Clochemerle Read online

  Barthélemy Piéchut was under no illusions in all these matters, and consequently attached great importance to this choice of site, which he had fixed only after mature consideration. It should be noted that the absence of side streets made his choice a very difficult matter, for the big main street of Clochemerle had on either side a continuous line of shops and various house fronts, and of gateways and iron railings enclosing private property, over which the town possessed no rights.

  Let us now rejoin our two men. They have left the square and gone along the main street to the church, which marks the center of the town. This is a building which Tafardel never enters, and Piéchut rarely. The former holds aloof from a conviction amounting to fanaticism; the mayor makes a concession in this matter on political grounds, not wishing that his attitude should expose him to hostile criticism from one section of the townspeople. Moreover, the mayor’s wife attends the church regularly, and their daughter Francine, whom they wish to bring up as a lady, is completing her education at the convent of Mâcon. These compromises are readily admitted at Clochemerle, where sectarianism, under the softening influence of the Beaujolais wine, is inclined to adopt a tolerant attitude. The inhabitants of Clochemerle realize that an influential man like Barthélemy Piéchut is bound to retain the support of the best brains in both parties, while maintaining a hostile attitude towards the Church—an important point in his program.

  Opposite the church Barthélemy Piéchut halted quietly, in such a way as to give any curious onlookers the impression that he had stopped with no express intention of doing so. With a mere nod of the head and without pointing his finger, he indicated the site.

  “That is where we shall put it,” he said.

  “There?” Tafardel asked in an astonished whisper. “The urinal?”

  “Why, to be sure!” the mayor replied. “What better place could you find?”

  “Nowhere, of course, Monsieur Piéchut. But, so near the church! Don’t you think the curé?—”

  “Now, Tafardel, are you afraid of the curé?”

  “Afraid, Monsieur Piéchut! Why, we have done away with the gallows, and put spokes in the wheels of all those ecclesiastical gentlemen! I was merely making an observation. You have to keep an eye on all those people. They’re only too ready to stand in the way of progress!”

  The mayor hesitated, but he did not betray all that was in his mind.

  “Look here, Tafardel, do you see any better place? Point it out, if you do.”

  “Any better place? No, there isn’t one, I’m certain.”

  “Very well, then. Are you going to let all that nonsense about the church stand in the way of public welfare? It’s for you to say, Tafardel. You’re a fair-minded, well-educated man.”

  Little flatteries like these were all that was required to obtain from the schoolmaster a devotion that knew no bounds. Piéchut was well aware of this, past master as he was in the art of extracting the last ounce of service from everyone.

  “Monsieur le Maire,” Tafardel said gravely, “I undertake to support your plan at the next Committee meeting, if you will allow me to do so. I should like to make this a special request.”

  Cunning fellow that he was, the mayor would not immediately give his consent. He had all the peasant’s faculty of making difficulties over every sort of concession, and of securing the most advantageous bargain with an air of profound gloom. In the present case, fully understanding that Tafardel would undertake what was a difficult task, he wished to give the impression that a favor was being dragged from him. The more he stood to gain, the more pained and regretful did he appear. His secret joy was outwardly expressed in the form of despair. Whenever he had done an obviously good piece of business, Piéchut, foregoing the satisfaction of appearing to be a clever man, would say modestly: “Things have turned out all right for me, though I didn’t press them.”

  The only advantage, apparently, that he gained was a moral one. “You seldom fail to get some satisfaction out of a deal that has been honestly conducted, and without wanting to get too much out of it.” This system had secured him a reputation for honesty and good faith. People in difficulties were glad to come and consult him, and confide their family troubles or their investments. With all this information at his disposal, Piéchut was able nearly always to maneuver the community in any way he wished, and the handling of Tafardel was, as the reader knows, mere child’s play to him.

