murky light filtering through the narrow window the hat with its flat rim and urn-like shape assumed a strange significance.

However, ever mindful of his business despite his drunkenness, Grosbois roused himself and mumbled:

‘Here we are, then. I was explaining that the deed is all drawn up. I went to see Monsieur Baillehache yesterday and he showed me it. Only the numbers of the lots have been left blank against your names. So now we'll draw and all the lawyer will have to do is to write them in so that you can sign the deed in his office on Saturday.’

He shook himself awake and spoke more loudly.

‘Well, I'll get the pieces of paper ready.’

At once the children all quickly gathered round, making no attempt to disguise their mistrust, watching each other like hawks so as not to miss the slightest gesture, as if a conjuror might spirit away their share. First of all, with his thick, trembling, alcoholic's fingers, Grosbois cut the sheet of paper into three, and then, laboriously, on each piece he wrote an enormous 1, 2 or 3; looking over his shoulders, they all followed the movement of his pen, even the father and mother nodding their head in satisfaction when they saw that there was no chance of cheating. Slowly the pieces of paper were folded and thrown into the hat.

A solemn silence ensued.

After waiting a good two minutes, Grosbois said:

‘Well, make up your minds… Who's going to begin?’

Nobody stirred. Night was falling fast and in the gloom the hat seemed to be growing larger.

‘In order of age, do you think?’ the surveyor suggested. ‘You go first, then, Jesus Christ, you're the eldest!’

Jesus Christ good-naturedly stepped forward, but losing his balance he nearly fell flat on his face.