Clochemerle Read online

  “If you have an idea, there is no need to inquire any further!”

  Thereupon Barthélemy Piéchut halted in the middle of the square, near the lime tree, while he glanced towards the main street in order to make sure that no one was coming in their direction. Then he placed his hand on the nape of his neck and moved it upwards until his hat became tilted forward over his eyes. There he remained, staring at the ground, and gently rubbing the back of his head. Finally, he made up his mind:

  “I am going to tell you what my idea is, Tafardel. I want to put up a building at the town’s expense.”

  “At the town’s expense?” the schoolmaster repeated in astonishment, knowing what a source of unpopularity a raid on the common fund derived from taxes can be.

  But he made no inquiry as to the kind of building, nor what sum would have to be spent. He knew the mayor for a man of great common sense, cautious, and very shrewd. And it was the mayor himself who, of his own accord, proceeded to clear the matter up:

  “Yes, a building—and a useful one, too, from the point of view of the public health as well as public morals. Now let us see if you are clever, Tafardel. Have a guess. . . .”

  Ernest Tafardel moved his arms in a gesture indicating how vast was the sphere of conjecture, and that it would be folly to embark on it. Piéchut gave a final tilt to his hat, which threw his face completely into shadow, blinked his eyes—the right one a little more than the left—to get a clear conception of the impression that his idea would make on his hearer, and then laid the whole matter bare:

  “I want to build a urinal, Tafardel.”

  “A urinal?” the schoolmaster cried out, startled and impressed. The matter, he saw at once, was obviously of extreme importance.

  “Yes, a public convenience,” said the mayor.

  Now when a matter of such consequence is revealed to you suddenly and without warning, you cannot produce a ready-made opinion regarding it. And at Clochemerle, precipitancy detracts from the value of a judgment. As though for the purpose of seeing clearly into his own mind, with a lively jerk Tafardel unsaddled his large equine nose and held his spectacles to his mouth, where he imbued them with fetid moisture, and then, rubbing them with his handkerchief, gave them a new transparence. Having assured himself that no further specks of dust remained on the glasses, he replaced them with a solemnity that denoted the exceptional importance of the interview. These precautions delighted Piéchut; they showed him that his confidences were producing an effect on his hearer. Twice or thrice more there came a Hum! from Tafardel from behind his thin, ink-stained hand, while he stroked his old nanny-goat beard. Then he said:

  “A really fine idea, Monsieur le Maire! An idea worthy of a good Republican, and altogether in keeping with the spirit of the party. Equalitarian in every sense, and hygienic, too, as you so justly pointed out. And when one thinks that the great nobles under Louis the Fourteenth used to relieve themselves on the palace staircases! A fine thing to happen in the times of the monarchy, you may well say! A urinal, and one of Ponosse’s processions—from the point of view of public welfare you simply could not compare them.”

  “And how about Girodot,” the mayor asked, “and Lamolire, and Maniguant, the whole gang in fact—do you think they will be bowled over?”

  Thereupon was heard the little grating noise that was the schoolmaster’s substitute for laughter; it was a rare manifestation with this sad, misunderstood personage whose joy in life was so tainted, and was reserved exclusively for good objects and great occasions, the winning of victories over the distressing obscurantism with which the French countryside is even now infected. And such victories are rare.

  “No doubt of it, no doubt of it, Monsieur Piéchut. Your plan will do them an immense amount of damage in the eyes of the public.”

  “And what of Saint-Choul? And Baroness Courtebiche?”

  “It may well be the deathblow to the little that remains of the prestige of the nobility! It will be a splendid democratic victory, a fresh affirmation of immortal principles. Have you spoken of it to the Committee?”

  “Not yet . . . there are jealousies there. . . . I am rather counting on your eloquence, Tafardel, to explain the matter and carry it through. You’re such an expert at shutting up bellyachers!”

  “You may rely on me, Monsieur le Maire.”