  For several years past, Tafardel had been vainly hoping to receive a decoration, which would have given him great prestige at Clochemerle. As this recognition steadily refused to materialize, the schoolmaster concluded that he had enemies in higher quarters. The truth was that no one paid any attention to Tafardel; he was simply forgotten. Inspectors rarely visited the district, and the honest fellow’s laughable peculiarities were hardly such as to mark him out for honorable distinction. The impression he made certainly did not do him justice, for Tafardel showed complete devotion to his profession. He was not a good teacher, being pedantic and dull, but he taught with perseverance and conviction, and spared no pains. Unfortunately, solid political harangues crept into his lessons, encumbering the children’s brains, and becoming sadly mixed up with the subjects of the curriculum.

  The mayor could have secured for the schoolmaster the decoration he so earnestly desired. Apart from his professional qualifications for this honor, Tafardel had political ones also, through his devotion to the party, which Piéchut was in a better position than anyone else to appreciate. But the latter was in no hurry, saying to himself that a Tafardel with a conviction of being persecuted would give better service. He was quite right; the schoolmaster was one of those men for whom virtuous indignation was a necessity. However, for some little time the mayor had felt that the right moment for Tafardel to get his reward had now arrived. But, still reasoning in peasant fashion, the mayor wanted his secretary to do him one more important service, in the matter of the urinal. It may have been customary in Clochemerle to make fun of the schoolmaster, but he never failed to receive the credit due to his learning; and there were circumstances in which his support might have great value.

  Seeing that the recipient of his confidences had now reached the required pitch of enthusiasm, Piéchut finally asked:

  “Do you really want to bring this up at the Committee meeting?”

  “It would be a mark of confidence on your part, Monsieur le Maire, if you would be so kind as to entrust me with this task. The reputation of the party is at stake, and I shall not flinch from telling them so.”

  “You really feel you can carry it through? It’ll be a hard job. You’ll have to look out for Laroudelle.”

  “He is an ignoramus,” Tafardel said with contempt. “I am not afraid of him.”

  “All right, then, Tafardel: if you’re so enthusiastic—”

  He seized the schoolmaster by the lapel of his coat, over the buttonhole.

  “Look here, Tafardel, this will be a double victory. This time, you’ll get it.”

  “Oh! Monsieur le Maire,” the schoolmaster replied, blushing with pleasure, “it isn’t for that, believe me.”

  “You shall get it all right. I want you to. This is a definite promise.”

  “Monsieur le Maire, I promise that nothing shall stand in the way of success.”

  “Shake hands on it, Tafardel! Piéchut’s word is his bond.”

  The schoolmaster placed his hand in the mayor’s. But he had to withdraw it quickly to wipe his glasses, which were dimmed with emotion.

  “And now,” said Barthélemy Piéchut, “let us try some of the new wine at Torbayon’s.”

  Torbayon was the innkeeper—also jobmaster, and husband of Adèle, a woman well worth looking at.

  We shall now add some further and very necessary explanation which will enable the reader to understand why Tafardel showed such surprise at the site which the mayor had chosen. We must here refer to the map, which shows that the church of Clochemerle is wedged in between two blind alleys, which
face the entrance, the one on the right being known as Heaven’s Alley and that on the left as Monks’ Alley. This latter name undoubtedly dates back to the time of the abbey, and the monks presumably made use of this little thoroughfare when they went to their services.

  Heaven’s Alley, in which Ponosse’s presbytery is situated, end at the cemetery, which lies behind the church on the slope of the hill, a beautiful sunny site where the dead rest peacefully. Enclosed by the church on one side, and on the other by a long wall in which there is a solitary small door opening into the back premises of the Beaujolais Stores, one of the principal shops in Clochemerle, Monks’ Alley is a cul-de-sac at the end of which are the remains of a very old house, three parts demolished, one of the last remaining structures dating from the Middle Ages. On the ground floor of this little house which adjoins the church, there was a room where Ponosse taught the catechism and held his confirmation classes. The first floor contained two tiny rooms occupied by a certain Justine Putet, an old maid of some forty summers, who was held to be the most zealous churchgoer in Clochemerle. The proximity of the church facilitated her long periods of prayer before the altar, which she kept provided with fresh flowers, allowing no one else to do so; and it further secured her the right to supervise the comings and goings of the faithful who passed through Monks’ Alley on their way to confession, and also the movements of the Curé Ponosse as he made his way several times daily to the vestry. This survey of the church’s movements was an engrossing occupation for this pious person, whose censorship of the town’s morals was relentless.

