One o’clock struck as they drove up to the carpenter’s door. They were tired out, and pale with hunger, as they had eaten nothing since they left home, and Madame Rivet ran out, and made them alight, one after another, and kissed them as soon as they were on the ground, and she seemed as if she would never tire of kissing her sister-in-law, whom she apparently wanted to monopolize. They had lunch in the workshop, which had been cleared out for the next day’s dinner.
A capital omelette, followed by fried eel, and washed down by good, sharp cider, made them all feel comfortable.
Rivet had taken a glass so that he might drink their health, and his wife cooked, waited on them, brought in the dishes, took them out, and asked all of them in a whisper whether they had everything they wanted. A number of boards standing against the walls, and heaps of shavings that had been swept into the corners, gave out a smell of planed wood, or carpentering, that resinous odour which penetrates the lungs.
They wanted to see the little girl, but she had gone to church, and would not be back until evening, so they all went out for a stroll in the country.
It was a small village, through which the high road passed. Ten or a dozen houses on either side of the single street, were inhabited by the butcher, the grocer, the carpenter, the innkeeper, the shoemaker, and the baker.
The church was at the end of the street, and was surrounded by a small churchyard, and four enormous lime-trees, which stood just outside the porch, shaded it completely. It was built of flint, in no particular style, and had a slated steeple. Beyond it, the open country began again, broken here and there by clumps of trees which hid the homestead.
Although he was in his working clothes, Rivet had given his arm to his sister, out of politeness, and was walking with her majestically. His wife, who was overwhelmed by Raphaële’s gold-spangled dress, was walking between her and Fernande, and fat Rosa was trotting behind with Louise Cocote and Flora Balançoire, who was limping along, quite tired out.
The inhabitants came to their doors, the children left off playing, and a window curtain would be raised, revealing a muslin cap, while an old woman with a crutch, and who was almost blind, crossed herself as if it were a religious procession, and they all looked for a long time after those handsome ladies from the town, who had come so far to be present at the confirmation of Joseph Rivet’s little girl, and the carpenter rose very much in the public estimation.
As they passed the church, they heard some children singing; little shrill voices were singing a hymn, but Madame would not let them go in, for fear of disturbing the little cherubs.
After a walk, during which Joseph Rivet enumerated the principal landed proprietors, spoke about the yield of the land, and productiveness of the cows and sheep, he took his herd of women home and installed them in his house, and as it was very small, they had put them into the rooms, two by two.
Just for once, Rivet would sleep in the workshop on the shavings; his wife was going to share her bed with her sister-in-law, and Fernande and Raphaële were to sleep together in the next room. Louise and Flora were put into the kitchen, where they had a mattress on the floor, and Rosa had a little dark cupboard at the top of the stairs to herself, close to the loft, where the candidate for confirmation was to sleep.
When the girl came in, she was overwhelmed with kisses; all the women wished to caress her, with that need of tender expansion, that professional habit of wheedling, which had made them kiss the ducks in the railway carriage.
They all took her on to their laps, stroked her soft, light hair, and pressed her in their arms with vehement and spontaneous outbursts of affection, and the child, who was very good and religious, bore it all patiently.
As the day had been a fatiguing one for everybody, they all went to bed soon after dinner. The whole village was wrapped in that perfect stillness of the country, which is almost like a religious silence, and the girls, who were accustomed to the noisy evenings of their establishment, felt rather impressed by the perfect repose of the sleeping village, and they shivered, not with cold, but with those little shivers of solitude which come over uneasy and troubled hearts.
As soon as they were in bed, two and two together, they clasped each other in their arms, as if to protect themselves against this feeling of the calm and profound slumber of the earth. But Rosa la Rosse, who was alone in her little dark cupboard, and was not accustomed to sleep alone, felt a vague and painful emotion come over her.
She was tossing about in bed, unable to get to sleep, when she heard the faint sobs of a crying child close to her head through the partition. She was frightened, and called out, and was answered by a weak voice, broken by sobs. It was the little girl, who was always used to sleeping in her mother’s room, and who was frightened in her small attic.
Rosa was delighted, got up softly so as not to awaken anyone, and went and fetched the child. She took her into her warm bed, kissed