  “Well, then, that’s settled. We will choose a day. For the moment, not a word! I think we are going to have an amusing time!”

  “I think so, too, Monsieur Piéchut!”

  In his contentment, the mayor kept turning his hat around on his head in every direction. Still greedy for compliments, to extract fresh ones he made little exclamations to the schoolmaster, such as “Well?” “Now just tell me!” in the sly, cunning manner of the peasant, while he continually rubbed the nape of his neck, which appeared to be the seat of his mental activity. Each exclamation was answered by Tafardel with some fresh eulogy.

  It was the loveliest moment of the day, an autumn evening of rare beauty. The air was filled with the shrill cries of birds returning to roost, while an all-pervading calm was shed upon the earth from the heavens above, where a tender blue was gently turning to the rose-pink which heralds a splendid twilight. The sun was disappearing behind the mountains of Azergues, and its light now fell only upon a few peaks which still emerged from the surrounding ocean of gentle calm and rural peace, and upon scattered points in the crowded plain of the Saone, where its last rays formed pools of light. The harvest had been a good one, the wine promised to be of excellent quality. There was cause for rejoicing in that corner of Beaujolais. Clochemerle re-echoed with the noise of the shifting of casks. Puffs of cool air from the stillrooms, bearing a slightly acid smell, cut across the warm atmosphere of the square when the chestnuts were rustling in the northeasterly breeze. Everywhere stains from the wine press were to be seen and already the brandy was in the process of being distilled.

  Standing at the edge of the terrace, the two men were gazing at the peaceful decline of day. This apotheosis of the dying summer season appeared to them in the light of a happy omen. Suddenly, with a touch of pomposity, Tafardel asked:

  “By the way, Monsieur le Maire, where are we going to place our little edifice? Have you thought of that?”

  A rich smile, in which every wrinkle on his face was involved, overspread the mayor’s countenance. All the same his jovial expression was somehow menacing. It was a smile that afforded an admirable illustration of the famous political maxim—“To govern is to foresee.” In that smile of Barthélemy Piéchut’s could be read the satisfaction he felt in his consciousness of power, in the fear he inspired, and in his ownership of lovely sun-warmed vineyards and of cellars which housed the best of the wines grown on the slopes that lay between the mountain passes of the west and the low ground of Brouilly. With this smile, the natural accompaniment of a successful life, he enveloped the excitable, highly strung Tafardel—a poor devil who had not a patch of ground or a strip of vineyard to his name—with the pity felt by men of action for poor feeble scribblers who waste their time over vaporous nonsense.

  “Come and let us see the place, Tafardel!” he said simply, making his way towards the main street.

  A great utterance. The utterance of a man who has made every decision in advance. An utterance comparable with Napoleon’s when crossing the fields of Austerlitz: “Here, I shall give battle.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Clochemerle-en-Beaujolais

  THE READER IS perhaps less impatient than Tafardel to become acquainted with the site on which Barthélemy Piéchut is proposing to set up a small unassuming piece of architecture. Let us, therefore, leave the two men to proceed in their calm, unhurried manner towards the spot on which is to be erected that public convenience destined far more, perhaps, to be the means of putting out of countenance the Baroness Alphonsine de Courtebiche, the Curé Ponosse, the notary Girodot, and the agents of the party of reaction, than of procuring notable relief for the male population of
Clochemerle. Moreover, we shall soon overtake the mayor and the schoolmaster, whose pace is slow. But in the first place we have to consider this district of the Beaujolais.

  To the west of the Route Nationale No. 6, which goes from Lyons to Paris, there lies, between Anse and the outskirts of Mâcon over a distance of about forty-five kilometers, a region which shares with Burgundy, Anjou, Bordelais, and the Côtes du Rhône, the honor of producing the most celebrated wines in France. The names of Broutily, Morgon, Juliénas, Moulin-à-vent have made Beaujolais famous. But side by side with these names there are others, with less splendor attaching to them, which are yet indicative of substantial merits. In the forefront of those names from which an unjust fate has withheld a widespread renown comes that of Clochemerle-en-Beaujolais.