  It was at the opening of Monks’ Alley that Barthélemy Piéchut wished to put up his urinal. Hence Tafardel’s astonishment at the choice of a site so close to the church. The mayor might have avoided this proximity if there had been any other available spot in the center of the town. But there was none; and, if the truth were told, he was far from displeased that no such place was to be found. He was by no means vexed at the idea of his scheme appearing somewhat in the light of a challenge. And for the following reasons.

  For some months past, a jealous individual of the name of Laroudelle, working under cover of a system of hypocritical insinuations, had been conducting an active campaign against him among the members of the Committee, to whom he made accusations of dangerous complacency in the mayor’s attitude towards Church interests. As an apparent justification of these statements, the Curé Ponosse, inspired by the Baroness Courtebiche, the real director of the parish, had been imprudent enough to describe the mayor, in public, as “a thoroughly worthy man,” who in spite of his political views was by no means opposed to the interests of the Church and could be relied upon to make any concession that might be asked for. That this should be the prevailing impression of himself at the château, the presbytery, and the Archbishop’s palace, suited the mayor admirably. Piéchut was not the man to despise any source of influence; all these things would be useful some day and contribute in varying degrees to his own advancement, for which he was patiently paving the way. But this out-and-out testimonial so unintelligently promulgated by the Church element gave a handle to his enemies, and the rancorous Laroudelle, in particular, made use of it with the Committee and the municipal councilors of the opposition. Secretly regarding the Curé Ponosse as an ass who added to his electoral difficulties, the mayor resolved to adopt a hostile attitude towards him in public. Piéchut’s idea of the urinal was opportunely conceived. He considered it from every point of view, and decided that it was flawless—just the kind of idea he liked, one which could be used for a double purpose, without unduly committing oneself. After pondering over his scheme for six weeks, the mayor came to the conclusion that the installation of this hygienic structure in the center of Clochemerle would be a solid landmark on the road to the achievement of his ambitions. It was then that he revealed his plan to Tafardel, another imbecile whom he would play off against Ponosse. His own part would consist in directing the contest from the seclusion of the town hall, while the Baroness would do likewise, in the opposite camp, from her lordly château. The conversation which has just taken place was the first manifestation of a rural Machiavellianism which had left nothing to chance and was already proceeding by devious ways.

  Many of Clochemerle’s inhabitants will appear soon in these pages. Other passions will be brought to light, fresh rivalries be revealed. But for the present, with Monks’ Alley under the close supervision of Justine Putet, ceaselessly on the lookout from behind a raised corner of her window curtain, with the urinal whose construction will soon be put in hand, the redoubled activity of a Tafardel eager for the little adornment in his buttonhole so long delayed, the ambitions of Barthélemy Piéchut with their distant prospect of realization, the clumsy ministrations of Ponosse, and the haughty influence of the Baroness Alphonsine de Courtebiche (the sphere of action of all these characters will gradually extend wider and wider), the stage is set for an upheaval which, beginning in the oddest manner, will suddenly develop into “the scandals of Clochemerle,” and these in turn will end in catastrophe.

  Before we reach these stirring episodes, it may be useful, by way of preliminary, to take a walk in the Clochemerle of 1922, which will give the reader an opportunity of making the acquaintance of some notable inhabitants of the town, who will play parts either prominent or unseen in our history. Those whom we have to introduce are all remarkable by reason of their characters and their habits, though less so in their occupations.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SOME NOTABLE INHABITANTS

  of Clochemerle

  AN OBSERVATION. ACCORDING to certain capable historians of manners and customs the earliest names which appeared in France round about the eleventh century had their origin in some physical or moral peculiarity of the individual, and, more frequently still, were suggested by his trade. This theory would be confirmed by the names which we find at Clochemerle. In 1922, the baker’s name was Farinard, the tailor’s Futaine, the butcher’s Frissure, the pork butcher’s Lardon, the wheelwright’s Bafère, the carpenter’s Billebois, and the cooper’s Boitavin. These names are evidence of the strength of tradition at Clochemerle, and show that the different trades have been handed down from father to son in the same families for several centuries. Such remarkable persistence implies a good dose of stubbornness and a tenacious habit of pursuing both good and evil to their final extremity.

