Down below to their left, the carts were still going along the road to Cloyes, for the market did not start till one o'clock. They bumped along on their two wheels, like little jumping insects, looking so tiny in the distance that you could make out only the white dot of the women's caps.

‘That's Uncle Fouan over there with my Auntie Rose,’ said Françoise, catching sight of a carriage no larger than a walnut driving along the road a good mile and a half away.

She had the sailor's or the plainsman's ability to see things and pick out details far away, recognizing a man or an animal when there was nothing to see but a little moving speck in the distance.

‘Oh yes, I heard about that,’ Jean replied. ‘So old Fouan's made up his mind at last, he's going to split up his land between his daughter and his two sons?’

‘Yes, he's finally made up his mind, they're all meeting at Monsieur Baillehache's today.’

She was still watching the cart moving away down the road.

‘It's no skin off our nose, because it's not going to affect us one way or the other. But there is Buteau. My sister thinks that perhaps he'll marry her, when he's got his share.’

Jean laughed. ‘Ah, Buteau's a lad! He and me were pals. He was always ready to lead the girls up the garden path. He can't do without them, though, and if they don't come quietly he's not above using a bit of force.’

‘He really is a pig!’ Françoise exclaimed forcefully. ‘No one plays a dirty trick like that on your cousin by leaving her in the lurch when she's six months pregnant!’

Then with a sudden burst of temper:

‘You just wait, Coliche! I'm going to give you something you won't forget! She's at it again, there's no holding her when she's in this state.’

She violently tugged at the cow. At this point the path left the edge of the plateau and the carts disappeared, while they both continued to follow the plain where all they could see was the interminable expanse of farmland stretching away in front of them. The path went along on the level between the arable and the artificial meadows, without a single bush, up to the farm which seemed almost close enough to reach out and touch but which continually retreated under the ashen sky. They had fallen silent again, as if weighed down by this pensive, solemn plain of Beauce, so melancholy and so fertile.

When they reached the big square farmyard of La Borderie, enclosed on three sides by cowsheds; sheepfolds and barns, it was deserted. But a short, pretty, saucy-looking young woman quickly appeared at the kitchen door.

‘Well, Jean, aren't we getting anything to eat this morning?’

‘I'm on my way, Madame Jacqueline.’

This was the daughter of the local roadmender Cognet and everybody used to call her Cognette at the time when she had been taken on as scullery maid at the age of twelve; but ever since she had been promoted to become not only the farmer's servant but his mistress, she had developed autocratic tendencies and insisted on being treated as a lady.

‘Oh, there you are, Françoise,’ she went on. ‘You've come for the bull… Well, you'll have to wait. The cowman's at Cloyes with Monsieur Hourdequin. But he'll be back soon, he should have been here already.’

And as Jean, with some reluctance, was making his way into the kitchen, she put her hand on his waist and jokingly rubbed up against him, unconcerned whether anyone was watching, greedy for love and not satisfied with just her master.

Left alone, Françoise sat waiting patiently on a stone bench in front of the dung-pit which took up a third of the farmyard. She stared blankly at a group of hens warming their feet as they pecked over the low, wide layer of manure which was emitting a slight blue haze in the cool air. Half an hour later when Jean reappeared, finishing off a slice of bread and butter, she was still there. He sat down beside her and as the cow was restless, flicking herself with her tail and lowing, he said at last:

‘It's annoying that the cowman hasn't come back yet.’

The girl shrugged her shoulders. She was not in any hurry. Then, after a fresh silence:

‘Well, Corporal, everyone calls you just Jean. Is that your only name?’

‘No, of course not. I'm Jean Macquart.’

‘And you don't come from these parts?’

‘No, I'm from Provence, a town called Plassans.’

She had looked up at him to examine him more closely, surprised that anyone could have come from such a faraway place.

‘Eighteen months ago, after Solferino,’ he went on, ‘I got my discharge and came back from Italy and a pal persuaded me to come up here. And then I got fed up with being a carpenter and, what with one thing and another, I stayed on at the farm.’

‘I see,’ she said without further comment, still watching him with her large dark eyes. But at that moment, Coliche, who was becoming frantic, gave an extra long despairing ‘moo’ and a hoarse panting could be heard behind the closed cowshed door.

‘Good God!’ exclaimed Jean. ‘Old Caesar's heard her… Hark at him talking away in there. Oh, he knows what's what, you can't bring any cow into the yard without him smelling her and knowing what he's got to do!’

He stopped short.

‘You know, the cowman must have stayed behind with Monsieur Hourdequin. If you like, I'll get the bull out for you. The two of us could manage together.’

‘Yes, that's an idea,’ said Françoise, standing up.

As he was opening the door, he asked her:

‘How about Coliche? Do we need to tie her up?’

‘Tie her up? Goodness no, it's not worth it! She's ready and no mistake, she won't budge an inch!’

When the door was opened, they saw two rows of cows each side of the central passageway, the whole thirty of them, some lying on their litters, others munching beetroot from their trough; and in his corner, one of the bulls, a black and white Friesian, stood straining his head forward, expectantly.

As soon as he was untied, Caesar came slowly out. But suddenly he halted, as though surprised at finding himself in the open air and in broad daylight, and for a minute he stood stock-still, tense, nervously twitching his tail, his outstretched neck swelling as he sniffed the air.