  Let us explain this name of Clochemerle. In the twelfth century, before the vine was in cultivation there, this district, which was under the sway of the lords of Beaujeu, was a thickly wooded region. The site of the present town was occupied by an abbey—which, by the way, is in itself an assurance that it was well chosen. The abbey church—of which there still remain, blended with the structures of later periods, a doorway, a charming bell turret, some Romanesque arches and solid walls—was surrounded by very large trees, and in these trees blackbirds built their nests. When the bell was rung the blackbirds would fly away. The peasants of that period spoke of “the blackbirds’ bell” la cloche à merles. The name has remained.

  Our present task is that of a historian who has to deal with events which made some stir in 1923 and were sometimes referred to in the Press of the period, with the heading: The Scandals of Clochemerle. This task must be approached with all the seriousness and vigilant care which alone will enable us to extract the truth from a series of events which have remained obscure and have already fallen into partial oblivion. If there had not been at Clochemerle-en-Beaujolais an ambitious mayor and an arid old maid of the name of Justine Putet, solitary and embittered, who brought a spiteful and alarming vigilance to bear on the acts of her contemporaries, this pleasant locality would doubtless never have witnessed either sacrilege or shedding of blood—to say nothing of secondary repercussions which, though they did not all come to light, brought turmoil into the lives of many people who had appeared to be reasonably protected from the arrows of fate.

  From this the reader will readily understand how the events which we are about to describe, while they originated in a few small facts of apparently trifling importance, rapidly grew into affairs of widespread significance. Passions were let loose with all the violence that is seen sometimes in the country, where, after a long period of quiescence, they suddenly burst forth and reveal their age-old, primitive strength, inciting men to extremities out of all proportion to the causes which aroused them. And since these causes, here in Clochemerle, might appear absurdly trivial in comparison with their effects, it is important that the reader should start with a clear idea of this Beaujolais country, which became the seat of troubles whose origin was almost farcical, but which nevertheless were to have some influence on the destinies of the whole nation.

  One thing is certain, that Beaujolais is insufficiently known by epicures for the quality of its wine, and by tourists as a district. As a vintage, it is sometimes regarded as a mere appendage to Burgundy, like the tail of a comet, so to speak. There is a tendency among all those who live far from the Department of the Rhône to believe that Morgon is but a pale imitation of Corton. This is a gross and unpardonable error, committed by people who drink with no power of discrimination, trusting to a mere label or to some headwaiter’s questionable assertions. Few drinkers of wine are qualified, with the filched trademarks on the bottle caps, to distinguish between what is genuine and what is not. In reality, the Beaujolais wine has its own peculiar merits and a flavor which cannot be confused with that of any other wine.

  The great tourist crowd does not visit this wine-growing country. This is due to its situation. While Burgundy, between Beaune and Dijon, displays its hills on either side of the same Route Nationale No. 6 which extends along the edge of the Beaujolais country, this latter region comprises a series of hills situated at a distance from the main roads, completely covered with vineyards to a height varying from seven hundred to sixteen hundred feet, their highest summits, which shelter the district from the west winds, attaining a height of over three thousand feet. Set apart in these hills, which act as a succession of screens, the towns and villages of Beaujolais, with their healthy, bracing air, enjoy an isolated position and retain a flavor of feudal times.

  But the tourist blindly follows the Saone valley—and a pleasant one it is—ignorant of the fact that he is leaving behind him, only a few kilometers away, one of the sunniest and most picturesque corners of France. Thus it is that Beaujolais is still a district reserved for a tiny number of enthusiasts who come there for the sake of its restful peace and its far-flung, distant views; while the Sunday motorists wear out their tires in driving at breakneck speed, which invariably takes them along the same crowded roads.