  A second observation. Nearly all the well-to-do inhabitants of Clochemerle are to be found in the upper portion of the town, above the church. To say of anyone at Clochemerle, “he’s a lower-town man,” implies that he is in humble circumstances. “A lower Clochemerlian,” or, more curtly still, “bottom of the hill,” is a form of insult. As may be expected, it is in the higher portion of the town that Barthélemy Piéchut, Poilphard, the chemist, and Mouraille, the doctor, live. A little consideration will make this clear. Exactly the same thing happened at Clochemerle as takes place in large cities which are in process of extension. The bolder spirits, of acquisitive disposition, made for the vacant spaces where they could exploit their newly made fortunes, while the more timorous people, doomed to stagnation, continued to herd together in the dwellings which already existed and made no effort to extend the area in which they lived. For these reasons the upper town, between the church and the big turning, is the home of the powerful and the strong.

  Lastly. Apart from the tradespeople, the artisans, the town officials, the police commanded by the noncommissioned officer Cudoine, and about thirty ne’er-do-wells employed for the more unsavory jobs, all the inhabitants are vinegrowers, the majority themselves proprietors or descendants of dispossessed proprietors, these latter working on behalf of Baroness Courtebiche, the notary Girodot, and a few landowners in the neighborhood of Clochemerle. Thus it is that the inhabitants of Clochemerle are a proud people, not easily deceived, with a taste for independence.

  Before leaving the church, we must say a few words on the subject of the Curé Ponosse, whom we shall note as being to a cer
tain extent the cause of the troubles at Clochemerle—unintentionally, it is true; for this priest, with his peaceful disposition, and at an age when his ministry is carried on as though he were already in retirement, shuns more than ever those contests which are gall and wormwood to the soul and a questionable sacrifice to the glory of God.

  Thirty years ago, when the Curé Ponosse took up his abode in the town of Clochemerle, he had come from a somewhat unpleasant parish in the Ardèche. His period of probation as an assistant priest had done nothing to educate him in the ways of the world. He was conscious of his peasant origin, and still retained the blushing awkwardness of a seminarist at odds with the humiliating discomforts of puberty. The confessions of the women of Clochemerle, a place where the men are not inactive, brought him revelations which filled him with embarrassment. As his personal experience in these matters was of short duration, by clumsily conceived questions he embarked on a course of study in carnal iniquity. The horrid visions which he retained as the result of these interviews made his times of solitude, when he was haunted by lewd and satanic pictures, a heavy burden. The full-blooded temperament of Augustin Ponosse was by no means conducive to the mysticism prevalent among those who are racked by mental suffering, which itself usually accompanies physical ill health. On the contrary, all his bodily functions were in splendid order; he had an excellent appetite; and his constitution made calls upon him which his clerical garb modestly, if incompletely, concealed.

  On his arrival at Clochemerle in all the vigor of youth, to take the place of a priest who had been carried off at the age of forty-two by an attack of influenza followed by a chill, Augustin Ponosse had the good fortune to find at the presbytery Honorine, an ideal specimen of a curé’s servant. She shed many tears for her late master—evidence this of a respectable and reverent attachment to him. But the vigorous and good-natured appearance of the new arrival seemed to bring her speedy consolation. Honorine was an old maid for whom the good administration of a priest’s home held no secrets, an experienced housekeeper who made ruthless inspections of her master’s clothes and reproached him for the unworthy state of his linen: “You poor wretched man,” she said, “they did look after you badly!” She recommended him to wear short drawers and alpaca trousers in summer, as these prevent excessive perspiration beneath the cassock, made him buy flannel underclothing, and told him how to make himself comfortable with very few clothes when he stayed at home.