  If among my readers there are any tourists who have still a taste for discovery, I will give them a piece of advice. At a distance of about three kilometers to the north of Villefranche-sur-Saone, they will find on their left a small branch road usually despised by motorists, which cuts into Arterial Road No. 15. They must take this and continue along it until they reach Arterial Road No. 20, which they will then follow. This second road will lead them into a deep, cool valley, beautiful with massed shadows, and fine old manor houses, with windows looking on to wide alleys bordered with thick yews, and terraces that invite daily meditation. The road ascends imperceptibly and then rises in a series of wide bends and curves. And now, with each curve in the road, a succession of different valleys is seen. There are silent villages clinging to the slopes; and one sees, surging upwards, the dark screen of forests, with the roads of the mountain passes winding in and out, in the far distance. As each fresh height is gained there is a clearer view of a horizon on which the distant Alps and Jura are outlined. Thus several kilometers are covered. Then, at last, a final turning unmasks the valley we are seeking. From the bend by which we emerge, we see facing us a group of houses situated halfway up the opposite slope, at a height of about four hundred feet. It is Clochemerle-en-Beaujolais, with its Romanesque belfry towering above it, reminder of an era long since departed, and bearing, as its burden of old age, the weight of nine hundred years.

  Built from east to west on the line of an ascending road constructed along the hillside, the town of Clochemerle has undergone many modifications in the course of the centuries. It had its origin on the lower portion of the slope, that which is best protected from inclemency of weather, at a period when the means of defense against the rigors of winter were rudimentary. At that time its highest point was the abbey, the site of which is still indicated by the church and certain old walls which serve as foundations for the houses near by. The old town gradually spread, as the vine culture brought it prosperity, in an eastward direction. But the process was tentative and hesitating; the houses were packed closely together, the men of that time being loath to move far from a community of whose services they were constantly in need. This accounts for the confused, patchy arrangement of the dwellings, and also for the fact that what was the extreme end of the town in early times has now become the center. The result of these modifications was to transfer all the unoccupied space to a point much farther east, at the big turn in the road where the hill forms a spur. At the salient of this spur the main square of Clochemerle was laid out in 1878; and at one side of this square the new town hall, which is also used as a school, was erected in 1892.

  These explanations will show why the edifice planned by Barthélemy Piéchut would not have served a very useful purpose in the main square, at the extreme end of a town which lies along a single road for a distance of more than four hundred yards. To make the urinal of general utility, it had to be situated in an easily accessible spot wh
ich would not be more advantageous to one portion of the town than the other. The best solution would undoubtedly have been to provide three equidistant urinals, allotted respectively to the upper, lower, and center parts of the town. The mayor had not lost sight of this possibility. But, for a newly conceived plan, this would have meant playing for stakes altogether too high. By exercising prudence he might well make a success; but if his ideas were on too ambitious a scale, he would only be inviting his enemies to charge him with extravagance, and exposing himself to great unpopularity.

  A place like Clochemerle, which had done without a urinal for a thousand years and more, hardly felt a need suddenly to possess three, particularly if it had to pay for them. And still less so, if it be remembered that the use of the urinal would involve some preliminary education for the inhabitants, possibly even a municipal decree.

  Men who from generation to generation had relieved themselves against the foot of walls or in hollows in the ground, with that fine freedom of action which the Clochemerle wine confers (it is reputed to be good for the kidneys), would be but little inclined to overflow at a spot predetermined and lacking in all those small pleasures that are to be found in the indulgence of such little whims and fancies, as that of a jet well aimed that drives away a green fly, bends a blade of grass, drowns an ant, or tracks down a spider in his web.

  In the country, where diversions are few and far between, even the most trivial pleasures must be taken into account. And taken into account, also, must be the male privilege of doing this in an upright position, openly and merrily; which gives the men some prestige in the eyes of the women, whom it is well to remind of their inferior qualities, teaching them to stop that devastating chatter of theirs and moderate those piercing voices which are enough to make a wretched man deaf.